Blackmoore

by Julianne Donaldson

  “And are you surprised to see me, Mr. Delafield?” A laugh followed the words.

  I pulled out of Sylvia’s embrace, shooting a quick glance from Henry to the young lady who had entered the room with Sylvia. The young lady was not looking at me. Her hands were clasped together, and her gaze was steadfastly, affectionately, settled on Henry’s face.

  “Miss St.Claire,” Henry said with warmth in his voice. “I did not know you had arrived already.”

  “Your mother was kind enough to bring me here herself. From London.”

  My eyes narrowed. So this was Miss St.Claire. The one Henry intended to marry.

  Mrs. Delafield moved into my line of sight, and when I glanced at her, she smiled at me. If there was one thing she and Mama had in common, it was their arsenal of weapons. They both used smiles to hurt, to deceive, to injure. The smile she used on me at this moment was sharp and cruel, cutting at me like a quick knife.

  “Miss St.Claire, this is Miss Katherine Worthington. An old friend of the family. Katherine, this is Miss Juliet St.Claire.”

  Miss St.Claire turned her gaze to me for the first time. That was when I saw the full measure of her beauty, with her deep auburn hair, her eyes, large and green, set apart just a bit wider than average. Her face narrowed in a heart shape, her mouth small, her nose straight and long. I felt my chest constrict. Taken altogether, the combination of her features was breathtaking. Otherworldly, even. As if she had been whisked to this place from some elfin realm. I shook myself, wondering where such a fantastical idea had come from. It must have been the shadows and the moors and the wild ocean wind that were making nonsense of my thoughts.

  “Miss Worthington. Welcome to Blackmoore,” the elfin queen said, her voice clear and confident. “We are so happy to have you here.”

  I stared at her for a shocked moment before shutting my mouth and swallowing my surprise. She was happy to have me? She welcomed me to Blackmoore? That was the duty of a hostess. I looked quickly from her to Mrs. Delafield, who was watching with approval, to Henry, who wore a completely guarded expression, keeping me from guessing his thoughts. Was something settled between them, then? Had Henry already proposed to Miss St.Claire? Was it decided that she was going to be mistress of Blackmoore?

  I finally managed to nod and smile faintly. “Thank you. I am happy to finally be here.” I could not keep myself from faintly stressing the word finally. I wanted Miss St.Claire to know that she might have visited here first, but my heart had belonged here longer than hers. I was ten when Henry and she had met for the first time. I knew him long before she did, and better, too. I had loved Blackmoore long before she had even heard of it.

  “Dawson, please have Miss Worthington’s things taken to her room,” Mrs. Delafield said, taking charge. She glanced around the room. “Mrs. Pettigrew! What do you do here?”

  The old nurse had finally put her knitting away and was standing a few paces away from our group. “Master Henry invited me to come along. As a chaperone.”

  Mrs. Delafield cast a sharp glance at Henry. “It seems Henry is full of surprises this evening.”

  Henry’s jaw was tight, his eyes steely as they met his mother’s. They looked as if they were at silent war with each other, and I had to guess that Henry won when Mrs. Delafield looked away with a sigh, glancing around the room as if looking for something she had misplaced.

  “Katherine.” She sighed again. “Where is your maid?”

  “I—I didn’t bring one.” My mother had a lady’s maid, but my sisters and I shared a maid among us, and Mama had not wanted to lose a servant to this trip.

  Mrs. Delafield raised one haughty eyebrow and examined me as if I were a strange insect she did not remember stepping on. I had seen her look at me like that before. But this time I was all too aware of Miss St.Claire’s watchful gaze and Henry standing close behind me. My face burned.

  With another heavy sigh, she said in a bored voice, “Dawson, find someone from town to come here first thing in the morning to be Miss Worthington’s maid. We must not allow her to run around like a wild thing here. Not with our guests coming.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Delafield,” Dawson said, bowing.

  “Sylvia, a word.” Mrs. Delafield walked a few steps away, pulling Sylvia with her. They spoke with lowered voices, but I heard their words anyway. I was very good at eavesdropping. “No extra rooms in the east wing. She will have to be in the west wing.”

  “Can’t someone share a room—”

  “No. I won’t inconvenience one of my guests for her sake. I told you so when you ...” Her voice dropped to a murmur, and I strained to catch the stream of their conversation again without looking as if I was listening.

  Another moment passed, and then Sylvia returned to my side and looped her arm through mine.

  “Come. Let me show you to your room.” She took a candle from a side table and tugged me toward the arched opening at the other end of the room. It appeared Henry had forgotten all about me. He was completely engrossed in whatever Miss St.Claire was saying to him in soft tones as they stood before the fire.

  Before we passed through the archway, I could not keep myself from glancing back. Miss St.Claire had moved closer to Henry, and the firelight flickered over her hair, casting it copper. She laid a graceful hand on his arm and looked up into his face. The last thing I saw before turning away was Henry smiling down at her.

  Chapter 7

  “Mama told me to put you in the west wing,” Sylvia said, looking at me with a flash of nervousness in her eyes. “The other guests will be in the east wing. You know Mama has spent the past year decorating it, and she has invited all of her friends here to show off her work. But Mama was not counting on you, and we have no extra bedrooms over there. So you will be alone in the west wing. You will not mind, will you?”

  “But ...” I stumbled over the top stair and caught myself on the banister. “But what do you mean? Surely your mother was expecting me.”

  “Hmm?” Sylvia cast me a quick glance, then looked back at the hallway in front of us.

  The hall was dark, the candle doing little to illuminate the vast corridor stretching before us. A chill settled between my shoulders. I was suddenly grateful for Sylvia’s arm looped through mine. “What did you mean when you said, just now, ‘Mama was not counting on you’? Your mother did invite me, did she not? Henry told me she did. He was holding a letter from her, from London. She did invite me, Sylvia.”

  My heart sick with dread, I watched her profile as she walked next to me, with the candlelight highlighting her golden hair. She looked very much like her mother. Tall, like all the Delafields. Golden hair that would turn ashy brown before it turned grey. And those cold blue eyes, like a frosted sky.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I only meant that she had not counted properly—she had not counted all of her guests. She didn’t count you. So when she made her plans for this party ...” She waved a hand dismissively. “You will have to be in the west wing. That is all I meant.”

  Unease joined the chill that had settled over me, but I tried to shake it off with the thought that Sylvia would not lie to me, nor would Henry. If they said I was invited, I would accept their words as truth. I smiled a little. I was here, at Blackmoore. That was all that mattered. I had finally been invited. I had finally been included, and I would finally see where Henry would spend the rest of his life. I stopped my thoughts there, before they could add “with Miss Juliet St.Claire.” My smile grew broader as I thought that I was fortunate to stay in the old west wing, which Sylvia had always told me was haunted. This was perfect. This was exactly how I would have chosen to experience Blackmoore. We climbed two flights of stairs and turned right.

  Sylvia shivered next to me. It was colder here, in this wing. I could feel the wind leaking through the stone walls. I could hear it, too—a high, fickle moaning that came and went in sporadic gusts. A groan sounded from the wood floor where I stepped. Sylvia clutched my arm even more tightly and quickened her step
s. I looked at her, smiling.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of the west wing.”

  “Nonsense. I am eighteen. Of course I am not afraid,” she scoffed. Then she swerved abruptly, nearly knocking me over in her rush to reach a door to my right. “Here. Here is your room.”

  The door was made of heavy, carved wood, and it creaked when she pushed it open. “I shall send a maid up right away to start a fire,” she said, moving into the room and lighting the candles left on the bedside table and the mantel. She tugged on a rope by the bed, which would ring a bell downstairs to call a servant.

  She looked around nervously and shuddered. “I do hate the west wing. I admit it. You will no doubt love it, though. You were always so fascinated by the hauntings of this place.”

  Looking around the room, I decided that I did love it. It was dark and chilly and matched perfectly the mood of the house.

  “This is perfect,” I said, sitting on the bed. After lighting the other candles, Sylvia set hers down on the bedside table. Now that we were here, I realized how much I had missed her these past four months while she had been in Town. “Now, tell me everything about London that you have not already told me in your letters.”

  She dropped onto the bed and said with a tortured sigh, “It was exhausting. Every day. So exhausting.”

  I snorted. “Adventures are wasted on you, Sylvia. You would rather curl up in front of a fire than go anywhere or see anything.”

  She smiled good-naturedly. “It is true. In fact, from now on, suitors will have to come to me. London is too tiring to do again.”

  “Speaking of suitors ...” I raised my eyebrows. “Were there any promising men in Town?”

  She sighed again, but this time a blissful smile slipped out, and stayed on her face, and her eyes took on a dreamy quality. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her gown, she drew out a small scrap of paper and handed it to me. In an elegant scrawl were the words, What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy, if Sylvia be not by?

  She watched me with her eyes brimming with excitement. “Well?” she asked, her voice rich with enthusiasm. “Isn’t he wonderfully poetic?”

  “Shakespeare? Yes. He was.” I handed her the paper.

  Her brows furrowed. “No. Not Shakespeare.” She leaned toward me, and even though the door was shut and no one was around to hear, she whispered, “Mr. Brandon gave me that. He wrote it. Just for me.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat and, pointing to the paper, said, “But this is a line from Shakespeare, Sylvia.” I did not speak the thought that followed—that if she had studied half as much as she had played with my cat, she might have known that herself.

  Her crestfallen expression shot an arrow of regret through me. She stroked the paper with one finger. “I thought he had composed it himself.”

  “But it is very romantic of him,” I hurried to say. “He must admire you very much. And it is the thought that counts, after all, and not necessarily the originality of the thought.”

  Her face brightened a little. “Yes. That is true. It is the thought that counts.”

  I felt wicked for having crushed her hope. “So tell me more about this thoughtful and romantic Mr. Brandon.”

  Her smile widened to a grin. “You will meet him for yourself. He is due to arrive tomorrow.”

  “Then I am doubly happy to be here.”

  “Yes. I am happy too, no matter what Mama may say—” She bit off her words with a look of consternation.

  I looked at her pointedly. “No matter what Mama may say?”

  Her cheeks turned pink, and she shook her head, as if advising me not to press the matter. But I did not let things go easily.

  “What would your mother have to say about my visit? Did she truly not know I was coming?”

  Sylvia looked down and traced lines in the quilt. After a long pause, she spoke hesitantly, carefully. “She is concerned that with you here, Henry might be ... distracted. From his goal.”

  My brows drew together in confusion. “What goal?”

  She took a breath and let it out on a sigh. “He intends to make things ... final. With Miss St.Claire.”

  My heart pumped loudly. I fixed my gaze on her golden hair. “You mean he intends to propose to her.”

  She lifted her gaze, an apology written all over her face. “You knew this was coming,” she whispered. “You’ve known it as long as we have. You’ve had years to come to terms with this, Kitty. And so has Henry. And you saw him, tonight. Downstairs. You must have seen that he now welcomes this match.”

  My pride bristled. I set my expression in a look of derision. “I have no issue with Henry’s match with Miss St.Claire. You needn’t look at me as if you pity me, Sylvia.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “And let us be clear. Did I not, for the past year and a half, make it very clear to everyone around me that I have no intention of marrying?” I glared at her until she nodded.

  “Yes. You have made that very clear.”

  “So if you believe me, then there is no need to look at me like that or to apologize or to feel sorry for me. In fact, you should be happy for me, because I have finally convinced Mama to let me go with my aunt Charlotte to India.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Have you really?”

  “Indeed I have.” I lifted my chin. “I will leave straight from Blackmoore. It is quite an accomplishment, you know.”

  “I know. I can hardly believe it. I thought she would never agree to your scheme.”

  “She has. She has agreed to it. And soon I will be accomplishing my own goals and fulfilling my own dreams. So there is no need to worry about me, Sylvia. Indeed, I have never been happier.”

  Relief softened the worry lines that had creased her face. She put her hand on mine and squeezed it gently. “I am so happy to hear it, my dear. So happy. And I am glad we could talk about this, because I have to ask something of you, and I did not know how to.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mama has asked me to ... see if you might be willing ... to keep to your room tonight.” She bit her lip.

  I stared at her.

  “You are probably tired from your journey at any rate,” she hurried to say. “And it would be easier, for all of us, if Henry and Juliet had this evening to be together, without any other distractions. It was why we brought her here with us from London, earlier than the other guests.”

  My smile felt very stiff, but I tried to lift it anyway. “I see.”

  “Of course I will have dinner sent up to you. You need not go hungry.” She laughed, an awkward, forced sound.

  My face was hot with embarrassment, and when my eyes started to sting with tears, I knew I needed to get rid of Sylvia quickly. “I am happy to stay here. I am quite tired, as you say, and it will be nice to relax. So this is exactly what I would have wished for myself.” I stood, walked to the door, and opened it. A footman was bringing my trunk down the hall. “Oh, look. Here is my trunk already. I will unpack, and you can go downstairs.”

  Sylvia stood beside me, looking ill at ease, as if she was searching for something to say. But I quickly hugged her, before she could say more, and said, “I am so happy to see you again.” Then I gently shoved her out the door as the footman approached.

  “Thank you, yes, that is mine. In here, please. Just set it by the end of the bed.” I hurried him out of the room, grabbing the door to close it behind him.

  “I will have some dinner sent up,” Sylvia said in a quiet voice, lingering in the doorway. But my embarrassment threatened to overwhelm my control, and I did not want her to see that.

  I nodded and, smiling bravely, closed the door between us.

  Chapter 8

  The servants at Blackmoore seemed quite efficient. Not ten minutes had passed since Sylvia’s departure before a maid was in my room, getting a fire blazing in the hearth. With more light now, I saw that all of the walls had dark wood paneling, that the color of the drapes reminded me greatly of t
he color of the grass and the stunted trees on the moors, that the deep plum of the bedclothes mimicked the heather. I walked around the room, touching the velvet, running my hand over the smooth wood paneling of the walls, and pulling aside the drapes to look out the window.

  The window was crisscrossed with metal casings that made diamond shapes of the glass. I wrestled with the latch on the window until I was able to push it open. It opened quite unwillingly, offering up a pathetic creak as metal screeched against metal. Leaning out the window, I looked to my right and left. To my right, around the corner of the house, shone the ocean, a dark, changing light under the luminance of the moon. To my left, beyond the house, stretched rough darkness: the moors. And below my window, two stories down, was a stretch of smoothness that might have been grass.

  The night wind brought a chill into the room and made the candles sputter in their holders. I drew my head and shoulders back inside and closed the window, making sure I latched it properly. Then I closed the velvet drapes and turned back to the small space I had been assigned within this great house. I had distracted myself as much as I could, but now Sylvia’s message ate at me from the inside. I rebelled against feeling caged.

  I had become accustomed to Mrs. Delafield’s dislike of me. I had become accustomed to being excluded. But to sentence me to my room, on my first night here, simply because they did not want me to distract Henry from Miss St.Claire ... It was the worst kind of insult—the unexpected kind. I rubbed my nose hard and choked down the emotion that rose within me. I could not give way to it. It would make me a lesser person if I did. I could not care about being unwanted.

  My dinner had not arrived yet, so I set about unpacking my trunk. My Mozart, my clothes, and the ivory-inlaid box with the letter from my aunt inside. All that I owned of any value. I traced the shape of the elephant on the top of the box before opening it and rereading the letter I had first read six months before:

  Dear Katherine,