I found this box sitting on a shelf in a shop in London. It called to me from across the shop space, beckoning me to come nearer and discover its secrets. I did, and discovered a secret of my own: a dream I did not know lived within me until I held this box in my hands.
Katherine, I know that you, and perhaps only you, will be able to appreciate what this box represents: adventure! I invite you to take a journey with me for a moment—a journey of imagination.
Imagine standing on board a sailing ship, with nothing but ocean and sky around you. Imagine being pushed by the wind for months at a time. Pushed by a force both primal and controllable. A force of nature working to whisk you from one life to another. Imagine sailing along the African coast! Imagine the jungles, the beaches, the desert. Imagine dipping far south, to round the Cape of Good Hope, and then turning north and east. Toward India! Imagine a territory where all is new and unknown, where every day can be a discovery. Imagine a life where one may be whatever one desires to be. Imagine a country of endless beginnings, where the old you can be thrown off like a snake shedding its skin. Imagine a hot wind, and deep, vibrant colors, and strange new scents. Imagine with me, Katherine, a chance to be reborn and remade. Imagine the power of having your future in your own hands, far from the limitations of our culture’s expectations.
Would this not be the trip of a lifetime? Would this not change you forever?
Now, Katherine, if this journey of imagination has enticed you to the least degree, pay close heed! I have been saving the inheritance I received from my Uncle Stafford. I have saved it for many years and invested it as well. Now I have quite a nice sum, and I have finally decided what I wish to do with it. I want to embark on an adventure of a lifetime. I want to go to India. And I want you to go with me!
I await your response with much eagerness and, as always, my most sincere affection.
Love,
Aunt Charlotte
I folded the letter and let hope enter my heart once more. Aunt Charlotte wanted me. She included me. And she was someone I could model my life after. She was unmarried and independent and happy to be so. I would fulfill my bargain with Mama and go on adventures with my aunt and learn how to be happy alone. Yes. That was my plan. And I was here, in this place, to achieve my future dreams. Slipping the letter back inside the ivory-inlaid box, I sat and looked around me, trying to buoy up my spirits.
But as I looked around me, I realized that I had done this same thing just three days earlier at my own house. I had sat in a room that I was trapped in and dreamed of escape. Blackmoore was supposed to be that escape. But I was just as trapped in this room of stone and glass as I had been in my room at my own home.
After I had waited half an hour with growing impatience, my dinner was brought by the same housemaid who had started the fire. I ate my meal in silence, the clock on the mantel ticking away the long, heavy minutes of my isolation. I tried not to think of Miss St.Claire with her wide-set eyes and auburn hair. I tried not to think of Henry smiling at her and hearing her whispers. And then, abruptly, I could take no more. I pushed the food away, stood, and grabbed a candle. I might not have been invited to the drawing room, but I certainly did not have to stay in this room all evening, no matter what Mrs. Delafield or Sylvia said.
Slipping from the room, I closed the door softly behind me and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light of the hallway. Looking left to the way we had come, I chose to go right instead. The candle did little against the dark here, providing only a small space of light in which to explore and examine. The floor creaked under my feet, and a rogue breeze slipped through the wall and made the flame flicker, causing shadows to dance and loom. I shivered and turned to my right and the unknown things that awaited me.
The hall stood thick with silence. I walked slowly, placing my feet carefully on the uncarpeted floor, which was warped and sloped. I hugged the right-hand side of the corridor, lifting my candle to see the wall. The problem was that I did not know what I was looking for. I stopped at a portrait and lifted the frame away from the wall, peering into the space behind it while trying not to singe my eyebrows with the flame of the candle. Reaching my hand behind the frame, I felt the wall behind the painting. But it felt as smooth as the other sections of the wall I had touched.
I moved on, pausing before a closed door. Setting my hand to the door handle, I considered entering the empty room. But I could not. The hall was dark and chill, but at least it was an open space. I could not summon the courage to put myself into a dark, closed room.
I continued down the hall, checking behind every painting I came across, until I reached the end of the hall where a window stretched from floor to ceiling. I peered through it but could see nothing in the darkness beyond the glass. Turning, I moved to the other side of the corridor and followed the same pattern, my hand trailing along the wall, stopping at anything that might possibly hide an entrance to a secret passageway. I moved beyond my room, and kept going, passing another window. Directly past the window, I reached a large tapestry covering the wall. This would be the perfect spot for hiding a secret door.
I held the candle aloft. My heart quickened its speed, pounding in my chest as I thought that I had finally found what I had dreamed of for so many years. I touched the edge of the tapestry, then slipped my fingers behind it, reaching for the opening, the latch, the crack that would signal that I had indeed found what I’d been looking for. I stretched farther, reaching, running my palm over the surface of the wall, my heart pounding. The tapestry was large. I slipped behind it, holding my candle next to the stone of the wall, away from the tapestry at my back, looking for anything that might hint at an opening.
I paused at a sound. At first I thought it was the wind—the sound that came to me. Then I realized it was weaker than wind. It came in spurts and sputters, and as I cocked my head, puzzling, and concentrated on the sound, I realized I recognized it. It was voices, coming to me on the wind of whispers, raising the hairs of my neck.
I pinched my candle out, the smoke rising to sting my nose, and held as still as I could while my heart raced. But though I strained to make out the whispered words, I could not discern what was being said or from whence the whispers came—from the hallway, beyond the tapestry I hid behind, or from some secret passageway on the other side of this wall. Footsteps sounded, soft and scraping, and the whispers teased me, just out of reach of my comprehension. Sylvia’s stories of ghosts haunting this wing floated through my mind, and I shivered with a sudden chill.
Without warning, I was gripped in terror so complete it seized every thought, every impulse. The tapestry hung heavy around me, trapping me. I dropped the candle and scrambled, pushing against the heavy tapestry, frantic to break free. When I stumbled from my hiding place, I collapsed against the wall, breathing hard and trembling. The corridor was dark, just as it had been before. I could no longer hear the whispers that had started my terror. In fact, I wondered if I had heard them at all, or if it had only been the wind or my active imagination.
I pressed my hand to my chest and willed myself to breathe slowly, to calm myself, to refuse to allow my imagination to rule my reason. Turning to the window, I looked at the scene below me. The moon was three-quarters full, and from this window I could see the full stretch of ocean. The silver-white light of the moon on the water calmed my soul, and after a few minutes I could breathe and think clearly again.
I had merely frightened myself by looking for the secret passageway. I had imagined the whispers and the footsteps. There were no ghosts. There was no such thing as a haunting. But just as I had finished telling myself this, I heard them again: the footsteps. I spun around, pressing my back to the wall.
This time there was light—a single candle held aloft, highlighting a familiar face. Henry. The terror drained from me, and a smile eased the firm line of my lips. He stopped at the door across the hall from where I stood and knocked on it. He waited, then called softly, “Kate? Are you awake?” and knocked again.
I breathed in, my throat constricted with sudden emotion, and he turned his head and looked directly at me.
“There you are.” The moonlight bathed me in its silver-white glow, and the flame of Henry’s candle shone golden around him. He stepped toward me, bringing his golden light with him until it merged with the moonlight.
“What are you doing standing here in the dark?” he asked.
“I did have a candle,” I said, as if that would explain it all. My nervousness still coursed through me, causing my hands to tremble. “And what are you doing here? Why are you not downstairs enjoying Miss St.Claire’s company?”
My voice held a sting, which I regretted as soon as I heard it.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, turned toward me, and set his candle between us on the windowsill.
“I came to check on you. All alone, here, in the west wing? Sylvia would have already talked herself into seeing ghosts if she were in your place.”
“I am not like Sylvia.”
“I know.” A note of affection—a smile—sounded in his voice.
“But, Henry, in truth there is something about this house ... this wing. I thought I heard whispers just moments ago, when I was behind the tapestry.”
His voice sharpened. “Whispers? Behind the tapestry?”
“Yes. I was looking for the secret passageway—you needn’t grin like that. You must have known I would look for it first thing—and as I looked behind the tapestry I thought I heard soft footsteps and whispers. Is that madness?”
His eyes betrayed nothing, his face a mask of secrets. “Perhaps it was only the wind.”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“You know, it will be much easier to discover a secret passageway in the daylight.”
“I know.” I smiled faintly. “I was just ... passing the time.”
His brow furrowed. “Passing the time? Why did you not come downstairs?”
I bit my lip as I debated how to answer him, then finally I asked him a question instead of answering his. “Why am I here? At Blackmoore? And do not tell me that your mother invited me, because it was obvious she does not want me here. I want the truth. Please.”
He looked at me for a long moment while my heart pounded. In my mind, I silently begged him to tell me the truth.
“You are here,” he finally said, “because I had a promise to keep.”
“And this is your last opportunity to fulfill it.”
His gaze turned sharp. “Why do you say that?”
“Sylvia told me. She told me that you intend to propose to Miss St.Claire during this visit.”
Henry said nothing.
I cleared my throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “Is it true, then? You are going to propose?”
He studied my face for a long moment before answering. “It’s a possibility.”
I breathed. And breathed again. “I see.”
“Now it is your turn. Tell me, why did you not come downstairs this evening? Why did you not join us?”
I took a deep breath. “Your mother did not want me downstairs. Sylvia told me I should stay in my room, so that I would not distract you from Miss St.Claire. Of course, you know how I feel about such things ... about staying in my room.” My voice shook at the end, despite my attempts to keep it steady.
Henry moved his head, just enough for the moonlight to show me the anger in his eyes.
I rubbed my nose and looked away. “I am not crying about it. Indeed, I appreciate the solitude, and as I said, I have been exploring ...”
“Kate.” His voice was gentle and tugged at the fragile strings that were holding my emotions together.
I rubbed my nose harder and turned away from him. My foot struck something hard, and bending down, I found my candle lying at my feet. I cleared my throat. “I should leave you to your guests,” I murmured as I moved away from him. I crossed the hall and opened the door to my room, its glow of firelight and candlelight spilling into the dark corridor. I turned to thank Henry for checking on me and found him standing very close.
“Listen,” he said, his voice intent and hushed. “You are my guest here, just as certainly as Miss St.Claire or any of the other visitors who will be arriving. You are my guest, Katherine Worthington. Blackmoore will be mine, not my mother’s. In fact, my mother has no power here.”
I loved the sound of those words: my mother has no power here. But Henry was wrong. His mother had power here in spades.
“Now. You may come downstairs whenever you wish,” Henry said. “You may look for secret passageways as much as your heart desires.” He lifted a hand and gently brushed his thumb over my cheek, wiping off a stray tear that had slipped past without my notice. I caught my breath in surprise. “But I would hate for you to spend any part of your visit here sitting in your room and crying because of something my mother has said or done. Just ... ignore her. As much as possible.”
I smiled a little. “Thank you. But to be fair, I was not sitting in my room and crying. I was exploring the west wing and decidedly not crying.”
His eyes lit up with gentle affection. “Of course you were. I would never accuse you of anything else.”
My heart reached out for him, and I had to pull it back under my control with a swift yank. I looked down, trying to hide my feelings. I was very good at hiding my gentler feelings from Henry, on a normal basis. But this night, in this darkened house on the edge of the world, I felt miles away from normal.
“So, Miss Kate, will you come downstairs this evening? Join us for a game of whist?”
I shook my head. “No. All of this exploring and not crying has worn me out.”
“Not to mention the past two days of humming.”
“Exactly!” I chuckled. “I swear you knew about the humming all along. Didn’t you?”
He grinned. “I refuse to answer that question.” He looked into the room behind me. “You will be alone in the west wing. Are you sure you want to stay here? I could find another room for you ...”
“No. I love this room.” And, truly, I did. I loved the dark wood paneling and the velvet drapes and the colors of the moors. In fact, in this room I was beginning to think differently of the moors. I could already see how they might grow on me. “I will be fine here. Don’t worry about me.”
He shook his head. “I think I will always worry about you,” he murmured. He took a breath and looked at me as if he meant to say something more. But instead he abruptly turned to leave. I watched him cross the dark hall and pick up his candle where he had left it by the window.
“Henry.”
He looked back but didn’t come closer.
“I just wanted to thank you for keeping your promise. Thank you for bringing me here.”
He smiled, but he continued to back away as he said, “I will always keep my promises to you.” Then he turned and left as fast as his long legs could carry him, until he almost looked as if he was running. The flame of his candle flickered, and then he was gone.
I closed the door to my bedchamber, changed into my nightclothes, and slipped into bed, bringing the covers up to my chin, snuggling down against the chill of the room. A low moaning sound crept through the stones, and the drapes moved, just a little—a wave, a wrinkle of velvet. I wondered if the wind blew off the moors or the sea. Which wind made the moaning sounds and which made the howls? When something creaked outside the door, I wondered if someone was there, or if it was only the old house being moved by the fierce wind.
The fire threw shadows against the walls, and the drapes continued to move, idly, as if a small hand were twitching them. I closed my eyes tight while the wind moaned and the old house creaked around me. And finally, after a long time, I slipped into sleep.
Chapter 9
The wind woke me with its howls and moans throughout the night. I cracked my eyes open to a blackened room, then closed them again and slipped into strange dreams of howling birds and dark corridors and a boy who ran away from me and would not turn ba
ck no matter how I called for him. When I finally pulled myself from my dark dreams, it was to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I rolled over, blinking in confusion at my surroundings. The knock came again.
“Miss Worthington?” a voice called through the door.
“Yes?” I answered groggily, trying to shake off the remnant shadows of my dreams.
The door cracked open, and a young face framed by a maid’s white cap appeared. “I am your maid. May I come in?”
“Oh.” I sat up and pushed back my dark hair. “Yes, please do.”
She entered the room and dropped a curtsy. Her cheeks were rosy and covered with freckles. Her hands fidgeted with her white apron.
I smiled to try to ease her obvious nervousness. “What is your name?”
“Alice, miss.” She dropped another curtsy.
“And do you come from Robin Hood’s Bay, Alice?” I asked, remembering Mrs. Delafield’s instructions to Dawson the night before.
“Yes, miss.”
“Well, I am very happy to have you.”
She smiled bashfully and, gesturing to my trunk, asked if she should finish unpacking my things for me. I nodded, but when she moved to open the drapes first, I groaned with disappointment to discover how late I had slept. Moving to the window, I saw that the sun had risen during my dreams, and the moors were already brightly lit but shrouded by fog. How could I have slept past dawn on my first morning here? I had gone to bed with every intention of being outside before sunrise in order to hear the birds.
I shivered standing near the window with nothing but the cold floor beneath my feet. Tomorrow morning I would not oversleep. I would not let the nightly hauntings of this place steal my morning birds from me.
With Alice’s help I dressed and then made my way downstairs for breakfast, finding only Sylvia and Miss St.Claire in the dining room. I paused in the doorway, trying to collect my composure and my good intentions. I had been tired last night after my days of travel. That was the only reason I thought Miss St.Claire a tad irritating and a bit presumptuous. Perhaps she was perfectly acceptable as a human being. Perhaps she would make Henry a good wife.
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