Mr. Brighton put a hand over Ethan’s shoulder. “Brennan, have you heard of Mrs. Morgan’s granddaughter, Darcy, through the grapevine?”
He stared a moment, then bowed. “No, I had not. Welcome to Derbyshire, Miss Darcy.”
Lowering her head, she returned his bow with a curtsey. “Sir.”
She grew conscious that her breathing quickened. Her throat tightened and she could not swallow the emotions raging through her. Mrs. Brighton had turned again to Charlotte, and the two were engaged in conversation with Mr. Brighton. Their words faded, as if they were in a distant part of the house. She and Ethan were alone, with all else unseen around them, the room empty of things and color. He drew up to her and looked down into her face with such desire that Darcy trembled.
“Darcy,” he whispered. She glanced up at him, then away, unable to hold the power of his gaze.
“Darcy, are you not well? You’ve gone positively pale.” It was Charlotte, her voice showing a hint of concern. “Look what you have done to her, Mr. Brennan. You are the cause of this with your good looks and sultry stare.”
Ethan stood back, embarrassed. Darcy, feeling the feverous burn rise in her cheeks as well, turned aside and faced Charlotte.
“You must excuse me. I have a headache.” She strode from the room, unsure of what to do. She hurried down the hallway, saw the door leading to the garden and taking her cloak, swung it over her shoulders and passed outside. The sky overhead looked stormy and the air smelled of rain. What care did she have if the heavens broke open and soaked her to her bones? She had to get out, away from the others—away from Ethan.
She pulled the hood over her hair and hurried over the stony walkway, onto a dirt path that stretched toward a gazebo on the shore of a small lake. When she reached it, she shoved aside the vines that had grown through the lattice and plunged inside with her breath coming up short. Tears pooled in her eyes and she blinked them back. The surface of the lake turned a muted blue under brooding clouds, dark like Ethan’s eyes. Trees shadowed the edge of the water. A flock of starlings crossed the sky, and Darcy followed them with a gaze that ached to let the tears fall, but they would not.
Someone approached, and she moved back into the shadows. The stones in the path crunched under his tread. With nowhere else to go, she turned to face him. What she would say, she did not know. She only knew how confused she felt.
His shadow darkened the vines. His hand moved them back and he drew inside. He gazed at her with sad eyes, and for a moment they stood looking at each other in silence.
“I never doubted your adventurous nature, Darcy. But of all places for you to be, you have come to England?” His eyes had the same warm glow she’d seen before.
“I do not need to explain anything to you.”
“You are right. But if I had known you were here, I would not have come.”
She turned away. “I imagine not.”
“I would not have wished you to feel as you do now.”
“Then you must go. Nothing is keeping you here.”
“Nothing?
You
are keeping me here, Darcy. You have kept me ever since the day I first saw you.”
“Then why …” A lump formed in her throat and she steeled herself, thinking his words were meant to tempt her and draw her out. Her eyes closed when he laid his hand on her forearm and drew her close.
“We must talk, Darcy.”
“I have nothing to say. Nothing to explain.”
She pushed her way past him, her hands clenched, her arms rigid at her sides, tears stinging her eyes. She hurried off, her hood blown back from her face. Getting away from Ethan and his pained look was all she wanted. She could feel him standing outside the gazebo staring after her.
As she approached the door, she regretted not getting into a full-fledged row with him. And she was curious. Had he married Miss Roth and settled for a dull, loveless life with her? And what about the letter he had sent?
The coward
! Her mind screamed as she hugged her arms. He could not tell her to her face? He’d broken her heart, and it all came flooding back. He dared to say he was
kept
by her?
As she passed inside she heard the others in the sitting room conversing, and she paused outside the door.
“Everything has changed now that she is here, Langbourne,” she heard Charlotte say. “I doubt you will get a penny more for your troubles. And I shan’t get her jewels, if she has any of worth.”
For Charlotte to covet her grandmother’s jewelry and have no reservations about announcing her desire for it in front of Mr. and Mrs. Brighton repulsed Darcy.
“I already own the house, and it’s by my good graces that the old woman has stayed on at Havendale.”
“Why, Langbourne.” It was Mr. Brighton. “Only a heartless man would throw an old woman out or place her in accommodations below what she deserves. This is her home and her husband’s house. You do not mean …”
“I mean nothing, except to say Charlotte is my wife and she should have everything in this house, not a girl my aunt knows little of. Where is she anyway?”
“She left a moment ago … and so did Mr. Brennan.”
“Brennan is here?”
“Upon my request,” said Mr. Brighton with a nod. “By your expression, sir, you do not approve. He’s a fine authority on horses, and …”
“Do not bring him here again, not if you intend to keep your appointments at Havendale.” Langbourne sounded bitter. What did he have against Ethan?
Darcy turned her back to the wall and leaned her head against it. The warm welcome she felt vanished. It grew obvious the Langbournes did not want her here.
The shadows in the hallway deepened and cold air whirled around her ankles. Maxwell’s nails tapped over the hardwood floor, and he drew up to her, sniffing the tip of her shoes.
“We know nothing of your business, sir, and should not be drawn into it.” Mrs. Brighton spoke in a manner that shocked Charlotte. “But I must say, to look at Darcy is to look into the eyes of her mother, though they are of a different shade. She seems shy with us, but I have to believe she is truthful and as spirited as Eliza ever was.”
Charlotte laughed. “Oh, that would be a curse upon her.”
“Eliza Morgan was a beauty, Charlotte, unlike your sickly, skinny self,” said Langbourne. “She was everything a man would want in a woman, and although I hate him for it, I do not blame Hayward for wanting her the way he did.”
“The way you also did, Langbourne. Let us not forget …”
“Be quiet, Charlotte. Mr. Brighton, what would you do if you had a jealous wife?” A pause followed with no reply to Langbourne’s question. “I thought so.”
Darcy moved and her shadow fell over the threshold. The dog yapped and whined. They’d seen her, and she had no other choice but to face them. Drawing off her cloak and setting it aside, she wiped her eyes dry and smoothed down the folds of her dress. Gathering her senses, and trying her best to appear as if nothing had happened, she reentered the room. Mrs. Brighton looked over at her, curious. Langbourne, with his boot on the grate of the fireplace, stared at her.
“Ah, there she is, Langbourne.” Charlotte tugged his sleeve. “Is she not savage looking? I suppose most of the girls in America are.”
Darcy met his eyes, piercing and dark. “
Savage
is not the correct word, Charlotte. Miss Darcy appears civilized, yet …” and he pulled away and drew close, “full of tamed fire, I’d say.”
Charlotte huffed. “Oh, no, Langbourne. You cannot mean it.”
“Emphatically, Charlotte.” He kept his eyes fixed upon Darcy, and she looked away. The heat of the fire eased through her gown and warmed her body.
“Had you lost your way, having taken so long to come back?” he said in a lowered voice, drawing her aside.
How he underestimated her. She had a sense of direction born with her. “No, Mr. Langbourne. You have no reason to ever believe I could lose my way. I stepped out before you came inside.”
“Everyone loses their way at one time or another. I advise that you not wander too far from Havendale. You saw the kind of people who loiter on the land.”
“I do not know what kind of man he is that you caught.”
“His actions speak for him. Be wary, Miss Darcy. When I am not here, there is no man to look after the women in this house.”
“So I shall, sir.”
“And you will keep my business to yourself.”
“Of course.”
“There is no need to trouble Madeline over such a matter as a poacher. It would frighten and shock her, don’t you think?”
A moment’s pause, then Darcy nodded. “I would not wish my grandmother to be alarmed.” Near the window, she glanced out to see if Ethan had come down the path back to the house. Perhaps her reaction had been too harsh toward him.
“Good.” Langbourne gave her a smile from the corner of his mouth. “You look nothing like your father.”
“I am told I do.”
“You have your mother’s face. She was handsome, you know.”
“Everyone has told me she was beautiful. You must have known her.”
“I loved her.”
Astonished at his confession, uneasiness raced through her. How much did he love her mother? Had his feelings remained with him over the years, and would he be kind to Darcy because of Eliza?
A horse whinnied outside in the courtyard. Her head turned, and she glanced back out the window to see Ethan leading a tall horse. “He bought the stallion.” She hoped the horse would always remind him of the day they met, how he almost trampled her, but did not avoid crushing her heart.
“What do you mean?” said Langbourne. “Do you know this man?”
“Slightly,” she said.
“How?”
“I met him in Virginia, when he visited there with his fiancée, Miss Roth.”
“Well, he won’t be back, and he is not permitted in this house. You understand?”
“It is your house, as you have said, sir.” Questions were on the tip of her tongue. But she dare not ask them.
The others gathered closer to see what was going on, what had caught Darcy’s interest.
“Mr. Brennan is leaving,” said Mrs. Brighton.
“Without a word?” asked Charlotte. “How rude of him.”
“He has other business to attend to,” Mr. Brighton said. “He would not divulge the particulars.”
Darcy watched Ethan place his boot in the stirrup. The dappled light, made so by the raindrops, glazed the glass and quivered over her face. She glanced over at Langbourne, marking the look of hatred in his eyes at the sight of Ethan.
Langbourne’s mouth twisted. “We can do without him.”
Oh, but I cannot
. Her body trembled with the desire to rush out the door and go to him.
I’d be made a fool if I did. He’d ride off, and everyone would laugh at me. Oh, God, forgive me for my hard heart
.
She fixed her eyes on his form, how he mounted Sanchet, how his thighs hugged the saddle, the way he drew the reins through his hands and held them. Rain dripped from his hat, soaking the tips of his hair. He looked over at her with an expression of regret. He pressed his mouth taut and turned his eyes away. This time she felt as if his horse had trampled over her, her eyes not leaving him until he, and his horse’s bronze mane and tail, disappeared over the hilltop.
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.