Beside Two Rivers

18





Alone in her room, Darcy stared at the gown that lay across her bed, doubting it would stand up to the other ladies’ dresses in beauty and fashion. With a sigh, she picked it up, held it out in front of her, and smoothed down the folds and creases. The waning light of day caressed the deep ivory color and dark emerald trim. The fabric felt smooth against her palm, and she recalled the day that she and Martha had finished the last bit of stitching on the hem. How she missed her cousin and hoped she would receive a letter from her soon. Had the expectation of a proposal from Dr. Emerson become a reality for Martha?

Darcy smiled at the prospect, and wondered if she would find her cousin a married woman upon her return. She whispered a prayer that, for the sake of Martha’s kind heart, it was so. If anyone deserved to be happily married, it was she.

After Darcy had dressed and arranged her hair without assistance, she stepped into her grandmother’s room to see if she met her approval.

“It will have to do,” said Madeline, glancing the dress over. “I suppose that is the latest fashion in America. It is simple.”

“It is the best I have, Grandmother. The trim color is lovely, don’t you think? And in candlelight it shall look even richer.”

“I suppose. Gloves?”

“I have none. I forgot to pack them.”

Shocked, Madeline’s brows lifted. “No gloves? Look in my top drawer. There is a pair you may wear. Keep them if you wish.”

Darcy opened the drawer, and alongside a few caps and a pair of black lace gloves she found them. They were soft as silk and a gentle cream shade. “These are too expensive for me to keep, Grandmother.”

“Pishposh! Where shall I wear them? They have been sitting in the drawer for years. Please take them.”

Darcy thanked her with an embrace.

“Enough. Enough. Be off with you, my girl.”

A little curtsey and Darcy turned to leave. Maxwell scampered after her. “I will not be late,” she said, patting the dog’s head and looking back at her grandmother.

“Hmm. You might. If Mr. Brennan is there.”

Darcy straightened up. “Well, he shall not delay me.”

Madeline smirked. “Prudence and good sense, Darcy. Keep your passions hidden and put your heart in the hands of the One who cares most. ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not to your own understanding. But in all your ways acknowledge him. He shall direct your path.’ ” A peaceful smile lifted her mouth.




Downstairs, Darcy drew her cloak over her shoulders and hurried out to the carriage the Brightons were good enough to send. Once she took her seat inside, her fears turned to excitement. It had been so long since she’d been to any kind of large gathering, the last being at the Rhendons across the river where she’d first set eyes on Ethan.

As she traveled the five-and-one-half miles toward Bentmoor, she soaked in the shades of sunset as it brushed over the landscape. Magenta clouds edged the treetops. Pale purple and blue graced the sky, and flocks of birds made their way to their perches for the night.

The manor house stood atop a hill, twice the size of Havendale, made of red brick and graced with tall windows that caught the hues of dusk. Darcy wondered why anyone would want to live in a house so large when only two people and a few servants lived in it. The footman handed her out, and she looked up at the decorative entrance and the ivy shading it.

A stone-faced manservant dressed in bright red opened the door and stood back to allow her inside, his eyes never meeting hers. It was no life to live, Darcy thought. To serve those who believed they were higher, to show no emotion, to be so mechanical. She felt sorry for him, and spoke. “Good evening. Thank you for opening the door for me.”

The footman’s eyes blinked, gave her a quick nod, and stepped behind her to draw off her cloak in such a manner that she did not feel his touch. Mrs. Brighton glided forward and moved Darcy toward her drawing room. “Darcy, I am pleased you have come. No escort? Where are Mr. Langbourne and Charlotte?”

“Charlotte returned to Meadlow, and Mr. Langbourne is gone on business.”

Mrs. Brighton clicked her tongue. “I should not be surprised. … Never mind. There are handsome men aplenty here tonight to watch over you.”

“Forgive me for being late,” said Darcy, tugging at her gloves. The soft ting of a harpsichord and the voice of a woman singing as sweet as a meadowlark flowed from the drawing room. “How beautiful.”

“Do you like it?” Mrs. Brighton walked with her to the open doorway.

“Very much.” The music filled her, and she shuddered at the beauty of it.

“It is a piece by Mr. Mozart from Le nozze di Figaro—The Marriage of Figaro.”

Of course, Darcy had heard of Mozart, but she had never heard his compositions sung. She had not been long in the room when she spotted Ethan on the opposite side. Her breath caught, and she felt a sharp pang seize her heart. She looked about for Miss Roth, or rather, could she be Mrs. Brennan? Not a sign of her.

What did I expect? I knew the possibility of meeting him again. Only this time it would be in a room full of people.

Discreetly, not to show her emotions, she lifted her gaze. Several ladies in finer gowns than hers sat near. He kept his eyes fixed on the singer, and Darcy saw how moved he was by the music. Can any woman, other than I, see so deeply? He is pained by my attitude toward him. He must feel it as rejection. Help me, God, to mend what I have done to him.

A brooding look shone in Ethan’s expression, as if each note the singer sang had sunk into his being. He was dressed much as he had been the day she met him at Twin Oaks. His hair, cut to his collar, caught the candlelight and wisped over his stark white neckcloth. His coat and breeches were black, his waistcoat dark blue.

When the singer concluded, Darcy heard a woman say to another, “If I did not know any better, I would say an American just entered the room.” Eyes turned her way.

“Where? Oh, yes. You can tell by her gown. Such a simple country fashion.”

“Madeline Morgan’s granddaughter, I suspect.”

Darcy gave the women a sidelong glance, and saw that they were the same age as her mother would be, with gray elflocks that flowed over one shoulder, and smiles that feigned sincerity. She turned to face them, inclined her head with a short curtsey, and they, looking impressed, nodded.

She chose to accept their comments as compliments. Yet, she knew then and there that gossip would flow among the company tonight, and she hoped no one would besiege her with questions. Unless, of course, they had something to say that would enlighten her regarding her parents.

Ethan turned his eyes to hers and she felt as if she’d fall to pieces when they met. Mrs. Brighton leaned toward her ear.

“Is not Mr. Brennan dressed fine tonight?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“We invited his boarder—I know nothing else to call her by. But she will not attend. No one ever sees her. I am thinking she is a sickly person and that is the reason she is so secluded.”

“His boarder, Mrs. Brighton?”

“Yes, his governess as a child. So do not fear. You have no rival.”

“I see,” she said, relieved, but searching for the proper words in response.

“You know I have not once met her in all these years we have been in Derbyshire. It is my understanding she does not enjoy social gatherings. But I am glad to see Mr. Brennan has come. It was all very odd at Havendale when he spoke to you. And then you seemed so unnerved. What was it?”

Darcy listened, yet kept her eyes on Ethan’s. “Nothing really. We had met once before, when he had come to America with his intended, Miss Roth.”

“Miss Roth, you say.” Mrs. Brighton laughed. “No need to worry on that account either. I hear he broke off all contact months ago.”

“Then they are not married, or to be married?”

“Goodness, no. It is rumored his heart is wrung to another, and Miss Roth, it is said, placed her affections elsewhere.”

“She did not deserve him. She did not love him deeply enough. I am glad Mr. Brennan is rid of her.”

“Love is all well and good. But without money, how can one live happily?” Mrs. Brighton drew Darcy closer with a tug on her sleeve. “He is coming this way. I shall leave now.”

She stepped away, and Darcy swallowed hard as he approached. She had no idea what to say to him. He bowed short. “Miss Darcy. Are you enjoying the music?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Brennan. It is my first time.” He is not married. Did she break his heart? she wondered.

“I imagine you have little of this type of culture along the Potomac.”

“You are correct, sir. But the birds make up for the lack of music made by human voices.”

The musicians struck up again, and the singer won the attention of all. Enraptured, Darcy hung on to every note, every word, and allowed the music to sink deep within her. The romance of the aria drew her and Ethan nearer, and as the song came to a close, he leaned down and whispered in her ear.

“It ends, I want to crown you with roses.”

A rush of heat swept through Darcy, quickening the beat of her heart and the heave of her breath. With her eyes brimming, she stepped back. He was correct. The singer ended with those very words. Were they meant for her when Ethan spoke them to her? Would he crown her with roses?

The audience applauded, and Mrs. Brighton stepped out front. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will have a brief intermission. Please, help yourselves to the refreshment table.”

Guests either stood up from their chairs or glided away from their places with laughter and light conversation. Mrs. Brighton waltzed up to Darcy with three gentlemen in tow, all young and dressed to the nines.

“You cannot have our American cousin all to yourself, Mr. Brennan.” She waved him back, then took Darcy’s hand and moved her forward as the trio gathered around. “May I introduce Mr. Clary, Mr. Hammond, and Mr. Price?”

Darcy lowered her head and curtseyed. Each man bowed and then resumed staring at her. Their gazes were ones of fascination at a new face from a foreign land. But Ethan’s—his shifted between his heart and mind. She could tell between the two, for when his eyes grew warm, they were filled with longing. When they grew cold and stern, she saw frustration.

“Miss Darcy.” Mr. Hammond’s smile revealed a mouth full of crooked teeth. “Welcome to Derbyshire. It is an honor.” He bowed, lifted her hand, and kissed the top of it.

“Thank you, sir.”

“All of us welcome you, Miss Darcy,” Mr. Clary stammered. “It isn’t every day we meet an American girl. You must tell us all about yourself.”

She heard Ethan sigh, and from the corner of her eye, she saw how he stiffened. He drew his shoulders up and set his jaw. The scowl on his face deepened. He would not look at her, but turned, then strode off. Disappointed, her eyes followed him through the crowd until he disappeared. Come back. But she knew he would not as long as she had admirers hovering around her.

“Allow me to fetch a cup of punch for you,” said Mr. Price. He looked younger than the others, with a hint of whiskers shadowing his jaw. She nodded and his large brown eyes lit up. Then shouldering his way past the others, he headed with a skip of his heels for the refreshment table.

Darcy felt a tug on her gown, then another, and to her horror it tore. As quickly as she could, she gathered up the fabric against the gap in the seam at her waist. The zealous bungler had stepped on her hem, and when he noticed what he’d done, he tried to free her gown from the brass buckle on his shoe.

“Oh, I am sorry, Miss Darcy.” Then the seam tore a bit more, leaving a gap inches wide that broke open beneath her left arm.

“Dear me, Price. Look what you’ve done,” said Mr. Hammond. “What a buffoon you are.” Hammond leaned down and freed her dress from Mr. Price’s offensive shoe. Darcy’s face burned with embarrassment as she attempted to hide the rip with her hand, but the fabric hung so much that her chemise peeked out from behind it.

Fortunately Mrs. Brighton stood nearby. Desperate for help, Darcy darted her eyes her way. Without delay, Mrs. Brighton moved through the crowd, reached her, and drew her away from onlookers to a side room.

“Oh, dear me. What a tragedy. I shall call my maid and have her mend that. Do not worry, Darcy. If anyone should be mortified it should be that bumbling Mr. Price. If he cannot conduct himself in a more gracious and controlled manner, I shall not invite him ever again to Bentmoor.”

“So much for my skills at dressmaking.” Darcy struggled to make light of the mishap. “I should have made the stitches tighter.”

The fine brows of her hostess arched. “You made this gown all by yourself?”

“We have few tailors and seamstresses where I am from. My cousin Martha helped me.”

“You are a fascinating creature. No wonder you caught Mr. Brennan’s eye. Well, my maid is skilled with a needle, and all shall be repaired quickly.” She went to pull the bell cord, but Darcy set her hand on the lady’s arm.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather go home.”

Mrs. Brighton wiggled a smile. “Ah, that is a pity. The evening is ruined for you. I shall call for the carriage.”




At least her cloak hid the damage. But nothing could hide the humiliation she felt, nor the disappointment that she had to leave. How could she stay, with her dress stitched up in haste, with gossip flying around the room? It would be stretched in every direction by the time she heard it. Perhaps if this had not happened, she and Ethan would have had a moment together. Had he heard her gown had been torn and that she was leaving?

She waited by the window until the footman escorted her through another door so she would not be seen. Inside the carriage, she leaned forward and looked out. Beyond the window that faced her, golden candlelight glowed within. Guests settled back into their chairs, and the singer lifted her voice once more as the driver climbed to his perch.

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.