Beside Two Rivers (17 page)

“I am sorry you are not feeling well. Perhaps a walk after breakfast around the grounds would help. I will go with you.” Darcy waited for an answer, while Charlotte nibbled on her bread and then set it down, with a heavy sigh, on the edge of a white china plate, edged in gold leaf and blue flowers. Charlotte’s setting was different from the others on the table, and Darcy thought this very odd.

Taking the linen napkin from her lap, Charlotte dabbed her mouth. “A walk would only fatigue me, Darcy.”

“Fresh air and exercise improves the appetite.”

“Yes, I know, and that’s all the more reason for me to avoid it. I do not wish to grow fat.”

“I doubt you would, if you do not mind my saying so. My grandmother would not mind if we leave the house for an hour or two.”

“She forgets that it takes all the strength I have to leave Meadlow, to travel over these weary roads, and sleep in a bed not my own.” Lifting her arm as if weights hung from it, Charlotte brushed her hand over her forehead.

“I imagine it would, especially if you are not feeling well,” Darcy said.

“You are the first to say so.” And Charlotte dropped her arm.

“I’m sure Grandmother is glad for your company. She must be lonely when it is just she and Mrs. Burke.”

“I suppose. But who is to say for certain. She seems content with her servant and her dog.” Charlotte leaned on the table with her chin resting in her hand. “The day has scarcely begun and already I am weary. I should rest upstairs.”

Darcy understood the cool cue. Without another word, Charlotte stood and shambled out of the dining room. The little mantle clock ticked on and Darcy stared at it a moment, then set her cup down on the saucer. She’d waste no more time. She pulled on her cloak, then went outside and breathed in the fresh country air. The urge to explore Havendale excited her, and she walked on toward the open fields. She cared little that she broke with etiquette and did not wait in the house to meet the elusive Mr. Langbourne. He’d meet her soon enough.

Looking about her, she made comparison to her home along the Potomac. Where there had been sunny blue skies, a leaden sky stretched above her. Where the air had been tepid this time of year, here it was moist and brisk. Where the water ran swift over ancient rock ledges jutting up from the riverbed, streams here ran shallow and placid. She had no fear of getting lost and tucked into her memory certain places where stones lay in heaps, where the path turned and left off, where an old willow bent over a brook.

The wind rustled through her unbound hair. Her heart raced and her breath came up short all of a sudden. Ethan had such a hold on her. She paused to lean against a sheep gate, wondered how far his home might be, if she’d ever see him again, if he were in good health.

“Whatever his actions, whatever he may feel toward me now, I pray, oh Lord, help me forgive him.”

She hiked over a hillside, down into a ravine where fog drifted. She paused, lifting her eyes to a plateau of limestone and shale a short distance away where shadows struggled. A moment later, she saw a man stagger into view. From where Darcy stood, he looked the vagabond, a forgotten man, a wanderer poor and needy. His clothing, faded and rag-tagged, hung loose over his thin body.

She held back as a horseman galloped up to the man and blocked his way. The fear and urgency on the poor wretch’s face startled Darcy. The rider’s slouched hat darkened his face. The horse shook its head and reared. It pounded its hooves into the earth, causing the man to stumble backward, raise his arm across his face, and cry out.

Darcy’s heart leapt for fear he’d be hurt.

Like a rush of wind, the horseman bore down on the poor wretch, rearing his horse, swerving the beast to and fro around him. Again and again, the vagabond stuck up his arms as a shield and staggered. The horseman shouted and two men ran forward and secured the man’s arms. He twisted and strained against them. Dragged away, he collapsed and hung his head; his legs limp now, his feet dragging through the dirt.

Wide-eyed, Darcy covered her mouth to stifle a cry. The horseman turned his head. He’d seen her. Then he urged his horse forward, and bolted down the hill toward her. It seemed her blood froze in her veins, a chill passing over her. She lifted her skirts and ran. The beat of the horse’s hooves came up quick behind her. Her hair whipped in front of her eyes and blinded her. She skidded to a halt when the horseman swerved and pulled rein in front of her. She whirled back. He brought the horse around to stop her. She slipped and fell, the ground wet and soaking into her cloak and shoes.

The rider swung off the saddle, his booted feet hitting the turf simultaneously. He reached down and dragged her up. His grip tight, she felt his nails dig through her clothing. She cried out and he shook her.

“Be silent,” he ordered.

“I shall not. Let me go or I will shout again!”

His face came within an inch of hers. His breath, hot and smelling of stale rum, brushed over her cheek. “You saw what went on up there. You’ll not say a word to anyone, you understand.”

She stopped struggling. “Please tell me you meant no harm to that man. At least tell me that, sir, and I will be bound to silence.”

He released her. “He was a poacher. Poaching is a crime.”

“You cannot hate a man that poaches if his family is starving.”

“He has no family to speak of.” He called to his dog, a shaggy gray-colored beast, reached for his horse’s reins and pulled it forward.

“What will happen to him?” she asked.

“That is no concern of yours.” He climbed back into the saddle, his horse sighing under his weight. “At least Havendale is safe from thieves. I know for a fact Madeline Morgan will be content in the knowledge her pheasants are not being eaten by some louse-infested tramp.”

Darcy gathered her cloak across her shoulders. “I haven’t been at Havendale long, but I think I know enough about my grandmother to say she would not turn away a hungry man.”

Silent, he stared down at her from under the brim of his hat. His eyes were piercing, dark like the shale on the hillside. His hair touched his collar, dark and wiry, loose from the binding of crepe ribbon. How rough a man he appeared as the sunlight fell over him.

“Madeline Morgan is your grandmother? Who are you, then?”

“Darcy Morgan … from the Potomac, in Maryland.”

A deeper frown curved his mouth in an instant, and a startled look flashed in his eyes. “Well, Darcy Morgan. You’ll find Havendale to be a cold and lonely place. The sooner you leave it and return home, the better for you.”

He squashed his hat down tight and turned his horse. She watched him canter away over the hill, with his cloak fanning out behind him like the wing of a raven. His wolfish dog sprinted after him. Who the man was she did not know, and hoped with all her might she’d not see him again. Could he be her grandmother’s groundskeeper? Could she afford such a person?

She headed back to Havendale feeling troubled over the incident. There was nothing she could do for the poacher except whisper a prayer for him. But the horseman—she’d never forget his face, or the rough way he handled her, or the promise that Havendale would prove a
cold and lonely place
. It made her shiver and she quickened her steps.

As she crossed the threshold, Mrs. Burke rounded the corner and bumped into her. “Oh, Miss Darcy. We have had a fright wondering where you had gone. Your grandmother has taken to her bed …”

Darcy hurried to remove her cloak and gloves. “Is she ill?”

“Do not be alarmed. She is just tired and asks that she be not disturbed.” Mrs. Burke whispered, “When there are people in the house she is rarely up to sitting with them—unless it is you. She asks that you see her later.”

“Are you certain? I shall go right up and see her if need be.”

“Quite certain. Mrs. Langbourne is in the drawing room with company. Lord knows where Mr. Langbourne is.”

Darcy glanced down at her soiled dress. Mud was splattered along the hem and her shoes were quite soaked. “I am not at all presentable by Charlotte’s standards, or my own for that matter. I should change.”

The urge to tell Mrs. Burke about the encounter with the horseman and what she saw take place grew to an overwhelming proportion. She motioned to Mrs. Burke to follow her upstairs, and once in her room, she shut the door.

“I met a man out on the moors. To say he did not frighten me would be a lie, for he rode very fierce toward me.”

“Had he narrow, gray eyes?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Darcy slipped out of her soiled dress.

“And a face lined about the mouth?”

“Yes. He was none too handsome, if that is what you mean. He had a dog with him, too.”

Mrs. Burke nodded and squared her shoulders. “Well, miss. You just met Mr. Langbourne. I feel sorry for you.”

“Why? What have I done wrong?” Darcy pulled tight the laces on her bodice and tied them into a bow. “He chased me down. It is Mr. Langbourne you should feel sad for. He’s not a kind man and will reap what he sows.”

“Oh, I do not disagree with you on that score. I meant to say, I feel sorry you had to meet him in that way. Let us hope his visit is short. They almost always are.”

Darcy stepped over to the mirror, picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. “I saw a vagabond at a distance. He looked very hungry.”

“Hmm. He showed up yesterday, and brought a bird to the kitchen door of which I am glad for it. The only time we have a plump pheasant or a quail is when Mr. Langbourne comes to Havendale and goes shooting.”

“So you know the man, you know his name?”

“No on both accounts. But he looked at me with a purposeful stare, as if he knew me. I do not recall ever seeing his face, but his eyes were familiar in a way.”

Thoughtful, Darcy followed Mrs. Burke downstairs to the sitting room, where a pleasant fire crackled in the hearth. Drifting pale gray clouds swallowed the dusty sunlight that flowed through the windows. A few raindrops spattered the windows.

Seated on the settee was a well-dressed woman of middle years with reddish hair and ivory skin, and next to her, Charlotte. Introductions were made, and when concluded, Charlotte stood and moved to an armchair near the fire.

“This dreary weather will go straight to my bones, and I shall be chilled and sick before long,” Charlotte groaned.

Darcy, unsure of what was expected of her, waited.

“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Darcy.” Mrs. Brighton patted the seat beside her and Darcy moved to it. “I gather you are enjoying your stay at Havendale?”

“Yes, ma’am, though the journey was long.”

“I can only imagine. You are a daring girl to have taken the risk.”

“Risk, ma’am?”

“Indeed. For I have no doubt there were many dangers on the way. Thieves on the road, pirates on the sea, and ruffians aboard ship. That is not to say the danger of disease and the appalling food.”

Darcy smiled lightly. “You are speaking from your own experience, Mrs. Brighton? I should like to hear of your adventures.”

Mrs. Brighton giggled. “Oh, mine? Oh, no. These are things I have read and heard.” She paused and looked about the room. “I have been your grandmother’s neighbor these past twenty-eight years, and the color of this room has never changed.”

“You must know my father.”

“Never set eyes upon him, my dear.”

“Oh, I see.” Darcy looked down at her hands, disappointed.

“You shall be meeting my husband shortly. I think he may have met Hayward once or twice.”

Charlotte moaned. “Oh, yes. The prodigal Hayward Morgan and the ever-faithful Mr. Brighton.”

Mrs. Brighton’s brows arched. “Indeed the faithful friend he is, Mrs. Langbourne. Someone has to do it.”

Charlotte shook her head. “It is a waste of his time.”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Brighton leaned toward Darcy. “My husband inspects your grandmother’s mare every other week to give her ease of the animal’s well-being.”

“That is good of him.”

“Yes. She is fond of all her animals, as if they were her children. My husband, Richard, is extremely knowledgeable of horses, and we own several ourselves.”

“Only a half-dozen,” Charlotte pointed out. “And bought at the fair instead of from one of the breeders. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Brighton?”

“Yes, but they are good stock, Mrs. Langbourne. How many does your husband keep at Meadlow?”

Charlotte sighed, Darcy noticing it was her way before answering a question. “I have never bothered to count them, or to ask my husband. It is no business of mine to know, but his.”

Darcy thought how unfortunate that Charlotte was not more involved in her husband’s estate. Whoever she were to marry, she would want to know everything about him, including the number of horses he owned. To Darcy it was a wife’s duty to know all there was to know about the man she’d devote her life to.

Mrs. Brighton picked up where she left off. “Richard has brought along an acquaintance of his who knows a great deal about horses. He was reluctant to come, having never been to Havendale, and no doubt is bored silly by now. Richard can be the talker, you see, and wear people out.”

At that precise moment, the door burst open and in spilled two spotted hounds, followed by a gentleman dressed in brown hunting garb, a flop hat, and riding boots.

“Richard, come meet Madeline’s granddaughter.” Mrs. Brighton stood and pulled Darcy up beside her. “Is she not the picture of what we imagined?”

Mr. Brighton pulled off his hat and bowed. “The very, my dear.” He kissed Darcy’s hand. “But here, perhaps this gentleman has heard of your arrival as well. Word spreads quickly in these parts.”

He turned back to the doorway and opened it wider. And yes, a gentleman of heart-racing good looks and sultry eyes stepped inside the room. At once, his eyes met Darcy’s. Her throat tightened, and she froze at the sight of him. Her pulse pounded like a fist against her breast, a painful throb that caused her to gasp.

Ethan!

Shock spread over his face. A look of confusion surfaced like an unexpected storm in
his eyes. He stepped further inside, drew off his hat and turned it within his hands. She glanced away. Why should he look so troubled? She was the one crushed—a leaf underfoot, pressed into the mud. He had Miss Roth, or was she now Mrs. Brennan?