Beside Two Rivers

32





Early the next morning, just as the sun rose, Ethan saddled his horse and set out for Havendale. He would have traveled there through the night, but Eliza persuaded him not to. Too many dangers were on the moors to cross them in the dark. She would have worried to the point of sleeplessness if he had gone with only the glare of the moon to guide him.

Prepared to meet opposition, he carried in his belt his flintlock pistol. No one came out to meet him. Not a sound came from the house or the stable. He jumped down from his horse and stepped up to the door. Mrs. Burke would answer, he thought, but after several tries no one came. He knocked loudly with his fist. “Open up! Open up, someone!”

He tried the handle and found it locked. He went around to the back, to the servants’ entrance. The door handle turned, but the door stuck when he pushed upon it. Pressing his shoulder to it, he rammed it until it broke open. Now in the kitchen, he called out Darcy’s name. Silence followed. He went through to the hall, found the furnishings in the rooms covered in white sheets, all the drapes drawn shut, the house empty and lifeless.

“Darcy! Darcy!” Ethan called. He bounded up the staircase, two steps at a time, his hand fixed firm over the handle of his pistol. Each room he searched, every door he opened. The bedrooms were empty. Darcy was gone, and so were the others. But to where?

“Help me find her, God,” he whispered, and walked out into the sunlight. Thank the Lord the clouds had parted and a blue sky appeared. A brisk wind blew against his face and brushed the loose strands of his hair along his shoulders. Pushing them back, he strode toward the stables. All the stalls were empty, except for one. Madeline’s mare shook her shaggy head and went back to chewing the oats in her trough.

Frustrated, Ethan stomped out, his boots sloshing through a mud puddle in the yard. Sanchet lifted his head and snorted when Ethan whistled to him, and as he picked up the reins a man in work clothes came around the corner of the house. He stopped short when he saw Ethan.

“No one is home, sir. Who are you and what do you want?”

“Ethan Brennan of Fairview. I am here for Miss Darcy Morgan.”

“Not here.”

“Do you know where she has gone?”

“Don’t know. The ladies left last night. Mr. Langbourne on horseback. The house is closed up.”

“And you are?”

“The caretaker newly hired by Mr. Langbourne. I live in a room above the stables.” He moved on. Ethan stepped up to him.

“Surely you must have heard where Miss Darcy was sent to.”

“I don’t know why you’d think that. I’m nobody.” The man paused, dragged off his slouch hat and scratched his head. “You attached to the young lady?”

“She’s to be my wife.”

The man raised his brows. “Ah. Well, you bein’ in such a lather to find her makes sense now.”

“Her father is dying. I need to bring her to him. If you know anything that might help me, please tell me what you know.”

“Well, I can say when Mr. Langbourne handed me the keys, I saw the young woman standing on the staircase. She did not look happy, and I heard Mr. Langbourne speak unkindly to her as I left the house. He mentioned Meadlow. Perhaps the Brightons know the place. They’re the closest neighbors. Go ask them, sir.”

Of course—the Brightons. Surely they would know. And so, Ethan vaulted in his saddle and turned Sanchet out onto the road toward Bentmoor. He pushed the horse to a gallop over the high road above Havendale, kicking up mud beneath its hoofs. The Brightons would direct him to Meadlow and, with God’s help and his swift horse, he’d rescue Darcy from what the powers of darkness had planned for her life.

Not long after leaving Havendale, he stood on the Brighton’s carpet in their sitting room, in his mud-splattered boots, anxiously turning his hat in his hands and shifting on his feet.

“Yes, Mr. Brennan, we visited Charlotte one year at her country house,” said Mrs. Brighton, as she sat on her blue settee. “It had been a dreadful journey over poor roads that rattled my bones, and upon arrival Mr. Brighton and I were stiff and sore from head to toe. Weren’t we, my love?”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Brighton responded. “Even worse, the house was cold. Not a very friendly place, I recall. Couldn’t wait to leave.”

Mrs. Brighton went on, Ethan wishing they would quickly answer his question as to where Meadlow was located. “I was bored to death sitting with that despondent Charlotte two whole days. I promised never again to visit such a gloomy place and be subject to freezing nights with no fire. She read no poetry, played no music. All she could do is play cards, and how can one stand that day after day?”

Mr. Brighton perked up. “And don’t forget the bland food, my dear. Why are you interested in going to Meadlow, Mr. Brennan?”

“The woman I love is there, sir. Miss Darcy Morgan.”

“Miss Darcy,” exclaimed Mrs. Brighton. “A visit?”

“I do not know. But she has gone. I believe that is where she is, with her grandmother.”

“Oh, Madeline will not like that place. It isn’t far, is it, Richard?”

“Oh, not far at all. Let me direct you, Mr. Brennan. It is quite easy.” And so Mr. Brighton proceeded to give him precise directions and a landmark, being the old gibbet, and finally the look of the old house.

Ethan thanked them both and, without another word, quickly departed.




Morning tea was brought up on a tray. Charlotte sent word she could not join at table with her guests. Her limbs did not allow for her to sit in the stiff chairs without growing fatigued. It was just as well. Darcy wished to write letters. To sit with Charlotte would have stretched her nerves.

Darcy hated being in a strange place—especially in Langbourne’s house. A sad feeling lingered, perhaps since the only people living there were Charlotte and her servants. There were no children, no sound of pattering feet or laughter. Charlotte hadn’t even a dog or cat to keep her company. And so, the house held an old, friendless air that permeated every room. To shut it out, she closed her eyes and imagined in her mind her river—the sparkle of sunlight atop the ripples and pools, the dark cliffs, the birds and deer, the green forests, and the abundant wildflowers. She pictured her family and the old house at River Run. She and Ethan had stood in a field there not long ago, where he first kissed her.

“Oh, Ethan,” she sighed. “One day, we will restore the house to its former beauty, and fill it with a brigade of children. Sanchet will graze alongside my mare. And God willing, mother and father will be there again.”

Anxious for her letter to reach him and for his arrival, she listened to the sighing wind and the call of rock doves nestled in the eaves. She heard movement outside her door, and stepping out into the hallway, she saw Charlotte and a servant standing outside Madeline’s room. The maid had her head down and spoke rapidly, as if she were trying to explain something to her mistress. Her eyes darted toward Darcy and her sad expression deepened. Charlotte turned and looked at Darcy with expressionless eyes.

“My grandmother? Is she awake?”

Charlotte cleared her throat. “No … She …”

Fear spun within Darcy. She hurried toward the door, but Charlotte’s voice, raised more than usual, arrested her. “Before you go in,” Charlotte said, “you must know, no one knew until the maid went in to bring her breakfast. Such things happen with the aged. It was to be expected.”

“Knew what, Charlotte? What do you mean such things are to be expected?”

Charlotte glanced away, and then looked back at Darcy. “Madeline was old, and her health none too well. My husband must have been aware of it. So why did he send her to me? Now I have to deal with this.”

Without waiting, Darcy rushed through the bedroom door. Inside she found the other maid, the one she had given the note to, changing the linens on the bed.

“Where is she? Where is my grandmother?”

The maid set a pillow down and looked over at her.

“Why are you not speaking?” Darcy asked.

Charlotte drew up beside her. “She passed on, Darcy, while you slept. I thought you were capable of understanding my words.”

“She died in the night?” Darcy asked, shocked. Tears burned her eyes.

“You did say she was ill when you arrived.”

“Why didn’t you send for me?”

“Dear lord, Darcy! No one could determine the hour the old lady would decide to leave this world. We were all asleep.”

“I just wish you had come and told me as soon as you knew.”

Charlotte clapped her eyes shut. “I wish you had expressed with more force that Madeline was this close to dying. I am put out that you did not, and angry with my husband. He should not have sent her to Meadlow.”

“Where is she?”

“My servants moved the body to another room. This is a guestroom and I would hate for anyone in my circle of friends, if they were to visit, to sleep in a bed where a deceased person had lain for too long. They’d be appalled. No one likes to sleep in a bed someone passed away in.”

Frustration rose in Darcy and she shook her arm free from Charlotte’s hand. “Be quiet, Charlotte!”

Eyes widening, Charlotte gasped. “What? How dare you speak to me in that manner? I am just as upset as you are.”

“How can you treat this event with such coldness and think only of yourself and your inconvenience? I wish we had never come here.”

“Well, no one forced you. You may leave at any time.”

“I was forced. Grandmother was forced. She should have died in her own bed at Havendale, not suddenly taken from the home she lived in for decades and placed with strangers.”

As if a dagger struck through to her core, Darcy dashed from the room. At first, she stifled the want to cry. But she could not prevent the tears from welling. She covered her face with her hands and allowed them to fall. She had not realized how much she had grown to love Madeline.

Charlotte swept out into the hallway. In a forced show of sympathy, she caught up with Darcy. “Is there something a servant can bring you? Wine, or perhaps some sweets? They always lift my spirits.”

Darcy stood still and silent.

“Well,” huffed Charlotte. “I did not think you cared so much for the old woman.”

Darcy looked at her. “She was my grandmother, Charlotte. Is there no sorrow in you at all, no sadness at least for me?”

Charlotte lifted her brows. “Please mind yourself while you are in my house, Darcy. I will send for the undertaker. I suppose she would want to be buried beside her—let me see—two husbands?”

“She would. And you need not worry yourself. I will take care of everything.”

“My husband would not approve. I’ve sent for him.”

“You knew where to find him?”

“Of course. I know where he goes when he is away from me.”

Darcy wiped her eyes dry. “Where is Mrs. Burke?”

“Oh, I meant to tell you about that. Seeing I have enough staff at Meadlow, I will find her a new situation.”

“She will stay with me. I have an obligation to her.”

Charlotte gave Darcy a mocking smile. “I daresay I do not understand you. You have no duty to a servant. The best thing for her is to be placed in a household where she will work and be cared for. Is this the view in America, that you treat servants like family members?”

Darcy drew in a long, slow breath, turned away and left Charlotte in the gloomy hallway with her maid standing behind her. There was no consoling poor Mrs. Burke. Darcy found her weeping in an upstairs bedroom, so small it could only fit a single bed and dresser. Darcy poured her a glass of water and made her drink it.

Mrs. Burke drew out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I knew it were coming. God rest her soul.”

“You were good to her, and I thank you for that, Mrs. Burke. Now Charlotte tells me she will find you a new position. But I would be happy if you came with me back to America.”

Mrs. Burke smiled a moment. “You are sweet to offer, miss. But my home is England. I have family in the north, a rather large one actually. I am at an age where I can retire in peace and be near them.”

“But how shall you live?” Darcy asked.

“I set money aside over the years—for a rainy day—and that day has come. My sister is a spinster, and she will allow me to live with her. My brothers are farmers with wives, children, and grandchildren. The good Lord knows I shall be happy.”

On the floor, at the foot of the bed, Maxwell whined. Darcy picked him up and set him in Mrs. Burke’s lap. “He is yours now. You will take care of him, won’t you?”

Mrs. Burke cuddled the little dog close. “Oh, I shall. Thank you, Darcy.”

“My grandmother would have wanted you to have him.” She ran her hand over the dog’s head, and then heard a horse gallop down the drive. Her heart skipped. Had Ethan received her note? It had to be him. She rose and rushed over to the window, threw back the curtains and peered down into the courtyard.

“Is it Mr. Brennan?” Mrs. Burke said.

Darcy’s hopes were dashed when she saw Langbourne swing down from the saddle in his black cloak, the pale morning light showing on his angry face. “No. It is Mr. Langbourne.”

“Dear, Lord.” Mrs. Burke set her handkerchief aside and joined Darcy at the window. “We shall surely have an unpleasant time now.”

Disappointed, Darcy stood back, squeezed Mrs. Burke’s hand, and went downstairs to meet him.