Beside Two Rivers

29





A tap, tap on the window stirred Darcy from a restless slumber. No harsh wind, no rain—only a sighing through the eaves of the house. She lay quiet, struggling against weary emotion, aware of the stillness in the house. She sat up, and though the chill in the room struck her, she threw back the blanket from her legs, swung them over the side of the bed, and stood. Despair lingered in her breast and she folded her hands against her heart to pray.

Running her hands across her eyes, she worried about her father and estranged mother, aching for Ethan as her vision cleared, for she had cried herself to sleep. “When he is told what has happened to me, he will come,” she said aloud.

She could not escape the image of Langbourne trudging out into the courtyard with his fists clenched. Hate burned in his eyes as he raised his pistol and swore to shoot her father. Intruder, trespasser, fiend, he had called him.

When Darcy stepped between them, Langbourne shoved her aside. Her father cried out and struggled to rise. He shouted to Langbourne not to harm her. Reverend Reed’s verger shielded her father, and Reed rebuked Langbourne for his cruelty while trying to reach Darcy. Langbourne demanded Reverend Reed to remove Hayward, himself, and his verger, off his land. But no amount of stern words could sway him from keeping Darcy back.

The room stood at a high point of the house, on a floor of rooms that had gone unoccupied for years, with only Madeline’s and hers lived in on the eastern wing. Cold and with little furniture, and one window made of rows of diamond-shaped glass laced with black leaded seams, it felt detached from the rest of Havendale.

She rubbed her bruised wrist. In an iron-like grip, Langbourne had pulled her back into the house and up three flights of stairs, thus injuring her. At least he relented, convicted by Reverend Reed’s stern words, and let her father go. But what good did it do to keep her from leaving with him? He railed it was for her own good—and for Madeline. He would not allow her to abandon her grandmother. She had to do her duty. Her obligation was to her—not to the parents who had abandoned her. And how dare she bring into his house a dirty ragtag prodigal, a man who defied the family, who stole Langbourne’s choice, and ran off like a felon to a foreign country?

“I do not care who he claims to be,” Langbourne told her. “He has no connection to this family—not anymore—and is not welcomed. You, on the other hand, are Madeline’s granddaughter, and you will do your duty by her by obeying me. You will accompany her to Meadlow, and what you do afterwards I care not. But I will not have you abandon her like her sons did. Only know this: you will have no help from me if you decide to leave Meadlow.”

Langbourne seemed one man with two minds. He had sympathy in one regard, for Madeline—that she would not leave Havendale alone, that her granddaughter would be the greatest comfort for her during this transition. But at the same time, he had no compassion whatsoever on poor Darcy or her father, and showed such ire toward Ethan that it caused Darcy to tremble inwardly.

To punish her disloyalty, he ordered her to stay put. One of his men would keep an eye out if she dared to leave. Darcy did not argue. The mad gaze in his eyes, the harsh tone of his voice, the clenching of his teeth frightened her.

“You may leave your room when it is time to leave,” he said. As he stepped out the door, Darcy caught a glimpse of a man waiting in the hall. His head closely shaved, his eyes small and close-set, he nodded to Langbourne. He closed the door for his master, and Darcy set her ear against it and listened to Langbourne’s footsteps fade away.

In an attempt to brush away the muck that covered the diamond-shaped panes, she nicked her finger on a crack in the glass. It stung and she put it into her mouth to soothe the wound. Her hem would have to do. She picked it up and rubbed a few panes until the muted day shone through—the sky slate, windswept mist crossing the land. She could not see the courtyard below, for the window stood too high. Shifting her gaze to the grassy plains beyond and to the lane that led to the house, she anticipated Ethan would appear mounted on Sanchet, spurring him toward her. For several anxious minutes she kept her hopeful eyes fixed upon the gate, and soon her expectation turned into anxiety.

Her stomach ached from nerves and a lack of food, and she hugged her arms to endure it. But her thirst caused her to crave water and she wished some were in the old white pitcher that sat on the table beside the bed. Running her hands over the sleek curved handle, she looked down into it. It was empty.

The room grew airless, and she tried to unlatch the window. Rust had sealed it tight and it would not budge no matter how much she struggled. Her need for air drove her to keep trying. If only she could feel the relief of the wind against her.

The hoofbeats of a horse came faintly to her, and she hurried back to the window, where she saw men on horseback moving toward each other at a brisk trot. “Ethan,” she breathed out in a hopeful sigh. The other man she realized was Langbourne, along with one of his cronies. “Oh, Lord. Do not let Langbourne forbid him.”

Desperation welled inside as she watched the scene outside in the misty distance. She gripped the edge of the window, as Ethan pushed Sanchet forward and grabbed Langbourne. Langbourne twisted away, moved back, and aimed his pistol. She gasped, and fear struck her cold that he would fire.

“No, Langbourne! Do not do it!” she cried, tears rising in her eyes.

With his life in danger, Ethan relented to whatever Langbourne ordered him to do, turned his horse, and galloped off.

“Come back,” she whispered. Her hopes dashed, her heart sunk in her breast. She slipped to the floor, covering her face with her hands, cried a little, then dashed the tears from her face.

After a wait, she scrambled to her feet, hurried to the door, and opened it. The hallway, silent and empty, stretched before her, and the light from a far window beckoned. Langbourne’s henchman already snored in a chair, leaning back against the wall. She hesitated, afraid she might wake him, pressed her hands behind her on the wall, and slipped away.

If she were to go down the main staircase, she might face Langbourne. She could not allow him to control her like this, to force her to obey his will and be a pawn in his quest to hurt her parents. She had to escape Havendale and make the trek to Fairview no matter the conditions.

She could see the servants’ stairwell but a few yards away. In desperate haste, she made for it, and stepped down the first few steps without making a sound. Then they creaked beneath her footfalls at a place where there were neither windows nor light to guide her. Placing her hands against the plastered walls, she slowly made her way down, taking care not to trip. The plaster, chipped away in places, scratched her palms as she felt her way through the dark, down to the kitchen—a flagstone-floored room with a huge stone fireplace where the coals had long turned to gray ash.

An empty copper kettle hung from an iron hook, and the table was swept clean of dishes and crockery. Something scurried across it and caught her eye. She gasped, her throat tightened, and she drew back. On its hind legs, a small brown mouse stared at her with black eyes. It nibbled a crumb between its hairless pink paws, blinked, and then hopped to the other end of the table, leapt to the floor and scampered under a cupboard. It poked its whiskery head out from beneath it and wiggled its nose. Darcy crept past the little creature and dipped a ladle into a barrel beside the door. She drank, and the water soothed her parched tongue.

She looked out the window at the vast fields. Her cloak lay near the front door, and she thought if she could retrieve it without Langbourne seeing her, she’d slip out. But there she was, so close to another door where she could go at once. She moved toward it. Considering how cold it would be to cross the moors without a covering, she hesitated.

Then a presence fell behind her and she froze. A chill raced up her back and prickled over her skin. Setting the ladle back down in the water, she turned to see Langbourne.

“A keen wind blows.” He jerked open the rear door, moved just outside it. “Come, breathe it in. Look out at the moors in the distance. If you wander across them you’ll meet with danger—even death. You are a stranger here and do not know the ways of the moors.”

Darcy lifted her head. “I am a Morgan. I have my father’s blood in my veins. I am no stranger to such a place.”

“So you were planning to leave and take the risk? That would have been foolish, Darcy. You have no idea how many souls have gotten lost on these moors and frozen to death in the night. Some have gone missing and were never found.”

“You have no trouble.”

“I grew up here and know it better than most.”

She did not answer. Instead she moved to the door. Langbourne stepped closer and she backed up against the table. “Why must you be so troublesome, Darcy? I demanded you remain upstairs for your own good.”

“Your henchman is more troublesome than I, sir. He could not stay awake long enough to notice I slipped out. He forgot to lock the door.”

“Yes, and I have sent the incompetent fool on his way without his pay.” He paused and leaned back against the table. “You have a sharp tongue, Darcy.”

“My tongue was parched, sir. For you left me without water. That is one reason I left my room.”

He grunted. “I dare not ask what the others were. Is there a reason we cannot be friendly to each other?”

“Friendly? You expect my friendship after what you did to my father?”

“We see things differently, but I should hope you will think on my actions. I only meant to protect you.”

“I do not need your protection, for I was in no danger. He is my father no matter what he has done. I am to honor him.”

“Once you are at Meadlow, and have time, you will come to realize I am right and you are wrong.” Langbourne ran his fingernail over the edge of the table. “You should not have left your room. I had planned to come to you and sort out our differences.”

It grew in his eyes again—that wanton look of desire. She despised it, for his gaze should have been for Charlotte. She wanted to run. He snatched her arm, tightened his grip, and drew her close. Fear trembled through her body. His eyes, sharp as daggers, grew enflamed.

“I saw Mr. Brennan from the window,” she said, twisting free, stepping back and meeting him stare for stare. “Why did you turn him away? Why did you pull your pistol on him?”

Langbourne shrugged. “That is my affair. Not yours. All I can tell you is you won’t be seeing him again—at least not any time soon.”

His words cut deep, and she clenched the folds of her dress. “Why are you so bitter, so without compassion and forgiveness? Why must you control everyone around you?”

“Because I am lord and master of Havendale. It is my duty.”

Mrs. Burke walked into the kitchen. She paused and raised her brows, gave Darcy a glance, and looked over at Langbourne. “I’m sorry if I have interrupted, sir.”

“What do you want, Mrs. Burke?” He spoke low and harsh, but with a hint of leniency.

“I’ve come for the hamper of food for the journey, Mr. Langbourne. Perhaps Miss Darcy can help me? I’m glad to see she is out of her room at last.”

Langbourne glowered. “You should have had that ready hours ago. Darcy is not a servant, and you should know better than to ask such a question or make such comments.”

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Langbourne.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at him ready to exchange verbal blows. “I just needed help carrying it. But I’ll manage on my own.” She dragged a wicker hamper out from beneath the table. Darcy reached down to help, but Langbourne pulled her back.

“You heard what I said, Darcy. You are not a servant.”

She looked at him, drawing in a breath, and feeling confused by his endless cycle of contradictions. “She needs help. Why shouldn’t I give it?” Then she drew the basket up by the side handle. But Mrs. Burke gave her a little smile and a gentle touch of her hand.

“I have it, miss. Thank you anyway.” And she stepped from the kitchen out into the hallway. Darcy could hear banging above her now—Madeline pounding her cane on the floor and calling to her, Maxwell barking. She did not wait for Langbourne’s permission, but squeezed past him and hurried upstairs, relieved he did not stop her.




The brass knob on Madeline’s door felt as smooth as oil from all the hands that had turned it through the years. The room had the feel of emptiness, as if no one had lived in it. The bottles and trinkets on Madeline’s dressing table were packed away. Her powder box, jewel box, horsehair brush and ivory comb were inside her trunk. All that remained were the furniture and the made bed. Darcy recalled the first day she met her grandmother in this room, how it smelled sweet with rosewater. Now only a hint lingered.

Madeline stretched out her arms and Darcy hurried to her. “Grandmother, I am here.”

“Where is Hayward? What has happened?”

“He is safely away at Fairview.”

A little worry went from her eyes. “Oh, I am glad. He is to see Eliza, and she will make him well.”

“Yes, everything shall be all right.”

“You are the only one who understands what I am feeling, Darcy.”

She gave Madeline a cheerful smile, hoping to lighten her burden. “Charlotte will grow weary of us and Maxwell. Then she will insist we return to Havendale. Have you ever been to Meadlow?”

“Never. I have not been away from Havendale in twenty odd years. I found no reason to venture anywhere else.” She began to tremble. “Oh, dear. London—the city of vice. I do not wish to go there.”

“No, no, Grandmother. We are not going to London. Meadlow is here in Derbyshire not too far from Havendale.”

Madeline sighed. “’Tis no better, my girl. Home is where the heart is, and here in this house is mine. I raised my boys here, loved and lost my second husband here. And the churchyard on the hill is where he lies near to my first. The first was so young, you know. I hardly remember Harrison’s face, it was so long ago.”

The sadness in Madeline’s voice brought tears to Darcy’s eyes. What a sorrowful life the woman had lived. She held her grandmother’s hand. Her veins were raised and blue, her skin cold and clammy. Each breath seemed labored, pained, and in her eyes swam fear.

“I wish I could take you to my home along the river,” Darcy told her. “It is peaceful there, and we have godly neighbors who’d do anything for a person in need.” Madeline asked her to describe it again, and as she did Mrs. Burke opened the door and waited on the threshold.

“They are ready for us to come down, miss. What can I do to help ease my mistress? She is so distressed.”

“Stay with her a while, will you?” Darcy said. She kissed her grandmother’s forehead and stepped out of the room determined and persuaded she must change Langbourne’s mind. Her grandmother was too ill, too distraught to leave her home, let alone handle the journey.

Downstairs in the foyer, Langbourne handed over the keys to a man in drab work clothes. Short and barrel-chested, he glanced up at her, and walked away after tipping the brim of his hat to his employer. Langbourne turned.

“What is the delay?” he said, with his voice rising. “Go back upstairs and tell your grandmother to hurry up.”

Darcy took a step down, her hand firm on the balustrade. “You mustn’t do this to her. I beg you, sir. Have pity and let her stay.”

He pinched his brows. “Pity her? I am doing what I feel is best for her. I want that understood, and I will not repeat it again.”

“She is too frail to travel.”

“I will listen no longer to your unwarranted objections, Darcy. Perhaps I was wrong. I should have let you leave with that beggarly rogue or let Brennan have you. But it’s too late now. Madeline needs you to accompany her. Just think what it would do to her if you walked out that door without her.”

“I am not like you. I am not without feeling, or compassion for another. I will stand by her.”

The clack of Maxwell’s nails came down the stairs behind her. Darcy looked back. Madeline appeared at the floor above dressed in her faded gown and widow’s cap, her shawl over her shoulders, her arm looped in Mrs. Burke’s. A single twist of her gray hair lay over her right shoulder. Her stare chilly, she glanced down at Langbourne with a proud lift to her head.

Langbourne crossed his arms. “Darcy says you are ill. I will have Charlotte send for her doctor once you arrive. He lives but a short distance from Meadlow.” He then dropped his arms. “So, you see. You shall be better off at Meadlow after all.”

She made no reply. Instead Madeline met Darcy’s eyes with a soft smile. “Do not worry over me, Darcy. I know what I must do. God has shown me my illness shall pass as easily as a south wind.”

Closer to Mrs. Burke, the grand lady proceeded down the stairs one slow step at a time. When she reached Darcy, she placed her hand through her arm and the three women went on together toward the front door.

From the back of the chair next to the door, Mrs. Burke lifted her mistress’s gray cloak and placed it over Madeline’s shoulders. Darcy tied the tassels into a bow. She fought the lump that grew in her throat as she looked into her grandmother’s face, so calm now and resigned. Maxwell rushed ahead, jumped inside the carriage, and stuck his head out the window.

And although the sky whirled with stormy clouds in a deepening sky, Darcy wished she could kiss her grandmother’s cheek farewell and walk off in the direction of Fairview—to the man she loved, and the parents she longed to know. But she could not bring herself to part from her frail grandmother as she held her close to her side.