Blackmoore

by Julianne Donaldson

  He considered me for a moment in silence, a faint smile lingering on his lips, then he spoke softly. “I think you have misjudged Miss St.Claire. She is intelligent and refined.”

  I disliked her even more after hearing his praise of her. “Well, if that is all you are looking for in a wife, then I suppose you will be very happy with your intelligent and refined Miss St.Claire.” I could not help muttering, “Even though she didn’t know the difference between Phaeton and Icarus.”

  His lip quivered.

  “What? What are you smiling about?”

  “You are jealous,” he said with a laugh.

  “I am not,” I scoffed.

  He smiled, as if everything I had said gave him real pleasure. “Do you want to know my secret or not?” he asked in a low voice.

  I took a deep breath. He was standing too close. “Yes.”

  He shifted his weight, moving even closer to me, so that I felt off balance, as if the world had tilted and if I did not hold onto something, I would fall. My heart quickened its pace, and so did my breathing. I felt his arms on either side of me, anchoring me or trapping me—I could not decide which.

  A long moment stretched between us, the silence so taut that I thought something would surely snap. He was looking at me as if contemplating a whole host of secrets he could share, and my curiosity mixed with dread.

  “Your eyebrows,” he finally said.

  My eyes opened wide with surprise. “My eyebrows? What about them?”

  “I love them,” he stated as if it were a fact. A truth.

  I laughed again, breathlessly now, and shook my head. “They are too dark. Too thick.”

  “No. They give your face character. And there is something so very ... graceful about them.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Perhaps it is their curve. They look like the wing of a bird in flight.”

  I felt extraordinarily self-conscious, and I was grateful for the darkness hiding my blush. Henry shifted again and lifted his hand to my face. I held perfectly still, trapped with surprise, my heart in my throat. He touched my face as gently and carefully as he had touched the caged bird. His fingertips brushed lightly along the curve of my left eyebrow, tracing the line, his eyes following the path of his fingers. A tremor shook through me and my heart raced. He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers, lightly, a graze, a burning left in its path before his hand fell off the edge of my jaw.

  “I can never look at a bird without thinking of you,” he said. “I wonder what you will do with your wings once you have found them. I wonder how far away they will take you. And I fear them, for my sake, at the same time that I hope for them, for yours.”

  I drew in a breath, feeling the air shudder into my lungs, but could not find any words to speak. He had never touched me like this. He had never looked at me like this. He had never spoken to me like this. My hand crept up my throat, and I felt my burning cheek, sure that some fundamental change had occurred where he had touched it.

  “Now,” he said, his voice low and husky, and he was gazing into my eyes without flinching, “are we even? Have I made myself vulnerable enough to suit you?”

  I could have leaned into him and kissed him. He was that close to me. My heart pounded, and I found myself staring at his mouth. I gripped the stone wall behind me, telling myself not to reach for him, not to lift my lips to touch his, not to hold him tightly and tell him that I did not want to fly away from him.

  We were fragile, the two of us, breathing the same air, caught in this taut moment of secrets and half-truths. I could sense how everything could go wrong with one misstep, one misspoken word. So I nodded and did not say a word, terrified to speak and ruin this thing we were trying to balance between ourselves—this fragile and deep and flammable friendship.

  “Good,” Henry whispered, standing upright and backing up a step. I shivered in the sudden cold without the warmth of his nearness.

  “Do you want to go inside?” he asked, noticing my chill.

  “No. Let’s—let’s finish this here.” Awkwardness made me feel tongue-tied now. “You want to know why I object to marriage.”

  “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. What I really want to know is why you’re afraid of love.”

  My breath came sharply. I tried to laugh but couldn’t. He was not supposed to ask me that. He was not supposed to even know to ask me that. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, as if telling me that he would wait all night if he had to.

  I crossed my arms too, wanting to protect myself, and took a deep breath. “My love is as a fever ...”

  “You want to quote Shakespeare?” He shook his head. “You can do better than that.”

  I glared at him, clenching my hands into fists. Anger was much less complicated than fear; defensiveness was much safer than vulnerability. “It is true, though. Love is like a disease. It ravages. It maims. It destroys everything in its wake. I am wise to shun the idea of it, just as wise as if I were to avoid a plague. It is a weakness of the human heart to imagine that something that starts with passion can last. Passion is a fire that burns and leaves nothing standing in its wake. It is illogical and unreasonable. Love is the downfall of men and the entrapment of women. It is a cage that once one enters, one can never escape.

  “I have seen it time and time again. With my mother. With my father. With Eleanor. Now with Maria. It is a scourge to all that is tender and good. It is disloyal. It is no respecter of persons. It creates bondage, heartache, betrayal, resentment—” My breath caught unexpectedly, and I had to wait and swallow. I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart ached so badly I could not breathe. “That is what I have seen of love. That is why I will avoid it. I will be wiser than my parents and my sisters and everyone else who was entrapped by a fleeting feeling and then made to suffer for it for the rest of their lives.”

  Henry moved toward me, until I could see his face in the moonlight. It was full of aching and compassion and denial. “That is not love you speak of. You have seen the decay of the imitation of love. Your parents never loved. Your sisters never truly loved. I wonder if they’re even capable of it. But you, dear Kate ...” He shook his head. “You are not like them.”

  But what if I am? I turned the question over in my mind, letting it tear me up with doubt, and then I looked up at the dark sky and sighed.

  “I have given you my answer, Henry. Now it is your turn.”

  I was looking away from him. I was looking at the stars, wishing I could turn back time and not eavesdrop at that ball. I was wishing I could remake our fortunes and change the families we had been born into.

  I wasn’t prepared for the touch of Henry’s hand on mine. A jolt of surprise rushed through me, and my gaze flew to his face. He was watching me with a quiet intensity that made my heart race. He did not merely take my hand in his. He slipped his fingers around the back of my hand, his touch a caress as his fingers encircled my wrist, slid up my palm, then slipped between my fingers. My heart pounded as he lifted our joined hands and bowed his head and pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.

  Panic pulsed through me with the racing rhythm of my heart. And something else, too. Some deep, slow melting that made me feel weak all over.

  “Kate,” he whispered, stepping closer to me, “you are not like your mother. You are a different creature from your sisters. The depths of your soul are fathomless. You are brave and loyal and true. You have such a good heart.” He held my hand close to his chest and covered it with his other hand. “It is only afraid. But I would take such good care of it, love, if you would give it to me.” He bent his head and pressed his lips to my fingers.

  I was all fire and fear and more fear inside. My heart threatened to bound out of my chest. My knees were weak from the melting that was happening within me. I trembled everywhere, and as my thoughts raced, I caught onto the first reasonable one I noticed.

  In a shaking voice I said, “Thank you, but no.”

  I felt him flinch. But when I opened my ey
es, his face was turned from me, and he stepped away, letting my hand fall from his grip. I folded my arms into myself, feeling wounded and weak. His back was to me, and with his head tipped back I could see he was looking at the stars. Or perhaps it was the birds, nesting in the tower next to ours, that he watched.

  After a long moment of silence between us, he reached for the lantern on the wall and said, “That’s two. Only one more to go.”

  I nodded and pushed back the weakness that threatened my calm. This was what was supposed to happen. This would give me my dream—my trip to India. This was the right thing to do. We walked back through the secret passageway in silence, and the only words Henry spoke to me when he left me in the west wing were “Good night.”

  Chapter 28

  Mr. Brandon found me on the moors. I had been unable to sleep most of the night, and sneaked out of the house before dawn. This morning I could not stop thinking of how quickly my time here was drawing to a close. Just one more proposal from Henry and I would leave this place and probably never see it again. And at that realization, everything became achingly beautiful. The bracken, the peat, the bruised heather, the thorny yellow flowers, the twisted shrubs, and the rock outcroppings. It all became exquisite and dear, and I loved it. I bent and picked some flowers and grass, tore off a branch of heather, and tucked them all into my pocket. I was just straightening when Mr. Brandon called out.

  “Miss Worthington! I feel I have hardly had a chance to speak with you lately. You were absent all day yesterday.”

  The sun was rising behind him as he walked toward me. He was a nice man. He would probably make some other lady adequately happy. But not me.

  “Indeed. I took a trip into Robin Hood’s Bay.”

  His eyes looked greener than I had remembered, his hair more golden. He held a hand to his ear. “I have been listening for your birds, Miss Worthington. But I’m afraid I need someone to help me identify them. I do not know enough about them myself.”

  I thought of what Henry had said to me—about a man not needing encouragement to lose his heart. I certainly didn’t imagine that Mr. Brandon had lost his heart to me, but he was being very particular in his attentions. And it was time for me to do him a kindness.

  “I would enjoy that, Mr. Brandon, but I am afraid I am leaving very soon.”

  Both eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Where will you go?”

  “To India. With my aunt.”

  His face fell. “I was under the impression that was a distant plan. From what Miss Delafield told me, I thought things were not quite certain in that regard.”

  I clutched the golden flowers. “They are quite certain. I will leave very soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  He stepped toward me, a look of determination on his face. “Then I am happy to have this opportunity to speak with you alone. I have to tell you, Miss Worthington, what must have been already obvious to you. I find you fascinating. And beautiful. And kind. I rarely find a young lady who fascinates me, you know. More often than not, they bore me.” He flashed me his infectious grin. “I would like very much to know you better. To have a chance to win your heart. So I would ask you to please—please postpone your trip, and give me a chance.”

  My heart fell. I had no idea he felt so strongly. I had assumed he was merely at my side every day because I was a convenient companion.

  “I am so sorry,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “I should have said something sooner, I suppose. I—I have no intention of marrying. Ever. Please forgive me if I unknowingly encouraged you to feel something for me that I cannot feel in return.”

  His infectious smile was gone, and disappointment tightened his eyes. “No intention of marrying? You do not have to go that far to refuse me. You could just tell me you are not interested in knowing me better.”

  “No! It’s true.” I reached out and grabbed his arm as he backed away from me. “I am not being unkind. You can ask Sylvia. Or Mrs. Delafield. Or Henry. They know. I have been telling them so these past two years.”

  He pulled away from me. “Well, none of them saw fit to warn me, I am afraid.” He bowed his head to me. “Please excuse me, Miss Worthington.”

  As he walked away, a sharp pain pierced my hand. I looked down and uncurled my fingers. The limp, thorny flowers I held were mixed with my blood.

  I lingered outside the open door, chewing on my lip uncertainly. I had come this far. I had my pockets full of seashells and flowers I had picked on the moors. I had watched the routine of the servants and waited long enough to make sure the maid on duty was fully engaged in her afternoon nap by the fire. I could see Henry’s grandfather sitting in his chair by the window.

  Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and with soft steps walked inside. I did not want to startle him. The maid snored softly in front of the fire. The chair next to Grandfather’s was empty. Waiting. I touched the back of it and tilted my head to look at Grandfather. His gaze was vacant, his face turned toward the window. His hands rested idly in his lap, covered by a blanket.

  “Hello,” I said softly.

  He stirred, moving his shoulders, shifting his legs. But he didn’t look toward me. I edged around the chair and slid onto its cushioned seat, careful not to bump his chair or the low table in front of him in the process.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked, watching his face carefully. His eyes moved, shifting in little jerks back and forth, but still looking out the window.

  I waited a moment, but he made no further movement. Reaching into one pocket, I grasped a handful of shells and drew them forth. I leaned forward and carefully set them out on the low table, one at a time, some curved down, some up, with their translucent bellies showing. I did not look up until I was finished with my task.

  When I did, his eyes had moved from the window to the table.

  “I know you like shells, so I found these on the beach and brought them to you.” I reached into my pocket again and pulled out the remaining shell. “This one is different than all the others.” I showed him the strange, bullet-shaped, dark shell I had found. It did not look like a shell, but it clearly belonged on the beach. “I wondered if you knew what it was.”

  He pulled a hand out from under the blanket that covered his lap and held it, trembling, toward me. I set the shell in his hand, and he twisted it between his heavy-knuckled fingers. “It’s a—” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “It’s a fossil. A very old fossil.”

  I bit back the smile that threatened to burst through my careful control. He had spoken to me.

  I slipped my hand into my other pocket, pulling out the golden flowers I had gathered on the moors. I laid them on the table next to the shells. I had pried loose a sprig of dark, purple-brown heather, and a few blades of the hardy, laurel-green grass that grew on the moors. These too I set down, then sat back and waited.

  He picked up the yellow flowers, and I reached to warn him, to remind him of the thorn, but before I could, I saw him wince, then look with surprise at the drop of blood on his thumb. He turned his gaze to me for the first time. His eyes were a familiar grey. His eyebrows were thick and white and wiry. His face was sunken in. But the eyes were clear, and I suddenly realized why they looked familiar. They were Henry’s eyes. Or, rather, Henry’s eyes were from his grandfather.

  “Who are you?” he asked, just as he had asked Henry the other day.

  “I am Kate. Kate Worthington.”

  His craggy eyebrows lifted. “Henry’s Kate?”

  My heart stuttered. I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Henry’s Kate? I am his friend. We grew up together.” He was still waiting. “Um ... I suppose ... I am.”

  “You finally came, then.” His eyes were clear, his gaze direct. He was seeing me. His thoughts were organized. I had heard before, from Henry, that he had occasional moments like these. But I was surprised to have stumbled upon such a happy incident on my first try.

  “Yes.” My smile felt wide enough to split my cheeks. “Yes,
I finally came.”

  His gaze touched my face, and he sat back with a pleased smile lifting his features. “You are lovely. So very lovely. Just as he said.”

  I clenched my hands together in my lap, hardly daring to breathe, my face on fire. “Just as Henry said?”

  But his gaze had drifted to the window, and a softness replaced the sharp clarity I had seen in his eyes a moment before. His fingers twitched in his lap, restlessly, as if they were missing something. I leaned toward him and gently placed a shell in his hands. His fingers turned the shell over and over, tracing its grooves and curves.

  I watched him expectantly but knowing all the while that he had slipped away again.

  Taking a cue from Henry’s visit, I asked, “Shall I read to you?”

  He nodded, with his gaze out the window, and as I reached for the stack of books, he said something softly. So softly I could not hear him clearly. I leaned toward him.

  “What did you say?”

  “The Woodlark,” he murmured, turning his shell over and over.

  I looked from his face to the window he was gazing at. But I could see no sign of a bird within its frame.

  “Pardon me?”

  “The Woodlark. Henry’s woodlark. The Woodlark.” He pointed a trembling finger at the table. I picked up the first book on the stack in front of me, showing it to him with raised eyebrows. He pointed again. “The Woodlark.” I lifted another book, and another, and then I found a piece of paper wedged between two books. It was a poem, it seemed. Handwritten. And at the top of the page were the words “The Woodlark by Robert Burns.”

  I picked it up and showed it to him. “This? You would like me to read this to you?”

  He sat back, a look of contentment on his face, and nodded.

  He had called this Henry’s woodlark. I cleared my throat, and with a quickened heart I read,

  O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay

  Nor quit for me the trembling spray,