to be fond of? You have all the qualities a good man should desire. Beauty. Wit. Intelligence. And you have excellent taste in books, especially poetry. I hear Dr. Emerson is a deeply spiritual man, in the way Christ would have him be, kind and compassionate. I believe you are fond of him, as well.”
Martha blushed and nodded. “I am, indeed. He might stay here in the countryside, or he might carry me away to Baltimore, or even Annapolis.”
Darcy blinked in astonishment. “You would prefer the city to the river?”
“I would prefer to be wherever Dr. Emerson chooses to live. But I will admit the river would be my first choice, if I have any say in the matter.”
“I am sure he would want your opinion on such an important issue.”
“We have not spoken much, or ever been alone. But when I have seen him my heart pounds so hard, I think I should faint.”
Darcy felt her smile sweep from her face and a yearning fill her. “I understand. Now, when I think of Ethan, my heart aches. Love is a two-edged sword.”
“Yes, Darcy. Oh, we should not be speaking as if I am engaged to Dr. Emerson. I am not.”
“It does not hurt to dream.”
“What do you dream of?”
Darcy plucked a long blade of grass and then tossed it away. “Me? Well, I dream of growing old beside the two rivers. As you see, my expectations are not too lofty. I will not be disappointed, unless I die young.”
Off in the distance, she spied her uncle strolling home and pointed him out to her cousin. A canvas bag hung from his belt, and his dog, Dash, strutted alongside him. He lifted his hand and waved. Darcy pulled Martha’s arm, and together they proceeded through the field at a quick pace to meet him.
Dash leapt in front of Mr. Breese, barked, then stood still with a whine. His master staggered forward, gripped his shoulder, and grimaced in pain. When he dropped to his knees, Darcy drew her arm out from Martha’s and ran. Martha cried out and followed.
“Uncle Will!”
“Papa!” Martha sprinted past Darcy.
He lifted his face. Fear flushed his skin and shown in his eyes. Then he moaned and fell onto his side. Martha shrieked and threw herself across his chest. “Uncle Will!” Darcy said, dropping beside him. She placed her hand on his cheek, tapping it with her fingers. She pressed her ear against his heart. “Wake, Uncle Will, open your eyes. Martha and I will take you home.” But he did not wake.
“It is no good.” Heavy with grief, Martha leaned her head against Darcy’s shoulder, weeping.
She pulled Martha forward by the shoulders. “He’s breathing and his heart is still beating.”
Martha’s eyes widened and she gripped Darcy. “Hurry home, Darcy. Tell Mama. Tell her to send help.”
Jumping to her feet, Darcy lifted her skirts and ran as swiftly as she could toward the house. Her heart pounded and her breath caught in her throat. How was she going to tell her aunt that Uncle Will lay dying in the meadow?
12
The Breese household was the quietest it had been in years. Mr. Breese lay in his four-poster bed upstairs. All the windows were open, and a soft, almost indistinguishable breeze shifted the curtains to and fro. Surrounded by his wife, daughters, and niece, he set his hand atop his dog’s head when Dash laid his paw on the bedside and whined.
Missy led a young physician through the door. He set his bag down at the foot of the bed. Dressed in black from his coat to his shoes, he posed a handsome man, with large brown eyes and hair as blonde as the wheat growing in the fields.
“How are you feeling, sir?” he inquired, leaning down to Mr. Breese.
“Everyone is making too much of a fuss. You may want to take my wife’s pulse, for she is very upset.”
He opened Mr. Breese’s shirt and listened to his heartbeat. “Your heart sounds strong and your pulse regular.” He straightened up and looked at Mrs. Breese. “Who found him, madam?”
“My daughter Martha, Dr. Emerson.” Mrs. Breese extended her hand over to Martha’s and lifted it within hers. “And my niece, Darcy. They are good girls, sir, and did all that they could and should do. Darcy ran home for help while Martha stayed with her poor papa. Together with Missy they were able to help my husband home.”
It did not escape Darcy’s eyes the way Emerson turned his to Martha—a controlled