Beside Two Rivers

Part 2


Beneath the rose a thorn is found,

Beneath love’s smile, a dart,

May Heaven grant, that neither wound

Thy young and guileless heart.

—Unknown, 19th century





13





A breath of sea, earth, heath, and field filled Darcy’s lungs. Her hair blew back from her shoulders as she stood at the ship’s rail and scanned the horizon. Plymouth Sound’s salty breeze filled the sails and cheered the weary travelers gathering around to get a view of England’s coastline.

The voyage had been uneventful, save for a few dolphins swimming alongside the ship. Even her companions were dull—Ann Prestwich at least. Dr. Prestwich spent most of his time in the passengers’ galley playing Whist. And so Darcy gave herself over to weeks of reading and writing in her journal, in which she tried to make the entries as exciting as possible.

At last, she’d be released from the bonds of boredom, of sea and sky. With eager eyes, she looked out at the town as it came into view with its moored ships and sloops and beautiful Tudor houses. Darcy tried to take it all in. Never had she seen so many vessels settled in one place, nor had she seen houses of this kind and age.

A deep longing poured over her, a hunger that seemed to snatch the breath from her body. This was Ethan’s country. Time had not changed her heart. She loved him still. But she told herself that Miss Roth had hooked her claws into him by now, and he was unhappily married. She felt no sympathy for him on that account. He should not have left her the way he did. His love should have been stronger than his prejudice.

Freed from her companions, who were on their way to London, she hurried to the coach as it filled up with passengers. She had not been afforded a moment’s pause for a meal, nor to feel the earth beneath her feet for long. Glad to be by the window, she gathered her cloak about her legs and tried to settle the rapid beating of her heart. The coachman cracked his whip, and Darcy found herself headed for the heart of England. The coach, packed with people, bounced over rough roads and tree-lined byways. To her surprise, no one engaged in conversation, only nodded a good day and dozed off to the sway of the coach.

The coach stopped for the night at a carriage inn outside the limits of Bristol. The next morning they moved on, the horses refreshed and rushing over the roads toward Birmingham. Later in the day, she changed coaches at a crossroads in the heart of Derbyshire. Darcy’s body ached and she grew tired of the long journey, but at least the coach was empty and she could stretch out.

Later in the afternoon, at a fork in the road, the coachman halted the horses and called back to her. “Here’s where you leave off, miss.”

She wiped the slumber from her eyes and stepped out. Spears of sunlight fell over a lush green landscape. Granite ledges shadowed the heath where sheltered pairs of fleecy sheep grazed.

Feeling afraid of the lonely surroundings, Darcy looked up at the coachman. “Are you sure this is the place? There is nothing here.”

He tipped the edge of his tricorn hat. “You said you were headed for Havendale.”

“That’s right. But there isn’t a house to be seen.”

“Follow that road there, and it’ll lead you straight to it.” He jerked his head in the direction of a byway wide enough for a single horse and rider to travel over. Then he tossed her bag down, and with a thump it landed in the dirt beside her. He tipped his hat again, shook the reins, and the coach rolled on.

Standing alone on the roadside, Darcy watched the coach pass out of view. Her nerves trembled at being left in the middle of nowhere, but she picked up her bag and walked on. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, the wind soft and scented. She turned her face up to greet the sun, hoping it would comfort her. But the quivering in her breast would not go away. Twilight would soon gather and she could not swallow the thought of treading alone after dark. Tears pooled in her eyes, which she shut tight to push them back. She had to gather her courage.

A weatherworn wooden sign pointed to the east, but the words were so faded and the paint so chipped away that she could not read it. Darcy raised a brave face and went on, past birch woodlands and a monumental stone.

For an hour she traveled without seeing a single soul. As darkness fell, she spotted a ramshackle barn nestled in a grove of trees and decided it would be better to stay there than go on through the dark. The roof, stripped in places to the evening sky, revealed a heaven painted with moonlight. Decaying timbers surrounded her on three sides; the fourth wall was made of stone.

All night she lay in a heap of straw, tormented by hunger and loneliness, wondering if she had made the right decision in coming to a land she knew nothing of, so far from home— far from Uncle Will, Aunt Mari, and the girls—so far from Dash, the gray geese, and her river.

She put her hands over her face. “What have I done, God? Now I am certainly lost in this desolate place. And the coachman said Havendale was but a short distance away.” A heavy sigh slid from her lips, and she drew her skirts about her legs for warmth. “I haven’t seen a single person since I alighted from the coach. But you are with me, aren’t you, Lord? I shall not be afraid, knowing that.”

From her bag she took out a biscuit that she had saved, unwrapped the paper, and bit into the edge. It had hardened but would do. Before she closed the clasp on her bag, she ran her hand across its contents. Two day dresses, linen undergarments, one pair of stockings, brush, comb, and her Bible. A size fitted for a lady’s hand while traveling, she opened to the first leaf and saw her mother’s fine handwriting and the words, To my precious Darcy, on the day of her birth. She scooted over to a shaft of moonlight, turned the pages, and managed to read from the Psalms.

“Here my voice, oh God, in my prayer. Preserve me from fear …”

The night in the barn seemed endless and was enough to make her weep a little. She dashed the tears from her eyes, and then lay back and gathered the straw over her. Through an opening in the roof, stars shone and she gazed at them.

“I wonder what Aunt Mari would think if she knew that I was in a rundown barn in the middle of nowhere, all alone in the night?” Then a smile crossed her lips. “Uncle Will would be proud of me.”

Shivering, she outlined the star patterns with her eyes, until sleep conquered.




When morning broke, dusty lances of sunlight flowed through the shelter; yet, they did not wake her. A blackbird landed on the roof and sang. Darcy opened her eyes and saw through the hole above her that the sun had climbed in the sky. She brushed her dress down and slipped outside. Heading north, she walked on, happy that the morning rose bright and the birds were singing. Thank God it was not raining. The rays of the sun strengthened and slanted through the trees as if they were welcoming arms.

Her destination was much farther than the coachman had let on, and she walked for hours along the barren road again without seeing anyone. When the sun dipped toward the horizon, her stomach growled for food, and she rummaged in her bag for one last morsel of biscuit.

Before the light retreated behind the gathering clouds, she spotted a house situated upon a grassy hilltop, surrounded by graceful trees. Thick grass covered the yard. Blonde stone darkened in the shadows of the trees. Glass in mullioned windows glistened as if sheets of onyx. She hurried to the lane leading to the house. Etched upon a bronze plaque, embedded in a stone pillar at the entrance, Darcy read the words Havendale 1682.

“At last!” Hesitating to go forward, she clutched her bag, gazed at the house, the tall windows, and ivy. She thought of her father and Uncle Will, imagining them as boys running about, climbing these trees, tumbling about the lawn.

Stepping up to the door, she lifted the iron knocker and let it fall. She rapped twice before a servant opened up. A woman of senior years, dressed in a modest brown dress and stark white mobcap, set her hands over ample hips. “Yes? What is it? What do you want?”

Darcy stepped forward. “I have come …”

“To see if you can have a meal, is it? Well, go around the back, dear, and I’ll have a plate set up for you. But you’ll have to work for it. Hope you don’t mind scrubbing a kitchen floor.” The woman went to shut the door.

Darcy put out her hand and smiled. “I am hungry, and I will gladly help, but I have come to see my grandmother.”

The woman’s brows arched and a smile spread across her face. “You must be Miss Darcy.”

“Yes, I am she.” Darcy glanced past her to get a glimpse inside. It appeared dark and lonely, save for the light coming through one of the windows.

The woman laid her hand on Darcy’s elbow. “Well, come in quick. ’Tis a wind falling, and you’ll catch a chill.”

Darcy untied the ribbon beneath her chin and removed her hat, while the servant took her cloak from off her shoulders. She noticed the look of concern when her eyes ran over her clothing. “I walked a long way,” she said.

“Hmm. From the fork in the road I expect. I know that’s where the coach leaves off, and it is a very long walk.”

“Yes. I hope I do not look too untidy.”

“Well, you’ve had a time of it, now haven’t you? It’s a lonely trek from where they left you, so I imagine you are tired. Brave girl you are to journey all the way from Maryland.”

“I am a little weary.”

“We’ve a warm guestroom waiting for you. It has a comfortable bed, and I’ll bring up a tray of food.”

“You are kind. But I’d prefer to see my grandmother right away if I can.”

“Of course, and without delay.”

Before going on, Darcy paused to brush down her dress. At least a few wrinkles were smoothed. “By what name shall I call you?” she asked the serving woman.

“Mrs. Burke will do. I’m the housekeeper and cook.”

“Have you been with her long?”

“More years than I can count. Follow me, dear. Your grandmother’s room is just up these stairs. Oh, she is going to be so pleased to see you.”

Darcy picked up her bag and followed. Her hand trembled along the banister. She noticed the simplicity of the house. Not a single portrait hung on the walls, no paintings of any kind, except for one at the top of the staircase of a young woman seated on a bench in a garden.

Her eyes not leaving the painting, Darcy paused. “Such a lovely portrait. Is she an ancestor of mine?”

“Indeed she is.” Mrs. Burke turned with a heavy sigh. “That’s your grandmother when she was a young girl. You’d never believe she was such a beauty after you meet her, for she is very old and wrinkled.”

Downstairs the walls were paneled with dark oak, but the hallway upstairs held a warmer effect, painted pale yellow with large windows that allowed the light to flood inside. Darcy scanned the paintings on the wall and the pattern the sunlight made across it. “This floor is different from downstairs.”

Mrs. Burke straightened a crooked landscape on its hook. “My mistress had the old panels ripped out after she married Mr. Morgan. It hasn’t changed since, not in fifty years.” She moved on with a smile. “What a surprise that you have come sooner than anyone expected, and a fortnight after the dear old soul’s eighty-first birthday.”

“I pray she is in good health. I would think, with how fresh the air blows here, that she would be.”

“Ah, she is a bit forgetful. But she’s blessed you know, for not many folk live as long as she, especially when they’ve had so much heartache.”

Heartache? Could her father have caused it? Uncle Will admitted that his leaving England grieved his mother. Yet he told her, the Lord said for this cause a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife. Mari meant more to him than anything. Had her father felt the same way toward her mother, Eliza? Was she the reason he left?

As they headed down the hallway, she made more inquiries. “Does anyone else live here besides my grandmother and you, Mrs. Burke?”

“Mr. Langbourne and his wife, Charlotte, come to stay once in a while,” Mrs. Burke replied. “He’s your grandmother’s nephew and owns this estate. After your father left us, Mr. Morgan changed his will and left Havendale to Mr. Langbourne. Do you know of Mr. Langbourne?”

“I do not. I have never heard of either person.” It saddened her that there existed a breach between her father and grandfather. Was it over his decision to settle in America and take its side in the Revolution? Or was it over his choice of wife?

“Well, this family is widely spread, and growing thinner by the year,” said Mrs. Burke. “When her sons left for America, I thought my mistress would never get over it. Life has not been the same since.”

“Yes, I imagine it was hard to take,” Darcy said. “I never imagined Havendale would be such a large house.”

“Modestly large, but poor. And many of the rooms are not used.”

“Then I am another mouth to feed.” Darcy quickened her steps beside Mrs. Burke. “I will work for my keep.”

“Work?” Mrs. Burke chuckled. “No need to worry over that. It is not to be expected of you.”

When they entered her grandmother’s room, Darcy waited just inside the doorway. The scent of rosewater permeated the air. Curtains hung closed over the windows, blocking out the dull light that had gathered. A fire crackled in a marble fireplace, its radiance dancing across the polished floor and faded Turkish rug.

In a winged chair sat an elderly woman in a gown Darcy could tell had once been black, now faded to muddy brown. The firelight heightened the color of her pale skin from ivory to rose, and smoothed the lines time had bestowed. She wore the black veil and cap of a widow, and delicate curls as white as snow peeked out along the edges. Her hands lay sedate over the arms of the chair. A golden band with a small pearl glinted on her finger, and a terrier rested his head on the old woman’s arm.

She shifted in her chair, and her dog leapt off her lap to the floor and curled up on the hearthrug. “Burke, I am in desperate need of tea. Be sure it is plenty hot, for I am chilled to the bone today.”

“You had tea but an hour ago, ma’am.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, ma’am. I shall bring you some broth instead. That’ll warm you up for sure, and it is good nourishment.”

Waving her hand, Mrs. Burke made a gesture for Darcy to come further inside the room. The terrier yapped, and Mrs. Burke shook a reproving finger at the pup. Darcy held her hand out to him. He moved to her to be sedated by a gentle stroke over his pointy ears.

“Quiet, Maxwell,” her grandmother ordered. “Hmm. I rarely hear him bark. Maybe he looked out the window and saw that man again, poaching my birds no doubt. Where is Edward? You must tell him straightaway.”

With a gentle touch, Mrs. Burke gathered Madeline’s shawl over her sloping shoulders. “Do not fret, ma’am. Perhaps the man will bring us a plump bird for our supper.”

“I will let my husband decide … ”

“He has, as you know, been dead these last ten years, ma’am.”

Madeline shivered and her eyes opened wide, gray and watery. “Dead?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ten years you say?”

“Nearly eleven, ma’am.”

“Edward. My Edward,” Madeline sighed.

Darcy marked how lovingly his name slipped through her grandmother’s lips, as if it were the only name on earth, and he the only man she had ever loved. It caused her to whisper Ethan in her mind, to feel the tone and cadence of his name spring into her heart.

“Oh, how I loved him.” With a lift of her wrinkled hand, Madeline touched Mrs. Burke’s arm. “He has left me lonely, you know.” Her eyes shifted toward the door when Maxwell whined for another touch from Darcy. “Who is that young woman? Why is she standing on my carpet speechless?”

Darcy stepped forward, and her grandmother looked up at her confused. “Is that you, Eliza Bloome?” Her eyes squinted and she looked alarmed. “Where is Hayward? Where is my son? I demand to know.” Half rising from her chair, she dropped back down when her strength gave out.

Darcy approached. “I am Darcy, ma’am, your granddaughter. You wrote to me and asked that I come visit you.”

Madeline’s lips quivered. Surprise lit her face and she searched for Darcy’s hands. “My son Hayward’s child?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“For a moment I thought you were Eliza.” She drew her spectacles on and looked up at Darcy. “But I see now you are not. There is no real resemblance. You have taken after Hayward, I see.”

“I hope that pleases you, Grandmother.”

“Very much so. Such a courageous girl you are to have come all the way across the ocean.” Madeline leaned forward as Darcy crouched down to her. “I imagine it was exciting.”

Darcy smiled. “At times. But it was mostly dull. I am glad to have my feet back on solid ground.”

Madeline pursed her lips. “Strange ground though.” With an effort, the old woman leaned her cheek up to Darcy. Darcy kissed it and then sat in the chair opposite. Her grandmother smelled of rice powder, rosewater, and age. Her cheek felt cold, even with the fire blazing in the hearth.

Darcy glanced down at her soiled hem. “I am sorry for my appearance. I wish I had arrived more neatly attired, but I had so far to travel.”

Madeline shook her head. “It is to be expected. You came by coach?”

“Part way. They set me down several miles from here where the road forks. The coach route turned north, you see, and so I had to be let out.”

A slow breath eased from Madeline’s lips. “You mean to say you walked the rest of the way unaccompanied?”

“I enjoy walking, and the countryside is lovely here.” She did not tell her that the sun was setting when she got out of the coach, nor that she had to sleep in that old ruin a full night—with a haunting wind and distressing sounds.

Her grandmother’s brows shot up. “But you do not know the country here. You were all alone. You could have gotten lost or kidnapped by gypsies.”

Darcy smiled. Her grandmother had no idea how free she ran beside the two rivers back home. “God kept me safe, I can assure you.”

“Hmm, I see he did. I shall be sure to thank him when I say my prayers tonight. Poor child, you need to refresh yourself.”

“Oh, I would welcome that, Grandmother. You are kind.” Darcy held her grandmother’s hands and stood to leave. As she passed out the door, she looked back at Madeline. She liked her a great deal and looked forward to her time at Havendale. Already her grandmother had dozed off, with Maxwell now curled at her feet.

Mrs. Burke led the way to a modest guestroom. The floor creaked under their footfalls. The walls were plastered, painted dull white. Simple furniture decorated the room—a bed, nightstand, and a green high-back armchair near a small marble fireplace.

Already she had begun to feel at ease, being so warmly welcomed and accepted. Yet, she could not help feeling out of place and homesick for the Potomac and the green fields of home. She felt like a wild thing here, for the people she had met along the way, including Mrs. Burke, were of a more reserved nature. She was more expressive and open about her thoughts and feelings.

She had no idea where she fit in, or how she would adapt. But she had comfort in knowing her stay would be less than a year, even a matter of a few months.

She pulled out clean garments from her bag, shook out the folds of a simple dress of a deep nutmeg hue, and held it in front of her. She stared into the full-length mirror, telling herself she would always be Darcy of the rivers and forests. Then she undressed, washed the dust of the road off her skin, and brushed out her long hair until it felt silky again. A black ribbon lay on the dressing table, and she banded the locks up on her head, allowing some to grace her shoulders.

Carried on the wind that buffeted the house, a sound came to Darcy—a horse whinnied. She approached the latticed window, and peering out at the crest of a hill, she spied a man on horseback riding east at an even gallop. She stared. Her heart beat in her breast, and she glanced away in an effort to calm it. The horseman caused her to think back to the day when she first chanced upon Ethan astride the stallion.

Ethan. She could not forget him, no matter how hard she had worked to get him out of her mind.

An hour later, she went back down the hall to her grandmother’s bedchamber. Placing her palm against the door, she eased it open and stepped inside. She drew near her grandmother’s canopied bed and touched Madeline’s hand with the tips of her fingers. The old woman’s eyes opened and glanced over at Darcy.

“You are much improved,” said Madeline. “Sit beside me. I imagine you have many questions, but not tonight. Later, when I am feeling stronger. I am old.”

It disappointed her, for Darcy’s mind rushed with questions. But compassion—for an aged mind and body, and no doubt a heart that had ached many a year—took precedence over her desire for answers.

“I am expecting my nephew and his wife in a day or two.”

“Mrs. Burke told me about Mr. Langbourne and his wife. I shall be glad to meet them.”

“I do not imagine Charlotte shall be much company to you, Darcy. It is not because she possesses a dignified self-restraint. Something is amiss with her mind, for she is a frail creature and says little about anything that matters. Langbourne tolerates her, I suppose, but does not love her.”

“How unfortunate.”

Madeline let out a cackle. “She doesn’t seem to mind, for she is well cared for. What is love to the upper class but a whim? We are fixed up in England, and that is that. When I first met your grandfather, I felt nothing, no spark of anything. My love for him grew over time. I needed him, you see.”

How sad to not have loved from the beginning, to burn and ache for love. And by now, had Ethan entered into a loveless marriage? How her heart grieved to think of it, that he could have had her love instead of shallow regard. God had planted it in her, Darcy knew, a love so deep and virtuous that it could have been born only from the One that was pure, everlasting love.

Her fingers bent, Madeline lifted a gold locket from her chest, opened it, and showed Darcy the miniature portrait within it.

“This is Edward, my second husband and your grandfather. I was a widow with a small boy, your uncle, and Edward took pity on me and brought me to Havendale. I had money, and that helped him decide to wed me. If I’d been penniless, there would have been no hope for my child and me. I hope William is well.”

Darcy hesitated to tell her grandmother the truth. “He sends you his well wishes. He would have come with me, but commitments prevented him. I’ve brought a letter. Should I go get it?”

“I shall read it later.” A sad gaze filled her grandmother’s eyes. “I do not wish to speak about him anymore today.”

“If I may ask, does my father resemble his father?”

“Yes, but he had my eyes. I hope someday they are enlightened to what he has done in hurting me. He left without so much as a goodbye, and the last letter I received from him was many years ago. Not a word since.”

“He left for the frontier, so Uncle Will told me. I hope someday he will return.”

Madeline paused to drink her broth. “Poor Charlotte. What on earth will she think of your high spirits and openmindedness, Darcy?”

It seemed as if her grandmother had not heard her remark about meeting her father again. Or had she wished to ignore it?

Maxwell jumped onto the bed and sat down with an anxious stare. Madeline handed him a nibble of cheese from the china plate sitting on the bed beside her. He took it between his teeth and swallowed it down.

“I must say, Darcy, I can see in you your father’s determination, and the passion of your mother. Hmm. Perhaps you will draw Charlotte out.”

“I shall attempt to engage her by being kind, Grandmother.”

“Kind? It may do no good if Langbourne hears your conversations. He keeps a firm hand on his wife’s shoulder.” Madeline sighed and lay her head back against the pillow propped up behind her.

Darcy paused to study the painting over the fireplace. It portrayed a pair of matched horses and the riders—a lady dressed in a blue velvet riding habit, whose youthful face was one of rich beauty, a gentleman, broad-shouldered and handsome.

“What kind of man is Langbourne?” she asked, the painting posing the question in her mind.

“He lacks all the best virtues one expects in a man—humility, kindness, and a sense of duty. Instead, he can be proud and demanding, and he drinks far too much. Likes rum, you see. Everyone must kowtow to his whims, and he to no one.”

“Perhaps disappointing circumstances in life have made him as you say.”

“Disappointments? Langbourne has had everything handed to him. You would think his wife would have soothed his overbearing ways, but I fear she has put more oil on the fire than water.”

Darcy’s interest was piqued. “May I ask how? Would it not be his responsibility and not hers?”

Her grandmother gathered her shawl closer. “Certainly, but a woman can bring out the best or the worst in a man. I imagine Hayward must not have been an easy man to live with.”

“I cannot say. But I’d like to think he was.”

“Your father had such a strong will. Nothing could change his mind on anything. He was determined to make a life in America, and Eliza chose him over his cousin.”

“You mean Mr. Langbourne, your nephew?”

This was something Darcy had never been told. She wondered if her parents’ romance had been a tumultuous one, with two men competing for her.

“Yes, that is exactly who I mean. I see a thousand questions are now swimming in your head,” Madeline said. “But I shall not answer them today. Too many answers to too many questions can lead a person to places they wish not to go.”

Darcy felt sorry for her grandmother. Memories were painful for her. But she wished the conversation could go further. Yet her grandmother would venture only so far on certain subjects, and that left Darcy frustrated with curiosity. So many secrets seemed to permeate Havendale. Too many answers to too many questions can lead a person to places they wish not to go. She wondered at the meaning behind those words, and prayed she would understand—if not now, later.

Madeline sighed. “I am weary, Darcy, and need to sleep.” Her eyes closed and she slipped off. Darcy stood, drew her grandmother’s bedcover up to her chin, blew out the candle, and tiptoed from the room.

After she closed the door, her curiosity got the best of her and she began to explore the old house. She went from room to room, each much the same as the other, clean and void of life. She ascended an oak staircase sleek from years of footfalls tramping over the steps. It led to a third floor. Two chamber doors were there, and after she opened the first and entered the room, she realized it had been her father’s bedchamber. Books were stacked on a table near the window. Clothes hung in the sandalwood armoire, a layer of dust on the shoulders of coats and shirts. It was as he had left it. She ran her hands over the fabric, and then closed the doors.

She heard footsteps and turned. Mrs. Burke stood on the threshold with a candlestick in her hand. “I intended to give you a tour of the house, Miss Darcy. But I see you could not wait.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Burke. I could not help myself. I thought perhaps you had gone to bed.”

“No, I’m up late every night. There’s no need to be sorry.”

“This was my father’s room, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“It looks as though it has remained just as he left it.”

Mrs. Burke touched the stack of books and sighed. “These were his favorites. And over here are his clothes. Everything in this room belonged to him, and he left it all behind for love.”

“He must have loved my mother very much to forsake everything for her.”

“Do you know the story, Miss Darcy?” Mrs. Burke set the candle down.

“No. But I imagine Grandmother will tell me about it— when she is ready.”

Mrs. Burke strode over to the window and drew apart the curtains, allowing the moonlight to come inside. “She has stayed tight-lipped about her feelings ever since your father was disinherited.”

“What did my father do to deserve such rejection?”

“Mr. Morgan did not approve of Mr. Hayward’s choice for a wife. He said Miss Eliza was below his station, and she had no money to bring to the marriage. Along with this he heard through his connections that Mr. William was in support of the American rebellion.”

“I know that to be true. But he was my grandmother’s son by her first marriage. Why did his beliefs matter to Mr. Morgan?”

“He would not have his heir attached to a traitor. He believed Mr. Hayward would be influenced, end up supporting the Revolution, and thus bring the family even more shame.”

“What happened then?”

“Mr. Hayward defied his father. I remember your grandmother crying as she watched him leave the house with only the clothes on his back.”

Darcy sat down on the edge of the bed. “She said he swore she’d never hear from him again. He should not have treated her so badly. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Yes, well after Mr. Morgan passed away, she tried to find Mr. Hayward, but failed. She gave up all hope that he would ever write to her.”

“I am sorry she could not find him. He should have written, regardless of how they fell out.”

“Indeed. But Mr. William wrote to her as often as he could, although she did not hear from him through the duration of the war. So few letters ever made it to England or to America those years.”

“My parents must have had a passionate affection for each other in order for him to defy his father and leave England. It must have been strong, like a fortress against a storm.”

“Hmm, more like a hurricane, Miss Darcy.” With a smile, Mrs. Burke picked up her candle, and together they left the forsaken bedchamber.

“We all should be so fortunate as to have a man love us as much as he loved your mother,” said Mrs. Burke outside Darcy’s door.

Darcy leaned against the jamb before going in. “That he would give up his inheritance for love is a noble thing … Good night, Mrs. Burke, and thank you.”

After Mrs. Burke stepped away, Darcy went inside the room that had been lovingly prepared for her. Moonlight flowed through the window, spread over the quilt covering the bed, and touched upon the pillows piled against the bolster. She thought of Ethan. Her love for him rose like a crashing, angry sea, gripping her with such longing that she put her hands over her eyes to suppress tears. If only he could have loved her that passionately, given up Miss Roth and her fortune, defied all and stayed with her. No, his was a love that was as fleeting as windswept clouds. But Darcy’s was constant. She loved deeply, feverishly, and lived with a broken heart. Ethan would never have the chance to love with such passion, she thought.

She sat at a small writing desk beside the window. She must write home—tell them of her adventure—but not so much as to alarm her aunt. Dipping the quill into the ink, she scrolled the date, and then began to write. I cannot believe I am sitting in the house where my father grew up, with my grandmother just down the hall …