always felt sorry for the letter I sent your mother, when I was told the British had hanged your father. She had to live with grief all that time.”
“But what joy there must have been when she learned the truth,” Darcy said. “I vaguely remember my father’s homecoming. Strange, I mostly recall the buttons on his uniform and him carrying me through the hall. He loved my mother, didn’t he?”
“As much as any man can love a woman.” He crossed the room to his desk, took out a key, and opened a drawer. He showed Darcy a thick, folded parchment. “Your father showed up on my doorstep with you in tow to tell me your mother was dead and handed me the deed to River Run, saying it should be given to you upon your marriage. He said he could not care for you, that you needed a mother, and so left you with us. He never told me more, but I could see his mind was affected.”
For a moment, Darcy held the deed in her hands. River Run would be hers one day, but only upon the day she wed. “Such love. Such honor.” She looked back at her uncle and handed him the document. “Why would people speak unkind things about them?”
“Do not listen to idle gossip. There is no shame.” He tucked the deed back into the drawer and closed it.
“Mr. Brennan stopped calling because he believed their lies. He refused to attach himself to someone like me, according to his letter.”
“I shall ride over to Twin Oaks and have a word with Captain Rhendon. I will not stand for it. I’ll not have my family spoken ill of. Dear Lord, Eliza is in her grave these many years and they still speak harshly of her. Surely God frowns on such disrespect.”
Darcy took a step closer to him. “Uncle, why is there no gravestone for my mother at River Run?”
“I do not know, Darcy.”
“It is not right that she should not be remembered in that way. When I return, I will see it is done. And one for Ilene as well.”
She kissed his cheek and left for her room. Night swallowed up the twilight, and she sat on her bedside, gazing out the window at the misty land before her, a tumult of emotions flooding her heart.
11
Unable to sleep most of the night, Darcy tried to picture her grandmother in her mind. Perhaps she might be an elegant woman, stiff in posture, shoulders back, head high, eyes that spoke of highborn blood. Then again, she could be wrinkled and bent with age, one who regretted the fading bloom of youth.
Tucking her arms beneath her head on the pillow, she watched the shadows cross the ceiling in time with the even rhythm of her breathing. She closed her eyes and thought of Ethan. England—he’d be there. Ah, but would she want to meet him again, endure seeing him with a new wife, one who would flaunt her new name in her face?
She drew the pillow against her and wondered if he had decided not to marry Miss Roth. Did he not say he had no real affection for her? If they were to meet again, how would he react? Would he repent for leaving her high and dry?
In the morning, she went downstairs for breakfast. Fortunately, her aunt was reserved on the subject of her leaving, yet dropped hints as to how fine the riverside was, how lovely the Maryland countryside would be in autumn, how blessed they all were to live in a land of liberty without the burden of monarchy.
“If you choose to leave us, I would be pleased if you would send your uncle a sample of heather pressed in rice paper inside a book of your choosing, Darcy,” her aunt said.
Darcy could not bring herself to smile. “I will be happy to, if I can find any. I will see if Uncle Will has a picture of it, to make it easy for me.”
She went to his study and found him working. “Aunt Mari wishes for me to send home a sample of heather. Do you have a drawing I may see?”
“No, but I can make one.”
“That would be splendid.”
He drew out paper and began the sketch. “It is a shrub-like plant, you see.” Darcy leaned in. “It blooms bell-shaped purple flowers in summer. By the time you reach England, you will have missed them in all their glory.”
“But the leaves are lovely, and