More rouge, dabbed on her cheeks, and then, in an offhand voice, “I suppose I might allow you to go if you take Maria with you.”
I held perfectly still. I could not believe I had won so easily. “Do you mean it?”
She laughed. “Of course I mean it, you silly girl! Why should I deprive you of this opportunity?”
And then, because she seemed to be in such a calm, reasonable mood, I decided to press my luck. “And may I also write Aunt Charlotte and accept her invitation to accompany her to India?”
She slapped her open hand on the dressing table. “No! You are supposed to marry. Not every woman has a chance to look like us, Kitty. It is a sin against nature to throw such beauty away.”
My face flushed with anger. I hated it when she compared my appearance to hers. We did not look exactly alike. True, we did have the same coloring—the dark, wavy hair and the dark eyes. She had aged well. Her hair had not gone grey yet. Her eyebrows were still those dark, dramatic slashes that they had been when she was young. My eyebrows. The ones I had tried to shave off. It was what linked us together the most strongly. But in many ways I was not like her. In the most important ways, I was not like her at all.
“I am not going to marry, Mama. When are you going to believe me?”
She turned around on her stool to face me, her smile at odds with her steely gaze. “I will never believe such nonsense, Kitty. Because if I were to believe that, then I would have to admit that everything I have done for you has been a waste. A waste of my time and my attention and my resources. You would be a waste of a human being. Is that what you want to be?”
My face burned, my anger poised, like a wild animal coiled to spring. I gripped my hands together, fighting to keep my temper under control. After a deep breath, I spoke in a low voice. “Yes, Mama. I want to be a waste of a human being. I want you to give up hope of my ever marrying.”
She laughed. “How droll you are, Kitty.”
“Kate. I wish to be called Kate.” I wanted to scream in frustration. My voice rose, despite my great effort to control it. “How many times have I told you that? And how many times have I told you that I have no desire to be like you? Or Eleanor? To make a brilliant match—or any match at all! Hmm, Mama? How many times? Because Henry swears it has been at least a hundred, and I have held fast in my decision for nearly two years now. I will refuse every man who is fool enough to propose to me. So how many proposals must I refuse before you accept the fact that I will never marry?”
She narrowed her eyes, tilted her head to one side, and considered me in silence for a long moment, while my hands shook with anger and my face flushed hot. Finally she said in an offhand voice, “Three.” Then she turned back to her mirror.
My head jerked back with surprise. “What?”
“If you refuse three proposals while you are at Blackmoore, then I will accept the fact that you are a lost cause.” She picked up a hairbrush and ran it through her dark hair.
I caught my breath. “Are you saying that you will let me go to India if I refuse three proposals?”
Her smile flashed. “Oh, yes. That is exactly what I am saying.”
I stepped back, reeling, uncertain why, or how, I had suddenly won this allowance. “Thank you—” I started to say, but she held up one finger.
“And in return—”
My heart fell.
She laughed lightly at my expression. “Yes, darling, in return. For every bargain has two sides to it. Every interaction with another person is a potential transaction, an opportunity for gain. For everything you gain, you must pay. The wisest transaction is one in which you have the potential to gain far more than you pay.”
I hated it when she talked of business transactions. I hated how cold and unfeeling she was in her interactions with me. I hated feeling like I was nothing but a potential gain for her.
“Now let us discuss this transaction. If you succeed, you will go away to that godforsaken country where you might die or be lost at sea or some other calamity, and I will have lost a daughter who otherwise might marry well and make our family proud and provide for me in my old age.”
My mouth pulled tight with distaste.
“This is a great sacrifice I am willing to make for you, Kitty. And so you must be willing to make a sacrifice for me. If you fail to secure three proposals at Blackmoore, then you must agree to do whatever I ask of you.” She raised one dark eyebrow. “Whatever I ask of you, Kitty, without question, without running away, without fighting.”
My thoughts raced, balancing the allure of India against the very real consequence of being in my mother’s power should I fail. “Doing whatever you ask of me—that sounds like a highly open-ended agreement.”
“And?”
I hedged, trying to think of a valid reason to refuse her request. “And ... what if you were to ask me to do something criminal? I could not agree.”
She turned back to her mirror with a look of disgust. “You should know me better than that. I would not ask you to do something criminal. But if that concern would stop you, then perhaps you do not want to go to India as badly as you maintain.”
“I do!” My hand shot forward, as if attempting to grasp the hope she was dangling before me. “I do wish to go to India. I will agree to your terms, Mama. I will agree—without argument.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and a deep sense of foreboding filled me, causing my heart to fall. What had she to smile about? What trap had I just fallen into? I backed away from her, wishing away the unease I felt. I would prevail. I would win my proposals. I would go to India, far from my mother’s reach. There was nothing to fear. I lifted my chin and said in a confident voice, “I will win three proposals at Blackmoore, and as soon I have them, I will leave. I will go directly to Aunt Charlotte’s. I shall not come home first.” I was nearly to the door. I reached for the handle.
She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “It makes no difference to me when you leave, child. I will have washed my hands of you by then.” I opened the door. “Oh, Kitty?”
I paused, halfway through the doorway. She continued to brush her hair, gazing at her reflection with that small smile hovering around her lips. “No changing your mind, now. We have an agreement.”
I lifted an eyebrow in scorn. “You should know me better than that, Mama. I never change my mind.”
Watching her brush her hair, the hot anger I had been reining in gave a furious leap, breaking free of its restraints, and galloped through me. She had won, in some way. Even though I had gained what I had come here to ask of her, I still felt sure that she had somehow won. Some trap had closed over me, and the chill that sat deep in my heart testified of it. Now she did not even watch me as I left the room. I lingered by the door, while my anger grew hotter and hotter, until finally I said, “By the way, Mama, I will not be dining with the family tonight. You will have to give my excuses to Mr. Cooper.” I paused, then delivered my final line with a lifted chin. “And Mama? You wear entirely too much rouge.”
I closed the door quickly, just in time for it to block the hairbrush that flew across the room, aimed at my head. I heard it hit the wooden door with a loud thunk. I turned and sauntered away, a smile tugging at my lips. I was running before I reached the woods.
Henry was watching for my return. He turned to me as soon as I stepped into the clearing. “Well?”
“Well ...” I had hidden my grin, hoping to tease him. “I am afraid to say ...”
But I could not restrain myself. My grin slipped out from my control, and Henry’s face broke into a broad smile.
“Success?” he asked.
“Success.” I picked up my bow with a sigh of happiness, noting Cora still curled up on the grass next to Henry’s feet. That cat had always been attached to Henry.
“I was right, then,” he said, his smile broad and triumphant. “I am a genius, in other words.”
I laughed. “Your humility is astonishing, Henry.”
&
nbsp; “I am a mother-manipulating genius who has, once again, granted you your heart’s desire, thus earning the title of ...” He grinned, his eyes all mischief.
I laughed again, shooting him a look meant to convey the fact that he was mad to think I would ever call him The Giver of My Heart’s Desire. This time when I took aim, my arrow flew straight and true, hitting the target right next to Henry’s arrow.
He glanced down at the cat sprawled in the grass. “What will you do with Cora while you’re away?”
“I shall ask Oliver to take care of her.”
He nodded. “It wouldn’t do to take her to Blackmoore.”
“I know. But I do hate to leave her behind.”
He pulled back the string of his bow, squinting at the target in the late afternoon sun. “Just don’t forget to take your heart with you to Blackmoore. I would hate for you to leave that behind.”
Chapter 4
I stayed outside until dinnertime, then crept into the house via the French windows that separated the garden from the morning room. I paused outside the dining room door, which had been left open a crack, and peeked inside, observing the scene I had chosen not to be a part of.
Mama was leaning toward Mr. Cooper and smiling at him in a grotesque and desperate manner. Maria sat next to him. Judging by the forlorn expression on her face and the fact that she was not eating, I surmised that Mama had not yet told her of the invitation to Blackmoore. Then there was Lily, still innocent at twelve. Oliver would be eating in the kitchen with Cook, which made me happy.
My gaze stopped, finally, at the head of the table. Papa sat slouched in his chair, one hand gripping his wineglass, his gaze fixed on the spectacle Mama was making of herself. Even from this distance, the scorn in his expression struck me. It was weighty and sharp, violent in its strength, and I felt somehow battered after seeing it. I looked away quickly, remembering why I had stopped watching him years ago, and crept quietly down the hall and up the stairs to my bedchamber.
What Henry had said earlier about taking my heart with me reminded me of something even more important than my heart. I opened the locked chest at the foot of my bed once again, and this time I drew out the small box inlaid with ivory. Room could be made for this in my traveling trunk with a few adjustments. All I needed was my clothing, my Mozart, and this ivory-inlaid box. Even more than a heart, hope was a necessary traveling companion.
I hardly slept that night, and eagerness pulled me from my bed as soon as sunlight crept over my windowsill. After dressing, I checked my trunk once more, then made my way downstairs for breakfast. Mama rushed toward me with hurried feet and a worried expression.
“Oh, Kitty, you will never guess!”
I dropped my spoon, so frightened by her panicked demeanor that I jumped.
“Maria has come down with a fever in the night! She is too sick to travel.”
I stared at the pinched skin between her eyes as dread pooled in my stomach. “You do not mean—you do not mean to keep me at home as well, do you?”
She waved her hands. “No, no. You must go. The Delafields will be expecting you.”
I stared at her as surprise rendered me speechless. But before I could wonder any more at her agreeable mood, she hurried off to “see to Maria’s comfort.” Watching her go, I tried to remember if I had ever heard her utter such a phrase before.
Unease stirred within me, but I shook it off and focused on this one thought: Maria would not be coming to Blackmoore after all! My smile stretched wide before I had to time to recall it. Of course, I should have worried about Maria’s health. But this fever was probably only a result of her refusing to eat and crying in odd places yesterday. Surely this was nothing serious.
Counting myself fortunate, I went forth to complete my last duties of the morning before I would be free to leave. I found Oliver in the kitchen, sitting on a stool next to Cook, who was rolling out pastry dough.
“Ollie, I have something to ask of you.”
Cook turned to reach for the flour, and Oliver sneaked out a hand, quick as a flash, and grabbed a piece of the pastry dough.
“What is it?” Oliver asked, popping the dough quickly into his mouth. At seven, he was missing several teeth, and his cheeks and nose were dusted generously with freckles. I sometimes watched him, when he wasn’t aware, and thanked my good fortune to have finally been granted a brother after so many sisters.
“I need you to take care of Cora while I am away.”
“What will I have to do?”
“Not much. Just keep an eye out for her. Don’t let the dogs terrorize her, and make sure Cook does not hurt her when she sneaks into the kitchen. Don’t let Mama get rid of her, either.”
Cook gave a loud humph when I mentioned her, but she went on rolling the dough, her beefy forearms covered in flour. Oliver stole a longing glance at the pastry dough again.
I cleared my throat to bring his attention back to me. “If you agree, I am prepared to offer you something very special as payment.”
That brought his eyes to me. They were large and hazel, like mine. “What would you give me?”
“Something from Blackmoore. Something special that nobody else has.”
His eyes widened. “What? What is it?”
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table, and smiled at him. “A seashell.”
He frowned. “That is not so special.”
My smile fell.
Cook clucked her tongue. “Nay, Oliver, your sister is right. A seashell is a very special thing.”
“Really?” Oliver lifted his gaze to Cook, who nodded and turned the dough, causing a puff of flour to lift into the air.
“Aye. Especially one that is found under the light of the moon. Some say it can bring the owner great luck.”
Oliver’s eyes grew wider, his mouth crooking up into a gap-toothed smile. “Great luck?”
Cook nodded, winking slyly at me when Oliver was not looking.
I grinned in return. “Would you like such a thing, Oliver? A lucky seashell?”
“Oh, yes, I would. Very much.” He was watching the pastry dough again, which Cook was cutting into strips. He stretched out a small hand while Cook was deliberately looking away.
“So you will watch over Cora? And not let any harm come to her?”
Oliver nodded, pinched off a piece of dough, and shoved it quickly into his mouth. But even though Cook pretended not to notice, I saw the smile on her flour-dusted face. I reached across the table to grab his face with both hands. I planted a kiss on each of his freckled cheeks. He squirmed and protested halfheartedly.
“Good-bye, Ollie,” I said, looking into his eyes. “I will miss you.”
“Good-bye, Kate.” He smiled at me before turning his gaze back to the dough.
I caught Cook’s eye, grateful once again that she was kind and motherly and so very fond of my little brother. “He needs a haircut, and please do see to his fingernails. They’re atrocious.”
Ollie snickered and said, “I prefer them atrocious.”
I threw an affectionate glance at his bent head, then whispered, “You will ... take care of him ... watch out for him ...”
Cook shushed me with a frown that was a gentle rebuke. “Of course, Miss Katherine. Do not worry yourself about Master Oliver here. He and I shall have adventures together while you’re away. Won’t we?”
Oliver had eyes only for that pastry dough, but he nodded his head. I left, if not with a light heart, at least without a heart troubled on his account.
There was only one more thing to do. I stopped before the door to the library and tapped on it softly, almost hoping he would not hear my quiet knock. But he did hear, and he called for me to enter. I opened the heavy door and leaned only my head and shoulders into the room. “Papa, I have come to say good-bye.”
He sat in his chair by the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other. The sun lit the dust motes in the air, and the sweet smell of pipe tobacco mingled with the old leather of books. Th
e smell was intoxicating to me, and one whiff of it brought a strong pang of nostalgia for things I was missing.
He lifted his head. “Hmm? Where are you off to?”
“To Blackmoore with the Delafields. And hopefully to Aunt Charlotte’s afterward. She will take me to India with her.”
“Is that so?” His gaze settled on me for a brief moment before he took his pipe from his mouth. The smoke drifted between us, disguising us from each other, making us strangers. “Well ...” He looked back down at his book, turning his attention from me too soon. “Godspeed,” he said, then clamped the pipe between his teeth.
I nodded, expecting nothing different, and quietly closed the door between us.
Then I turned to the front door and the carriage waiting to take me away, for the first time in my life, to someplace new.
Chapter 5
The Delafields’ old nurse, Mrs. Pettigrew, sat across from me in the carriage, humming under her breath and knitting at a breathtaking speed, the needles clacking together in time with the clomping of the horses’ hooves. I looked longingly out the window at Henry’s back. He was riding, of course. I knew he would—I knew he always rode to Blackmoore. And a small, grudging part of me had to admit that I was grateful that his old nurse had agreed to come along to act as chaperone. But after two full days of this swaying carriage and that humming and those clicking needles, my head felt ready to split open.
We had taken advantage of the long summer daylight hours to travel a good distance yesterday. After twelve hours in the carriage with Mrs. Pettigrew’s noise but no conversation to help pass the time, I had been looking forward to talking to Henry. But when we had stopped at the inn last night, Henry had not dismounted. He had only said that I would stay there, with the coachman and Mrs. Pettigrew, and he would go on to another inn down the road.
I had frowned at his retreating back and trudged inside the inn, where I did not enjoy my meal nor the room I shared with Mrs. Pettigrew. This morning, Henry was astride his horse and waiting for us outside the inn after breakfast. We were off with hardly a word spoken between us.
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