I blushed in spite of myself. My embarrassment was almost too great to allow me to press forward. It was a mark of how much I yearned for this trip to India that I continued. “I am not asking you to court me, Henry.”
He moved closer and looked down into my eyes. “Then what are you asking?”
I took a quick breath and spoke past my embarrassment. “I just need three proposals. And I promise I will reject you. Immediately. Unequivocally.”
He flashed a small, sardonic smile. “I never supposed otherwise.”
“So you will do it?”
He took a deep breath, and now he looked away. There was such a struggle evident in his expression that I almost felt sorry for him. But whatever his struggle was, I could not believe it tormented him as fiercely as mine did me. I could not believe that his reluctance for me to go to India could feel to him as fierce and unyielding as my desire to go felt to me.
Finally he said, “This is a difficult thing you ask of me.” He turned back to me. “But if this is the desire of your heart ...”
“It is. It truly is, Henry.” I clasped my hands together, in front of me, and felt so impatient and hopeful and fearful at the same time that I hurt all over. “Please. Please do this for me.” His look was tortured. Impulsively, I reached out and grabbed his arm. “I will pay you.”
His head reared back with surprise. “What?”
Here I stood, desperate, clinging to his sleeve, offering to pay him for a proposal. Three of them, to be exact. And if there had been a witness to this scene, it surely would have seemed that I was doing precisely what I had sworn never to do—to beg and barter and steal in the name of marriage.
But there was an essential difference here—it would not end in an engagement. And this was Henry. If I could ask this of anyone in the world, it was he. He would not misjudge my intentions. But a pang of doubt struck me, as I thought of Eleanor and what Henry knew of her.
“Henry.” I tugged on his sleeve, as if I could pull on his will by doing so. “I promise you that there is no trick at play here. I will refuse you, and no one will learn of this. There will be no repercussions for you. I swear it. I will not entrap you. You will suffer nothing from this. You may be sure of that.”
A sound escaped his lips—a soft, mirthless laugh. “You promise to reject me. You promise that I will suffer nothing. That is your assurance.”
“Yes.” My voice came out low and rough, reflecting the desperation I felt.
He moved even closer. “And what will you pay me?” His voice was suddenly different, and there was something about the way he moved closer, as if he was taking charge now.
It made my pulse quicken. I let go of his sleeve. What would I pay him? I had spoken impulsively. I had no money—nothing that I could think of that he would want. But I had to answer him before he changed his mind. At a loss, I finally blurted out, “Whatever you want.”
I immediately wished I could recall the words. But before I could speak again, Henry said, “Then I accept.”
His words surprised me, and I wavered for a moment between feelings of relief that he would help me and unease about what he would ask for payment. But then I reminded myself that this was Henry, who was as good a man as one could find in all of England. He would ask nothing of me that I didn’t want to give. I was sure of it.
I reached out my right hand toward him. Henry looked down at it with a look of bemusement. “This is how it is done in business,” I told him. “We shake hands on our bargain. That makes it binding.”
Henry took my hand in his, holding it as if it was a new thing, when in reality he had had many reasons over the years to take hold of my hand. But now he looked down at my hand in his, and he lightly brushed his thumb over the back of it. He might as well have stroked my heart for the way it plummeted at his touch. I had to steel myself not to pull my hand away, not to let on how fast my heart pounded. I was terrified that he would feel my racing pulse for himself.
His thumb traced over the scratch near my wrist. “This is new,” he said in a soft voice. “What did this?”
“The, uh, rose bushes. Outside the window that I climbed through.”
His eyes lifted to mine, full of soft amusement. “I should have guessed.” Then, taking a firm hold on my hand, he shook it once. “There. The bargain is sealed.”
He was just looking at me, smiling indulgently, but there was a twinge to his smile at the same time—as if something in this moment made him sad.
“Well?” I said, gesturing to the empty space in front of me. “Are you going to do it?”
His eyes widened. “What? Right now?”
“Well, yes. Of course.”
He shook his head. “It’s late. Come. Let’s go back inside.”
I followed him reluctantly as he walked up the beach toward the steps I had used. “But it would be easy. And fast. Just say the words.”
He stopped and turned around, walking back to me, his steps quiet in the sand but sure and long. When he reached me he stopped, so close I could feel his warmth, and he looked into my eyes. The moon shone on us both, and the ocean waves lapped against the sand behind me. His gaze stilled my protest, and his voice, when he spoke, was soft but firm. “No. You will not dictate how or where or when I propose. That has to be part of our agreement.”
He watched me, his lips a firm line, his jaw a strong angle of shadow and light. I looked up at him, speechless, and wondered where this side of Henry had emerged from—this Henry who swam in the ocean at night and had this strength and this way of looking at me.
I took a deep breath and wondered what had just happened between us, what line we had just crossed. “Very well,” I said, and followed him to the stone steps leading up the cliff. He reached a hand back and I grasped it, letting him pull me up when my legs shook, until we reached the top.
Chapter 17
Alice was vocal about her displeasure when I rang for her next morning. I couldn’t decide which she disapproved of more: my going to the beach at night or my failure to ring for her when I returned. There was a lot of muttering about the sand coating my boots and the hem of my gown. As she pulled the handful of seashells out of the pocket of my cloak, she sent me a dark look and said, “That will be the end of it, though, miss. No more. Especially not when it’s a full moon.”
I turned from my perch on the windowsill, where I had been listening for birds, and asked, “Why not on a full moon?”
She shook her head, as if completely exasperated with me. Finally she said, “Because smuggling happens on beaches, miss! Especially when the moon is full.”
I scrambled down, nearly falling to the floor in my excitement. “Is smuggling really still taking place here?”
Regret filled her eyes. She backed away, my boots in hand, and muttered something about needing to clean off the sand. Then she ran out the door. If only I had not been so curious! She might have told me something of the secrets of Robin Hood’s Bay. Hopefully, if I was patient, my chance was not entirely ruined.
But patience did not come naturally to me, and that weakness was never clearer than it was as I waited for a sign from Henry that he was going to propose. I had taken him at his word that I should not push him. But Mrs. Delafield glared at me every time she glanced my way, and Sylvia still had not spoken to me since the night I flirted with her Mr. Brandon. Watching Miss St.Claire hang on Henry’s arm was making me physically ill. I had to leave. Soon.
I watched him during breakfast while Miss St.Claire talked to him about the shame of such a grey and drizzly day when she wanted so much to explore Robin Hood’s Bay. Mr. Brandon talked to me about the birds he had heard on the moors that morning. But the birds were not something I wanted to share with Mr. Brandon.
Not once did Henry look directly at me during breakfast, and in a moment of panic I wondered if I had imagined it all last night. Or if he had changed his mind and was not going to help me after all. But when I stood to leave the room, excusing myself to Mr. Brandon, I s
uddenly discovered Henry standing too, and when I walked to the door, he called my name softly. I paused and turned, wondering what he was about.
“You dropped this,” he said, handing me a handkerchief I was certain I had not dropped.
I took it, though, and thanked him, and he turned around and walked back to the table. Miss St.Claire shot me a curious look. I slipped the handkerchief into my pocket and hurried from the room. I turned two corners before slipping into the first empty room I found. It was the library, and at this hour of the morning, it was completely empty. Turning my back to the door, I carefully opened the folded handkerchief. A small piece of paper lay inside, folded as well. When I opened it I recognized Henry’s neat handwriting.
Meet me at the entrance to the secret passage at midnight tonight.
I spent the entire day scouring Blackmoore’s rooms and corridors for any hint of a secret passageway. It was truly an enormous house. I passed Henry in the hall once in the east wing, that afternoon. He paused long enough to smile and say, “Have you found it yet?”
“No!” I whispered. “Won’t you just tell me?”
He shook his head, stubborn as always, and smiling with mischief. “You have bothered me about this for so many years, Kate. You will have to find it yourself.”
As he started to walk away, I said, “Just give me a clue, then.”
He looked back, and although I was sure he was not going to help, at the last moment before he turned the corner he said, “It is behind a painting.”
There were hundreds of paintings at Blackmoore. I searched every room and corridor in the top two floors of the east and west wings. The other rooms in the west wing had clearly not been used for some time. The furniture was covered in sheets, and dust motes hung in the air. I was not so bold as to enter any of the rooms in the east wing. Surely Henry would not have sent me on a quest to intrude on others’ privacy that way. After hours of exploration I concluded that the upper floors of the house did not hide any secret passageways.
Then it was time for dinner, and I had to hurry to change and have Alice do my hair so that I was presentable. Dinner lasted much too long, and I sat by nobody interesting, thanks to Mrs. Delafield’s seating arrangements. As the ladies left the dining room, I stayed toward the back of the group, and when everyone else turned right toward the drawing room, I turned left and hid just inside the door of the library. There were plenty of paintings there, and I had not had a chance to look in all the rooms of the ground floor yet.
The library, though, proved to be a disappointment, as did the large entry hall and the corridors leading off it on both sides. Finally there was only one room left: the second music room. The bird room.
I stopped in front of a painting hanging on a wall covered in dark wood paneling. I stared at it, amazed that I had not noticed it before. It must have been the bird and the pianoforte that had caught my attention before to make me overlook this work of art.
It was Icarus. I knew it immediately. His father was tying on the wings he had created for him and pointing toward the sky with a look of disapproval, as though warning Icarus not to fly too high. It was a beautiful rendering—an original, it appeared, by Anthony Van Dyck, according to the signature in the corner.
I touched the frame and felt still for the first time all day. And then the frame moved, and the wall swung out toward me, revealing the secret passageway.
Chapter 18
I stole out of my room at ten minutes before midnight, using a candle to light my way down the back stairs to the bird room. It was dark and empty, the bird quiet in its cage. I sat on the bench in front of the pianoforte and nervously waited, straining to hear footsteps. Finally, when my heart had begun to race with nervousness that he was not coming, the door silently swung open and Henry walked into the room.
“You found it,” he said in a low voice, quiet for this quiet, dark night.
“Of course.” I could not keep the pride from my voice. I stood and looked up at Henry, taking in what I could see of him in the candlelight. It was enough to see his dark hair and the flash of his smile and a hint of excitement in his eyes.
He held up a shuttered lantern. “We won’t need the candle.” I followed him to the Icarus painting and watched as he slid his hand behind the frame and pressed the switch I had accidentally triggered earlier.
The wall swung open, revealing a dark emptiness. Henry lifted the lantern and moved a shutter so that a ray of light shone, and with another grin and a gleam of excitement in his eyes, he led the way into the darkness.
I had not explored the passageway at all earlier, afraid I would get dirty and have to explain my appearance to another guest or—heaven forbid—to Mrs. Delafield. Now, though, I followed Henry and the light he carried, ducking when he warned me to, easing around a tight corner, feeling the walls change from stone to earth as we climbed down a tight spiral staircase for what felt like a long time. I forgot to count the steps, but I thought it was not quite so far as the climb down to the beach had been.
The passageway had taken us through the house, and now we were in an underground tunnel that was shored up by wooden support beams, the walls and floor earthen, the walls occasionally holding a bracket for a torch. I touched a few of the torches, thinking of Alice and smuggling. But the torches all felt as cold as the walls around us. Unused, then, at least recently.
We must have walked half a mile underground when we came to another stairway. Henry took me up the stone stairs. I followed the light he carried low so that it illuminated the steps for me to see. The stairs carried us up and up. He turned his head and whispered, “We’re almost there.” I was panting, feeling the burn in my leg muscles from the climb. And then he paused, boots still on the steps before me, and I heard a dusty, protesting creak. A breeze chilled me, and then Henry’s boots moved again, until they disappeared into a square of starlight.
I paused, my head at the opening of what must have been a trapdoor. Above me stretched the night sky streaked with starlight. I grasped at the sides of the opening and was surprised to feel grass beneath my fingers. Surely we had climbed higher than mere ground level. Then Henry reached down to me. I put my hand in his, and he pulled me up the remaining steps. I emerged, wide-eyed. It was certainly grass beneath my feet. But we were encircled by a crumbling stone wall, and there was nothing but the sky to see beyond it. No trees. No ocean. No moors. I looked at Henry in confusion and saw the strangest expression on his face, which was half-lit by the lantern he held aloft. He seemed both excited and nervous. I had seldom seen Henry nervous. His lips were closed tight, and his eyes were too darkened by the flickering shadows of the lantern for me to see them clearly.
“What is this place?” I asked him, walking cautiously forward, not sure if the ground would hold me, for this place seemed to defy the rules of nature.
“Come see,” he said, walking toward the stone wall. I followed him. The wall came to a crumbling stop at my chest level. I peered down and quickly gripped the stones in front of me as my head swam. We were very high. I knew those trees. I knew how tall they grew. And now I could see their tops below us. I turned, looking to my right—a sea of trees swaying in the breeze below us. To my left—the crashing of distant waves, frothy white in the moonlight. The ocean.
I looked up and saw again the stretch of sky without a tree to block my view. And then, suddenly, there was a raucous cry and dark shadows fluttered, filling the air. The haunting cry of the rooks pierced the darkness. The birds were loud, and their cries scratched at my soul like an etching on glass.
“It’s the ruined abbey,” I breathed.
“It is the highest tower of the ruined abbey, to be exact.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” I whispered. “I like it very much.”
Now Henry’s smile broke free, and he rested his elbows on the wall and faced the ocean. “I have come here nearly every night of every visit, ever since I discovered the secret passageway when I was te
n. When I was twelve I decided I wanted a comfortable place to sit and look at the stars. So I lugged up buckets full of dirt every night. It took an entire month to carry enough dirt up here to cover the floor. Then I begged some grass seed from the gardener, and I spread it the night before we were to leave. I had to wait an entire year to find out if the grass had grown.”
I bent down and ran my hand over the soft blades of grass. It was strange to think of twelve-year-old Henry planting something that I would see and feel all these years later.
“Have you ever brought anyone else here?” I asked, thinking of Sylvia and trying not to think of Miss St.Claire.
Henry drew in a breath and leaned back against the wall, looking at me quietly for a moment. “No.” The word rested in the silence between us for a long moment, filling me with such gladness I could not keep myself from smiling. “I must confess something, Kate.”
He had my full attention. A confession from Henry was a rare and highly valuable thing.
“What?” I breathed, moving closer.
“I didn’t love Blackmoore when I was young. Not for years.”
I looked at him with surprise. “I don’t remember that.”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone. I was supposed to love this place, you know. I was meant to inherit it. But it seemed so strange and so far away from what was home to me. I didn’t love it. Once I found the secret passageway, I used it to escape the house every night. But when you were so intrigued by the idea of Blackmoore, when I saw how much you wanted to come here, and how you peppered me with questions upon my return, I began to feel differently about it. I began to treasure it, because you did.” He moved closer, and I could see the faint smile in his grey eyes. “I always knew I would bring you here some day and tell you that. To thank you.”
I was so surprised I did not know how to respond but only stood there as something soft and sweet grew within me. Somebody appreciated me. Not just somebody—Henry. I smiled and whispered, “You’re welcome.”
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