Beside Two Rivers (22 page)

A man’s hand grasped the coach door and Ethan’s handsome face appeared. “Leaving so soon, Darcy?”

She swallowed the emotion that climbed her throat. “My gown. Mr. Price tore it—by accident, of course. I cannot impose on Mrs. Brighton to have her maid repair it.” She rambled on, speaking rapidly. Then checking herself, she met his eyes.

“Yes, I heard,” he said.

“I suppose everyone has.”

“Is it badly torn?”

“Yes, and it may be ruined for good. How did you know of my retreat?”

“Mrs. Brighton told me,” he replied, his eyes firm upon hers.

Darcy shook her head, and a curl fell over her forehead. “Poor Mrs. Brighton. She looked mortified, and I could tell that she regretted introducing Mr. Price to me.”

“She should be. Price is known for spoiling young women’s evenings.”

“Well, I shall salvage my gown somehow.”

“It is the one you wore the first time I saw you, isn’t it?”

“You remembered.”

“How could I forget anything about that day?”

She looked away. “I will not delay you any longer, Mr. Brennan.” She put her hand outside the coach window to signal the driver to move on. But Ethan took her fingers within his before she could.

“Must you miss the last of the recital? You may never have another chance to hear such music when you return home. Come back inside. I will stand with you in the back of the room.”

She paused to think, then looked back at him. “I can keep my cloak on and then slip out when it is over.”

Ethan opened the coach door and held out his hand for her to take. She curled her fingers around his palm. Back inside, she remained near a door for a quick exit. The music, the singing, and Ethan standing next to her in the shadows, escaping the glare of the candles, made the tearing of her gown less important. Through her glove, she felt his hand brush over her fingers and then move away.

When the singer held the last note, applause erupted and she curtseyed low in her blue silk gown, with her silver locks falling over her shoulders. She exited through a door near the musicians, and the guests congratulated Mr. and Mrs. Brighton for the success of their gathering.

Suddenly, the French doors behind Darcy opened. Chilly night air swept over the nape
of her neck where she had pulled her hair away to one shoulder. With Ethan, she turned
and came face to face with a disheveled man dressed in tattered clothes. Darcy drew in a breath, but fear did not seize her. His dirty eyes lit up when theirs met. Bronzed by reason of his wandering, his face lined by age, he’d no doubt lived a hard life.

His watery eyes enlarged, and he struggled to speak. The shabby jacket he wore over a starved, diseased body made him known to her.

He is the vagabond of the moors
.

19

Dazzled by the candlelight, the drifter’s eyes traveled from face to face. He staggered forward and faltered. Aghast, people nearby moved back. The man locked his gaze on Darcy, lowered his head, dragged off his tattered tricorn hat, and with a trembling smile, spoke low and strained.

“It is you. Praise the Almighty, my eyes behold you at last.”

Stunned, Darcy remained stark still. Ethan put his arm around her and drew her back. “Who are you?” said Ethan. “What do you want?”

Tears slipped from the man’s bloodshot eyes and riveted down the creases of his cheeks. “Do you not know me?” he said to Darcy. “Do you not remember? Did my unforgiving heart drive my memory from your mind?”

Darcy’s lips parted, and feeling compassion for the man, she reached over to touch his shoulder. The ladies gasped and the gentlemen warned her. “I am sorry, but I do not know you, sir.” Her voice trailed off, and silence pressed in all around them. “I am not the one you seek.”

Disappointment contorted his face. His brows pressed into a single line and his mouth curved downward. “I see her face before me. I see her eyes looking back at me.” He rushed forward and took her by the arms. Darcy cried out and Ethan flung him back. The crowd gasped.

Gathered into Ethan’s arms, she watched the poor wretch’s startled face grimace. Confusion filled his eyes. “I am mistaken,” he said in a halting voice. “Please … forgive me.” The wanderer plunged back through the doors, out onto the terrace, where he fled into the dark.

Mr. Brighton, squeezed by curious onlookers, reached the door and locked it. “I apologize, everyone. But all is over. No harm done. Please go back to enjoying yourselves. Cards are in the room.” The surge of guests broke apart and Darcy stood alone near Ethan.

“That man … ” She could not get his face out of her mind, the misty eyes and the look of desperation that contoured his features.

“He is gone,” Ethan assured her. “He won’t be back.”

“Miss Darcy,” said Mr. Brighton, his brows knitted with concern. “I am terribly sorry. I have no idea how the man got in without being seen. I will speak to my servants and …”

“No harm done.” She put her hand to her aching temple. “I pray he will not be hurt by anyone. He is a lost soul who has been mistreated.”

“He could be dangerous. And he trespassed. I’ll have the constable searching for him within the hour.”

“Please, Mr. Brighton, let him go. I do not believe he is a danger to anyone, just a poor soul whose mind is adrift.” Darcy stepped away, toward the hall with Ethan. “I wonder who he thought I was.”

“A sweetheart from his past perhaps.”

“Ah, so he has a broken heart as well as a broken body. If you should see him again, will you help him?”

“Yes, if I happen upon him, I will do what I can.” His gaze shifted to her and softened.

Darcy wished to say more, to question him, and hear it from his own lips that he never cared for any other. She drew in a breath.
Force him to tell me his heart, Lord. Do not allow him to torture me any longer
.

A feverish light shone in his eyes, as he slipped one hand behind her, followed the curve of her neck and glided it up into her hair. Tendrils came loose and tumbled between his fingers. He brought his lips close to hers, and whispered, “I have suffered without you, Darcy. Whatever it was that made you despise me, I regret it.”

Despise him?
She had to explain. But the moment she tried, the footman stepped into the hallway, and they drew apart.

“If you are ready, miss, the carriage is waiting.” The footman looked irritated that he had to wait upon her a second time.

Ethan touched her arm. “Darcy, I need to talk to you …”

Mrs. Brighton, with a group of ladies, appeared, each looking flustered and concerned. “Darcy, my dear. What a horrible night this has been for you.”

“I am fine, Mrs. Brighton. Really.” Darcy struggled to smile.

“I thought you had left, due to your dress being ruined.”

“I did, but I …”

With a shake of her head, Mrs. Brighton drew Darcy away from Ethan toward the door
and the footman. “It is best you go home. You may not realize it now, but you have had a shock.”

“You might faint any moment, or grow ill,” said the lady beside Mrs. Brighton.

“That is so true, Darcy. Now you go on, and do not tell Madeline anything about this … except for the dress. But do not mention that man.”

Swept down a short flight of stairs to the carriage and the footman and followed by the flood of ladies, Darcy took her seat. And as the carriage rolled away, she looked back and saw Ethan standing outside, watching her leave. Anticipation that he would visit her caused her to smile.

20

The following day, Darcy laced up her walking shoes, slipped on her gloves, and donned her cloak. She could tell, when she glanced out the window, that a chill lingered in the air. The sky hung gray and misty. The birds were silent.

Mrs. Burke met her down the hallway. Maxwell’s nails clicked along the floor as he trotted behind her. Darcy peered into Madeline’s bedroom before going on, and saw the old woman sitting in her wing-backed chair. She appeared to be asleep. A blanket covered her and her cap concealed her gray hair.

“How is my grandmother today?” Darcy asked Mrs. Burke.

“Weary as always. And growing more so.” Maxwell circled around Mrs. Burke’s ankles and she shooed him back. “You are going out?”

“I’d like to do a little exploring.”

“It is a fine day for it, though cloudy. Take the mare. If you should get lost, that old nag knows her way back.”

The moment Darcy stepped outdoors, a sense of release from the shadows and the confinement that was Havendale poured into her. She drew the brisk freshness of the day deep into her lungs. Her breath expelled into a translucent vapor in the morning air. She crossed the lawn to the stable where Madeline’s mare was boarded in its stall. The moment she stepped through the door, the heavy scent of hay and animal met her. The horse lifted its head, flicked its ears, and nickered when she ran her hand down its broad neck.

After cinching the saddle, Darcy slipped the bridle over the mare’s head, put her foot into the stirrup, and pulled herself up. It would shock most to see her riding astride, instead of seated sidesaddle, the acceptable method of riding for a lady. Astride, she could stay atop the horse and control her without toppling from the saddle at a swift gallop. Back home, Aunt Mari would scold, but her uncle insisted she ride in whatever manner suited her if it meant preventing a fall.

Smiling, she pictured them both in her mind. Aunt Mari with her hands on her hips looking worried, and Uncle Will waving her on in approval. Nudging the horse with her heels, she headed out to the road. Beyond the gate, the mare sprung to a gallop. The moorland lay crisp with dew, and Darcy pushed the horse toward the path that hugged the River Noe. She splashed across the shallows and headed up a hill, her hair whipping back against her shoulders as the pumping of her heart kept pace with the beat of the mare’s hooves.

Her eyes filled and burned from the chilly wind—from the anxious churning that rose inside her.
When will he come to Havendale?
She set her teeth and sent the horse over an ancient border. The mare wearied and slowed, and she took pity and soothed it with a
there
,
there
and a caress of her hand along its glossy coat.

Darcy looked across the vast expanse of land, misty to the north and bright to the south, the heights casting smooth shadows across the lowlands. She could see for miles to the high hills of the west, and the silver ribbons of brooks beneath them in the windswept valley. Stones pitted the fields between gorse grass and thistle, with barren bluffs stretching above them.

A pair of siskins chirped and pranced among the thorny briars in the hedgerows. They reminded her of the goldfinches back home that she had trained to come to the windowsill for the thistle seed she had spread. She longed to return to her river, to stand on the cliffs above the gorge. She yearned for home, for the deep forests, the ferns and rhododendron that grew beneath shady elms, the deer, the birds of the air, and the placid Potomac.

She scanned the land, wondering if Fairview could be seen from where she stood. But there were no houses of any kind in sight.
He must be far. Will I see him again, God? My heart aches so
.

She rode on, down a path to an area where the land smoothed out before her. She had not met a soul along the road, nor had she seen fresh signs of horse and rider in the soft earth. What had been the partitions of a cottage came into view—crumbling divides between stretches of dead weeds, choked by withered vine. Charred remains caused her to wonder what had happened to the family that had once lived there. Had the fire taken their lives, or had they escaped destruction?

At the foot of the hill stood a church made of stone. Even with the cloudy day, the windows sparkled. Light passed across them and created prisms. Then the long gray shadows from the clouds returned. Tall grass waved among the gravestones in the churchyard and flaunted their spiky tips, and several stock doves broke out from among
them and took flight.

She swung her legs over the mare’s side and slipped off, her feet landing on moist ground. She strode to the wall, sat down upon it, and gazed at the spears of sunlight plunging through turreted clouds. The chill air passed through her cloak as the scent of rain whipped through the breeze.

“I want to go home, God,” she said aloud. “I miss my cousins. I miss Uncle Will and Aunt Mari. I miss my river. For what reasons have you sent me to this place? Is there something I must do? Is it Ethan? Am I meant to be his wife?”

The gallop of a horse drew near, and she dashed the tears from off her face. Startled, she turned her head and a horse and rider drew up. The breeze swept her hair across her eyes and she shoved the strands back to see the man’s face. When she realized it was Ethan, a shiver passed through her and she drew her cloak closer, her feelings for him rising as he reined in.

“Ethan!” Her breath caught in her throat. She hoped he had not noticed she’d been crying, but by the crease in his brows, she knew he had.

He dismounted and held out a hand to help her down. She chose the opposite side of the wall, creating a barrier between them. They were always meeting in this way—by chance.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You appear upset.”

“I am a little homesick.” She folded her arms when he stepped closer. No other words could she find, so fast beat her heart. She fixed her gaze on Sanchet, the stallion’s shining eyes flickering in return. “You bought Mr. Rhendon’s horse after all. I meant to comment on it before, but it was not convenient.”

“Well, I felt an attachment to him, since it was upon him that I first saw you.”

Darcy smiled. “Hmm. He is a fine horse. I hold nothing against him.”

She held her hand out and Sanchet moved close. She stroked his velvety nose and laid her head against his sleek coat. He smelled of leather and tack, and it made her think of the Virginia plantation where he had been bred and raised, the Maryland bluffs along the river, and the path leading down to the spot where Ethan saved her from drowning. Then it all came back to her again—how she owed him her life.