Beside Two Rivers

16





Crossing the border into Fairview, Ethan tapped his heels against Sanchet, and brought the stallion across a stone bridge that arched over a swollen stream. The sound frightened the horse and it reared. The pressure of Ethan’s knees against his ribs brought him down, settled him, and Ethan walked him on after a gentle pat of his hand on the neck.

In the distance, shrouded in the gray curtain of rain, he could see the old manor, its windows brightened by a few candles in the casements. A flood of memories rose up in his mind of a happy childhood and a father who taught him both the ways of the world and the precepts of God.

He missed his father a great deal, without a day gone by that he did not think of him. If only he could have an hour to sit and talk to him, to listen to his wise advice on matters he now faced. His father would know what to do.

The scent of moss and heath were heavy in the air as he rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Lacking the wealth to keep a stable-hand, he drew his horse into the stable and removed saddle and bridle on his own. A comforting bucket of oats caused the horse to relax as Ethan brushed down his coat and heaped a mound of fresh hay inside the stall. Then feeling hungry, he left and went through the kitchen entrance. The coals in the hearth were red and smoldering. The scent of fresh bread permeated the room, and a loaf cut in two sat on an oak board atop the table. He pulled a piece free and popped it into his mouth.

“Mr. Ethan, you must be chilled through, sir.” Fiona poked her head around the corner of the door and stepped inside. “I’ve a fire set in your room. Shall I fix you something hot to drink and some supper?”

“No thank you, Fiona. I am fine as I am.” He proceeded to go, but she put her hand out to him.

“I see you helped yourself to the bread. If that’s all you are to eat, then that is a shame, for I’ve a stew simmering in that pot over there, and you know how it does me good to see you enjoy anything I’ve made.”

Her expecting eyes could not be refused. “Well, if it is your stew, then by all means stuff me to the gills.”

A broad smile swept across Fiona’s rosy face, and she bustled over to the pot and ladled a huge helping into a bowl. He told her one was enough, and he inquired after Eliza.

“She is tired, Mr. Ethan.” Fiona folded a napkin. “Do not stay long.”

“I’ve news to tell her. Perhaps it will lift her spirits.”

“I hope so. She has been very reflective the last few days.”

He thanked her for the meal, and once she was convinced he could not eat a morsel more and had cleared the bowl and spoon away, he headed upstairs. In his bedchamber, the fire crackled and hissed, drowning out the clock on the mantelpiece and the steady patter of rain. He undressed, and the fire warmed his body. He went to the window, a high mullioned structure made of leaded glass that went from floor to ceiling. It faced west, and through it he watched the clouds move above the treetops and cast long shadows over the moorland.

His heart lay heavy in his chest, broken and bruised, but still in love. The passion he felt for Darcy raged within, a storm of emotions spilling out and flooding his soul to its core. Slow and steady, he drew in a deep breath and released it. He reached for his Bible and opened to the Song of Solomon, where the letter, delivered to him by Miss Roth after her visit with Darcy, marked his place.

I cannot accept you, Ethan. [Her words were seared into his mind.] We are too different, and I would not marry an Englishman for anything in the world, even if you meant to stay. And by no means would I leave my family and home and follow you to England. I will forever be grateful you pulled me from the river, but I do not love you.

He went to the chair before the fire and sank into it. He prayed that God would remove the love he felt for Darcy if having her was a forlorn hope. Breathing out a final amen, he ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the letter in his hand.

Even if Darcy were to accept him, what would he have to offer her except an old manor with floors that creaked and windows that rattled, on a patch of land just large enough to sustain a garden and a horse?

The idea pained him like a twisting blade. He went down to what was now his study, where the remainder of his father’s books stood in neat rows on the bookshelves. As he had studied the accounts and realized the cost of maintaining the old place, he had had to sell some of the old first editions that had been in the family for years. As he remembered them, he grew more convinced that God had set in his heart the desire to start a new life in America—hopefully with Darcy.

“She’ll be going back to her home by the river. If I sell Fairview, I’ll have enough to settle there and take Eliza and Fiona with me. God will turn Darcy’s heart, I know it.”

He stood and rubbed his eyes. Then he went upstairs and stood in the doorway to Eliza’s room. She sat on a lounge, propped up against a snowy heap of pillows. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, fell in a single braid across her shoulder. A candle illuminated the room, and her face appeared flushed in the quivering light.

He drew up beside her. “Fiona says you are tired tonight. Can I get you anything? Would you like me to read to you?”

“Stay a little while.” She touched his hand with hers. “Where did you go today?”

“Havendale.”

She drew away from the pillow. “Why would you go there, Ethan?”

“Mr. Brighton asked me to accompany him. As you can imagine, my curiosity was piqued and I had to go. I was hesitant at first, but I felt drawn.”

“Did you meet Madeline? I imagine she has grown very old and is not apt to entertain guests anymore.”

“She was nowhere to be seen. But I saw Langbourne. Brighton had assured me he was at Meadlow and rarely visits Havendale. He was wrong.”

“Did he inquire after me? Did he treat you unkindly?”

“We did not speak.”

“I have no doubt his grudge against me and Hayward is as strong as it ever was. I shall not be free of him until I die.”

“Do not speak of it,” Ethan said. “I must tell you, there is someone else you know visiting Havendale.”

“I cannot think who.” Eliza settled back and smiled. Her violet eyes were as vivid in color as the first day Ethan met her as a boy. Yet lines had formed at the corners. “Please tell me; it shall make me happy for Madeline. Life can be very lonely for the old. It has been one regret of mine that I have never gone to see her. But I have my reasons for not doing so. Hayward no doubt painted a bleak picture of me in any correspondence he has had with her.”

“I am certain it will make you very happy,” Ethan said.

Upon his deathbed, Mr. Brennan asked for Ethan’s word that he would protect Eliza by honoring her wishes to remain as she was—secluded. He had pledged his word not to speak of her to Darcy in any way other than in the past tense. But now that Darcy was but a few miles from Fairview, he hoped Eliza’s mind might change and she would desire to see her daughter, even if by doing so, she risked rejection and having her heart broken all over again.

And so he paced, his hands clasped behind him, his heart heavy within. Finally he turned to Eliza, pausing by the window and praying she would rejoice over the news he was about to unfold.

“When I returned from America, I told you how beautiful Darcy was, how protected by her dutiful uncle, loved by her aunt and cousins. Do you remember?”

A wistful longing sprang into Eliza’s eyes for the children she had borne and lost. “How can I forget?”

“Well, I saw Darcy today.”

A bewildered look darkened Eliza’s face. “You mean you dreamed of her … saw her in that way, don’t you?”

“At first, I thought it was a dream. But I did see her. She is at Havendale with her grandmother.”

After a quick intake of breath, tears glazed Eliza’s eyes. She twisted the edge of her shawl between her hands. “Oh! Then—she has …” The words stuck in her throat.

“Come to meet Madeline—and you.”

Eliza looked up at him with a start. “But she mustn’t know about me, Ethan. It would break her heart. Oh, I pray Langbourne does not speak of me to her.”

“Is it not time for her to know the truth—that you are alive?”

“It would cause her more pain than you can imagine. For her to learn I have been alive all these years and never tried to see her would give her reason to hate me.” She looked up at him, her brows pinched together. “And despise her father for lying to her.”

“It is not your fault, Eliza. You must see that, surely.”

“It is entirely my fault. One action led to another.”

“Yes. But that is not to say a wrong cannot be righted.” Ethan went on to tell her about his conversation with Darcy in the gazebo. “I cannot help how I feel. I love her. How am I to express my love for her when I must hold these secrets?”

Eliza stood, her fists clenched at her side as she strode about the room. “I have been selfish. If Darcy loves you, then you mustn’t let anything keep you apart—not even me. But please delay a little longer. Promise me.”

He could never deny her anything. She’d been a mother to him, and a friend to his father. “I promise, but only for a little while.”

“I only ask so that I have time to prepare.” Eliza closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. Ethan knew he needed to leave her to her thoughts, and so he kissed her forehead and left. Fiona waited out in the hallway.

“I knew one day God would bring Darcy to us.” She stepped ahead of Ethan, holding her handkerchief against her eyes. He realized there were three people in this house who loved Darcy and had been grieved by their separation. He knew he had to trust what Fiona said, and believe that God would bring them all together again, regardless of Eliza’s worries.




By late evening, the rain moved off to the east. Ethan sat in his room at his writing desk. He lifted the pen from the inkwell and held it above the paper. After his salutation, he poured his heart out within a single line to Darcy. He had to see her again. He tapped the tip of the quill against the glass lip, when all of a sudden carriage wheels were borne to his hearing. A moment later, Fiona knocked on the door.

“There is a gentleman to see you. I’ve placed him in the study.”

Ethan looked up from the letter. “Who is it?”

“I asked, but he did not give me his name, only said it was important he speak to you. Do not worry. He does not look like a creditor, though he does look clerkish.”

Ethan did not go down immediately, but pulled on his boots and drew on his black waistcoat. The visitor stood in front of the fire in the sitting room, warming his hands. He turned with a graceful movement.

“My dear Mr. Brennan.” The man bowed his head ever so low with a faint smile. “Forgive me for this late hour.”

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr.——?”

“Hollen, sir.” He glanced around the room. “My father owned a house similar to this one. A mite smaller, I might say.”

Hollen breathed out each syllable as if his words were of grand importance. His head resembled the shape and features of a greyhound—a long nose and large glassy eyes. His coalblack hair combed flat over his crown hid a receding hairline. His right shoulder hunched forward. His black coat fit snug, his calves covered in wool stockings of the same color, ending with buckled shoes.

“What is your business here, Mr. Hollen?”

“If I may.” With a lift of his brows, Hollen bent toward a chair and swept his hand across the seat. Ethan nodded but remained standing. “Allow me, sir, to preface with my deepest sympathies regarding the passing of your father.”

Ethan studied Hollen as he spoke. A smooth talker, Ethan surmised, and grew guarded. “Did you know him?”

Hollen inclined his head to the left. “His good name was known by many people. I never had the pleasure to meet him face-to-face or to hear him preach.”

“Have we ever met?”

“We have not, sir. I am here on behalf of a client, who does claim to know you.”

“His name, Mr. Hollen?”

“He wishes to remain anonymous, sir.”

“Is he a coward?”

“Not at all.”

“Then why does he not make his identity known to me or come here himself?”

“It is wise he remain unnamed, for the present at least.”

“For what reason? Has he committed a crime?”

“You will understand when I explain why he has sent me to speak with you and the lady who resides in this house.”

Ethan frowned. “Go on.”

“My client has in his possession letters that he believes the lady will be interested in. They are of the most delicate nature, and if the contents were to be broadcast, it would do great harm to the lady’s reputation, as well as your father’s and your own. And then there is the matter of Darcy Morgan, the lady’s daughter. The letters will cause her a great deal of embarrassment.”

Ethan fumed. “I assure you, the lady is blameless. There is nothing that could damage her character.”

Hollen shook his head and raised one brow. “Apparently she is not, Mr. Brennan. At least according to my client.”

Ethan set his mouth. “What could possibly be in a letter that would hurt her?”

“A variety of things, I suppose.”

“For instance?”

“Are you aware she had a child with another man while her husband was away fighting in America’s revolt, and that she attempted to conceal the child? The child died and she was cast out by her husband.”

Ethan stared eye to eye with Hollen. “I know about it, yes.”

“He sent her back to England, where she fell into your father’s good graces, a man of God who should have forbid a harlot to live under his roof and hide her past.”

“Speak another word against my father and I shall throw you out,” Ethan warned. “What he did was save her life.”

Hollen wiggled his mouth. “Well, sir, whatever else the letters reveal will be worth five hundred pounds for you to possess them. If not, my client is prepared to publicize. And if you decide to alert the constable of this district, he will be sure the lady’s indiscretions are exposed.”

Ethan jerked Hollen out of the chair by his coat collar. “Blackmail, Mr. Hollen? Extortion? Slander?” He threw him backward. “Get out of my house!”

Eyes wide, Hollen smoothed the front of his coat. His bloodless lips tightened over a set of crooked teeth. “I shall excuse your outburst, Mr. Brennan. I understand it is a shock, compounded by your father’s death and this delicate situation. Indeed, it would cause any man to lose his composure.” He picked up his hat and glided it onto his head, then stepped to the door. “I must advise you that my client is serious in this matter.”

The muscles in Ethan’s face twitched. He pointed his finger at Hollen and clenched his teeth. “Warn him, I am serious as well.”

Hollen nodded and tapped the tips of his fingers against one another. “As long as he is in possession of these letters, the longer you and the lady will be under his power. I advise you submit to his demands while you can.”

Ethan took an abrupt step forward. His shadow crossed over Hollen, and the man looked up at him with dread covering his pasty face. “Unless I see them,” Ethan said, “I am unconvinced of anything. It could be a hoax, a forgery, a lie to get money, which I have little of.”

Hollen’s bony fingers clutched the doorknob. “I shall return in a few days with one letter in hand as proof.”

Hollen prepared to step out into the darkness. “I shall not make this easy for your client, Hollen. He won’t get a penny. You tell him that.”

Hollen grunted and turned. “Hmm. That is your final word on the matter?”

“It is.”

“Then prepare for the worst, sir.”

Dread rushed through Ethan as he watched Hollen slither out the door and scoot into the rickety carriage that had brought him. Swaying to one side, it rolled off into the foggy night with its sinister passenger hunched inside.

When he could no longer see the grotesque shape passing down the lane from his house, Ethan clenched his jaw and kicked the door shut with the toe of his boot. He thought he was the only one to have ever known anything concerning Eliza’s past, aside from his father. Was there something more to her life she had not revealed?

He raked his fingers through his hair, wondering what to do. If letters were revealed, could he protect Darcy? Could he shield Eliza?

From the hearth, the heat of the amber flames climbed his body. He threw his hands against the mantelpiece, shut his eyes, and prayed. “Impart to me the wisdom I need, Lord.”

Perhaps ransoming the letters was the only way, for once they were in his hands, he could burn them.