Beside Two Rivers (33 page)

Madeline’s eyes glistened. “You think so, Burke?”

“I know so,” Mrs. Burke nodded. “All he needed was some tender nursing and his wife to improve.”

Darcy waited to speak, thinking back on how she had broached the subject of
Madeline staying with the family before. To think of her living with Charlotte in an unfamiliar place pressed severely on Darcy. It would have made things easier if the driver had been willing to change direction. She felt like a prisoner inside the dismal carriage.

“Grandmother, return with us to Fairview when Ethan comes. I know it would mean another journey for you, but you could live with us, you and Mrs. Burke.”

Madeline stroked Maxwell’s ears and sighed. “I do not know, child. I am so weary. But that is not to say I don’t want to. I do.”

“Then it is settled. We will all leave together.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Burke with a smug look and a wiggle of her head. “That will certainly put Mr. Langbourne in his place.”

The carriage turned at a bend in the road and climbed a hill. Madeline laid her hand over her heart. “Tell the driver to stop. I do not feel well.”

Panicked, Darcy opened her window, stuck her head out and called up. “Stop at once. My grandmother is ill.” The driver slowed the horses and pulled to the side of the road. He jumped down and appeared at the window.

“What now, miss?”

“My grandmother is not feeling well.”

“Is she? Well, there’s not much I can do about that. We will be at Meadlow shortly.”

“Fairview is closer, is it not? We will pay you for your trouble. Now turn and take us there at once.”

“You are wrong, miss. Meadlow is closer, not even a mile away. Fairview is back that way and I’ll not turn.” He eyed her and drew in a deep breath. “I have my orders.”

Darcy balled her fist and groaned. She heard the snap of the coachman’s whip, and the carriage rocked and creaked past a scattering of poor hamlets, houses with thatched roofs, small windows where few faces passed behind sullied glass. The horses turned at a sharp bend in the road. A chill rushed through Darcy at the site of a gibbet swinging from a tall post, within the iron cage tattered ribbons of rotting clothing, over the exposed bones of a highwayman. She looked away, disgusted at the scene, and prayed for the soul that met his end in this barbaric way.

Madeline had drifted back to sleep against Mrs. Burke’s shoulder, and stirred when the driver called out, “Meadlow, ladies!”

The carriage entered through the gates and swept along to a circular drive, the gravel crunching beneath the spinning wheels, until the horses slowed and came to an easy halt. Darcy leaned forward to look out the window at the grand house that stood on a flat span of deep green lawn. Two stories were graced with large mullioned windows set within a façade of blushed brick, offset by a black lacquered French door with bright brass fixtures. Two chimneys climbed against the racing clouds and spewed smoke. Gnarled ivy grew over the facade, leaves quivering in the wind.

Darcy watched the front door open and Charlotte step outside dressed in pale gray silk, looking as lifeless as the Grecian statue that stood at the foot of the steps. She felt frozen to her seat, wishing she did not have to go in.

With a forced smile, Charlotte gathered her lace shawl over her narrow shoulders. “Welcome to Meadlow.” She spoke in an elegant tone, yet her eyes told Darcy she had no joy in their arrival, no anticipation of having female company to fill her lonely days. They were intruders.

Once Mrs. Burke set her feet firm, Maxwell jumped out and sniffed the ground. Two female servants stood behind Charlotte and she motioned for them to help Madeline. They hurried down the steps as the driver guided her out, and with cane in hand, and the two maids supporting her, Madeline was led up the steps and into the house.

Darcy watched Charlotte pat her hair back and wondered why she wore it so severe. Tight and combed into a stiff chignon, a thin nimbus of brown encircling her face, giving her a stern, aged look. Perhaps if she wore it loose and in twists she would look more feminine, thought Darcy.

Handed out, she gathered up her hem, walked up the steps and stood in front of the forlorn mistress of Meadlow. She held her hand out to Charlotte. But Charlotte ignored the gesture and looked down the lane. “My husband did not accompany you?”

Compassion for this abandoned wife filled Darcy. “He did not.”

A crestfallen look fell over Charlotte’s face and she looked away. “Then he comes on horseback. Did he say when I should expect him?”

Darcy paused in front of Charlotte. “I am sorry. He made no mention of it.”

“Did he say what business keeps him away?”

“I only know he was closing the house. Perhaps when he is finished he will make his journey home.” Darcy hoped her words gave some hope to Charlotte.

A weary sigh escaped Charlotte and she glanced at Darcy. “If I have no expectations, I shall not be disappointed, shall I? I pray, Miss Darcy, you will never know the pain of being trapped in a loveless marriage.”

Darcy’s smile faded, and she ached for poor Charlotte, who jerked away and turned back inside the house. Her mind continued to stir with empathy. To be neglected and betrayed seemed an overwhelming blow. Did Charlotte know about Langbourne’s mistress? Darcy would not tell her. It would hurt Charlotte, and even if she did know of his infidelity, to speak of it would open her wound.

When Darcy entered the foyer, she drew off her cloak. “I need to send a message, Charlotte. May I have ink and paper, please?”

“On the table over there.” Charlotte pointed it out with her eyes.

As quick as her feet would carry her, being stiff from the long ride, Darcy gathered the quill in hand, dipped it into the inkwell and wrote ‘
Come to me, my love. I need you. I am at Meadlow north of Havendale. Kiss my father and mother for me’ and tell them I am praying for them
.

She folded the note and handed it to Charlotte’s servant who stood closest to the door. “Please see this is sent to Fairview without delay. It is urgent.” The girl nodded and took it from Darcy’s hand.

With Mrs. Burke on one side, and Darcy on the other, they aided Madeline to an upstairs bedroom. Not at all what Darcy expected, the room had a warm feel to it, the furnishing lavish, a gray marble mantelpiece framing the hearth. Maxwell jumped onto the bed and laid himself down with his eyes intent upon his mistress.

“I hope you will be comfortable here, Madeline.” Charlotte stood by the door.

Without turning, Madeline said, “’Tis a pretty room, Charlotte. I should like to go to bed.”

Mrs. Burke hurried to open a trunk and take out Madeline’s nightclothes. Darcy helped by removing her grandmother’s shoes. When she glanced back, Charlotte was closing the door. She looked up at her grandmother, noticing the faraway gaze glistening in her eyes.

“When you see your Uncle Will again, please tell him how fondly I spoke of him … that I love him and have missed him.”

“I will, Grandmother. But you may be able to do that yourself one day soon.”

“You know he wrote to me faithfully, that is until that revolution happened and then few letters ever made it into the country. I was glad when they resumed again.”

“Uncle Will and Aunt Mari are both avid letter writers,” Darcy said, setting the shoes in front of the fire. “We will write to them and tell them all that has happened.”

This made Madeline smile, though faintly. “Describe each of the girls to me again.”

Darcy began with Martha, and painted a picture of each of her cousins as vividly as she could, their beauty, their likes and dislikes, their talents and endowments. And she told Madeline about the different flowers her uncle collected and how he painted them in his portfolio. For the moment, the conversation was a great distraction to their present troubles and seemed to help Madeline rest easy.

“I am proud of my son.” Madeline folded her hands across her chest. “What wonderful young ladies my granddaughters must be. If God sees fit that I should live longer and go to Fairview with you, then I shall go to America, Darcy. There is nothing left for me here.”

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.