Beside Two Rivers (36 page)

Now, when they came upon the house, everyone cheered. Its windows sparkled in the sunshine, and its green lawn swept alongside the sandy lane. Potted plants sat on the porch, and the old tree—that sentinel through time—guarded a swing. Eliza wiped her eyes and Fiona put her arms around her. Mrs. Breese declared it was the finest house beside the two rivers. Darcy stared at it, absorbing every inch.

“Do you like it?” Ethan asked, lifting her down from the carriage, cradling her in his arms. “Is it as you remember?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Darcy kissed his cheek. “It is more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.”

With Eliza and the family walking behind them, Ethan carried Darcy over the threshold, set her feet down on the smooth oak floor, and helped her walk inside. Darcy’s gait was unsteady, but her heart was finally home.

This is my rest forever: here will I dwell;
for I have desired it
.

—Psalm 132:14 KJV

Discussion Questions

1. Who do you feel Darcy turned out to be most like, her father, Hayward, or her mother, Eliza, and why?

2. What was Darcy searching for?

3. What were Darcy’s strong points?

4. What were her weaknesses?

5. What kind of impact did it have on Darcy when she was told her mother was dead and that her father had abandoned her?

6. Name three things about Ethan Brennan you admired the most.

7. Do you feel Darcy was able to accept the past and forgive others?

8. Which character did you most closely identify with?

9. Who was your favorite character in the book, and why?

10. What was your favorite scene in the story, and why?

11. Why is it admirable that Hayward made the journey to England in order to find Eliza and ask for her forgiveness?

12. Why is it important that we forgive each other?

Apple Tansey

Take three pippins, slice them round in thin slices,
and fry them with butter; then beat four eggs,
with six spoonfuls of cream, a little rosewater,
nutmeg, and sugar; stir them together, and pour over
the apples; let it fry a little, and turn it with a pye-plate.
Garnish with lemon and sugar strew’d over it.

from
The Compleat Housewife
by Eliza Smith, 1727

Bonus Chapter from Book 3 of The Daughters of
the Potomac Series

Beyond the Valley

Cornwall, England

Autumn 1778

Sarah Carr would never look at the sea the same way again, or listen the same way to the waves sweeping across the shore. And never would she embrace her first love again. Drawing in the briny air, feeling the wind rush through her unbound hair, now spoke of danger and loss. Basking in blue moonlight under the stars and having Jamie point out the constellations had now become a thing of the past that could never, in her mind, be repeated.

Tonight a hunter’s moon stood behind bands of dark purple clouds as if it were the milky eye of evil. Along the bronze sand, deep green seaweed entwined with rotted gray driftwood. The scent of salt blew heavy in the air, deepening the sting of tears in her eyes, and tasting bitter on her tongue.

She had pleaded with Jamie not to go down to the shore with the others when they beat on the door and called out that a ship had wrecked in the harbor. But an empty pocket and a growling stomach influenced him to go. For over an hour, she waited for him to return and then she could bear the anxiety no longer. Sarah slipped on her worn leather boots and hurried down to the beach, working through the tangle of frenzied scavengers in hopes she would find him.

People rushed about her, some with torches, others carrying glowing tin lanterns. There were calls and shouts over the howl of the wind and the noise of the sea. They carried sacks, barrels, and crates, tossed in the surf and washed ashore, others taken perilously from the sinking vessel. The groan of its timbers caused Sarah to shiver, as she thought of the poor souls trapped aboard. She could make out its black hulk in the moonlight, its main mast shooting up through the boil of waves like a spear.

“Have mercy on those left behind, O Lord.” She shoved back her tangle of hair and watched the hapless ship go down into the dark depths of an angry sea.

A bonfire threw sparks over the sand. The foamy edge along the surf seemed a ribbon of gold near her feet. The few sailors who had survived looked on wide-eyed and drenched to the bone. They shivered in the cold, with no weapons to fend off the looting.

A firm hand moved Sarah back, and she gasped. “Come on, girl. This is no place for ye to be.” She turned to a man in untidy clothes. His wet hair corkscrewed around his ears and hung over his forehead. He turned up his collar against the drizzle and wind. She recognized him as one of the villagers, a fisherman by trade, but did not know his name.

“You must leave this place before it gets too rough, Sarah. We’ll take Jamie to the chapel with the others. Come with me.”

She shook her head at his meaning. “Jamie? Where is he?” she shouted over the blast of wind as she glanced at the chaos around her. “Why must we go to the chapel?”

The man did not answer. Instead he shifted on his feet, frowned, and glanced away. Then, with no answer, he took her by the arm again and led her across the sand. Her hair, the color of burnt umber, floated about her eyes, where the mist blurred her vision.

“Are we gathering there to pray?” she asked. “We need to pray for those poor souls caught in the sea.” She lifted her skirts and stepped unsteadily. Her limp made it difficult to navigate the beach.

“Ah, let me help you.” The man threw his arm across her back. “Over this way. Watch your step. Steady now.”

He took her to a place where the rocks made a barrier between the village and the sea. In the orange firelight, Sarah saw bodies stretched out on the sand in a row, their clothes soaked and splattered with sand. Faces were ashen in the torchlight. Their arms were crossed over their chests. The worst of her fears exploded into reality. She trembled and felt her knees weaken.

Upon a blanket lay the body of her husband, Jamie, his youthful face whiter than the wet shirt that clung to his lifeless body. His eyes were closed. His dark hair was soaked and clinging to his throat. Sarah gasped. “Jamie!”

She shivered from the cold wind that shoved against her, that pounded the waves upon the beach, from the grief that pounded a merciless fist against a breast once content with love, thinking it would last forever.

“No!” She fell beside him, threw her arms across his chest, wherein lay a silent heart. “Lord God, do not take him from me. Bring him back!” She shook with weeping, and someone pulled her away.

Four men wrapped her lad in the blanket and lifted him. She followed. Her skirts twisted around her limbs as the wind gusts grew stronger. A storm had battered the Cornish coast, and another whisked across sea and land behind it. Within moments, clouds smothered the moon and stars—the bonfire and a few lanterns the only lights to guide their steps up to the centuries-old stone church.

To rally her strength, she took in a deep lungful of air. Instead of relieving her, its mix
of smoke from the bonfire and the brackish wind choked her. Behind her, she heard the waves break over the rocks, rush over the sand and pebbles, and suck at the shipwreck. A few lights in the cottages afar off glimmered in the darkness. She stumbled, regained her footing, and brushed away the tears that stung her eyes.

Fifteen sailors from the shipwreck and five villagers were laid to rest in the parish churchyard the next morning. Four somber widows walked away in silence along with their fatherless children, made poorer by their loss.

Sarah drew her shoulders back, determined to rise above her grief and face what life had just thrown at her. But her heart ached, and she knew no amount of fortitude could hide it. She tipped the brim of her hat downward to hide her tears.

“What is done cannot be undone,” she said to the woman who walked beside her. “God asks of me to go on. And I shall for my child’s sake.”

Her neighbor, Mercy Banks, placed her hand over Sarah’s shoulder. She was as tall as Sarah, lean with a pleasant countenance and large brown eyes. Known for her kindness to those in need, Mercy comforted Sarah with her touch.

“You must come home with me, Sarah. The least we can do is give you a warm meal and a bed for the night. It would be too lonely in your little cottage without Jamie.”

Sarah glanced down at the three children as they walked alongside their mother. Their heads were as blond as sand, their eyes like Mercy’s. Two clung to Mercy’s skirts. The oldest boy walked ahead and swung a stick at the geese in the road.

“Thank you, Mercy. But I am leaving Bassets Cove.” She could not impose on her neighbors who had young mouths to feed. “My landlord is not a rich man. I can expect sympathy, but not charity. He and his wife need a paying tenant. So I’ve told them I am leaving.”

Mercy’s face crinkled with worry. “You are leaving this minute? Let me speak to my husband.”

Sarah touched her friend’s shoulder. “Do not worry. I will be all right.”

“But where will you go, Sarah? You have no family, no parents, no brothers or sisters. Have you a distant relative who would take you in all of a sudden?”

“I am going to Jamie’s sister Mary and her husband. November is around the corner and the cold weather will be here. I must go while I have the chance.”

Mercy pressed her mouth, then let out a long breath. “To the Lockes? It is said Lem Locke is a smuggler, that he will stop anyone by any means if they get in his way. It isn’t as if he is helping any of the poor in Cornwall, for it is also said that he hoards his goods in the caves along the coast, and sells rum and brandy at a high price to the gentry. You should reconsider.”

“I have nothing to fear, and nowhere else to go. I am sure it is only a rumor you have
heard about Lem. Jamie told me if I should ever need help to go to them. Why would he say that if they were bad people?”

“Perhaps Jamie did not know Lem Locke as well as he should have. Not only that, they must have heard the unfortunate news by now, and they should have come for you, if they have any Christian charity in them at all. Why are they not here?”

“I had no way of sending word. Paper is so precious, and I had none. But I imagine they may hear from others before I reach them, but only of the wreck.”

Mercy cocked her head. “Have you met them before?”

“Only Mary. It was a few days before Jamie and I were wed. She was quiet but not completely cold. Yet, I do not think she approved of our marriage, and would rather have seen her brother marry a fit woman. She never said where Lem was.”

“Away smuggling, no doubt. I pray he is kind to you, Sarah. It is what you need right now.”

Once they reached her cottage door, Mercy kissed Sarah’s cheek. “I wish you well, and will keep you and your child in my prayers. If you should need to return, come to my door before anyone else’s. Understand?’

“Yes, thank you.” Sarah hugged Mercy, then watched her go, with the children in tow, down the sandy lane that led into the heart of the village.

Before stepping inside, Sarah glanced up at the gray sky that swirled above. “If only you would clear the clouds away, Lord. I might feel better if I were to see the sun. But if not today, then tomorrow.”

Pushing the door in, she stepped over the threshold and paused. The sparse little room seemed neglected, as if no living soul lived there anymore. They owned little, and few things were left of Jamie’s—his pipe, and Bible, and one change of clothes. She packed them in a sack with her own scant possessions—brush, comb, and one pair of stockings. The rest she owned was on her back.

Determined to be strong, she wiped away a tear and heaved the bag into her arms. After she shut the door behind her, she took the path to the rear of the cottage and slowly climbed the grassy slopes. It would take her longer than the average person to reach the moorland above, for having been born with one leg slightly shorter than the other hindered her gait, enough to cause her stride to be uneven. It had been the source of ridicule when she was growing up, orphaned and living in a workhouse for children. Told her mother was dead, her father unknown, she wondered if she were an abandoned child, an embarrassment to some gentry family for being flawed and possibly illegitimate.