“Each bird’s song is identifiable. Their calls are so much more complex than tweets or chirps. The blackbird, for example, sounds like this.” I produced the whistle that Henry and I had spent hours perfecting one rainy day a few years ago.
His eyebrows lifted. “That was you, earlier. Wasn’t it? I heard that whistle out on the moors.”
I nodded. “Well, one of the whistles was mine. One was ... an actual bird. I suppose.” I thought again of how disappointed I had been when Henry had not walked out of the fog.
“What is your favorite bird?” Mr. Brandon asked.
I waved his question away. “That is impossible to answer.”
His smile flashed. “Very well. Tell me about one of your favorites.”
I thought for a moment before answering. I would have told him about the woodlark. But I felt that I would be somehow betraying Henry to talk about the woodlark.
The dry heather gave way to the green grass surrounding Blackmoore. The sun was fully up now, the golden light and heat burning off the fog, little by little. Mr. Brandon stopped walking and faced me, waiting.
I stopped too and thought of the birds I loved. Finally I answered. “The mistle thrush.”
“What about it?”
I looked a question at him.
He waved a hand, as if urging me to continue. “What makes that bird one of your favorites?
He asked it as if he was genuinely interested in my thoughts about birds. It seemed so strange to me.
“Er ... well ... If you really want to know ...”
“I do.”
“For one thing, if one sees it from above, it looks like it’s wearing a smooth grey coat. But its chest and belly are speckled. White with dark grey speckles that look quite festive. As if it is going to a party. You might think it a proper and boring creature, until you see those jaunty speckles, and then you know that you misunderstood it initially. You underestimated it.” I drew a breath. “But I think what I like most about the mistle thrush is how ... audacious it is. It perches at the top of very large trees and sings into the face of a storm. As if daring the storm to frighten it. As if trying to prove that it can outsing a gale. It is so very brave.” I smiled and shrugged. “I admire it.”
He was studying me with a look I could not interpret. He almost seemed to look at me in the same way I looked at my birds. I suddenly felt transparent and crossed my arms over my chest. “Do you think it strange? That I admire a bird?”
“Not at all,” he said briskly. “In fact, I have suddenly become very interested in birds myself.”
The wind blew off the ocean, throwing my hair across my face in a tangled mess. I pushed it back and held it with one hand, turning so the wind blew my hair behind me. “Speaking of gales ...” I said.
“Yes. Let’s go inside,” Mr. Brandon said and walked beside me across the green and the courtyard and through the front doors of Blackmoore. I crossed the great entry hall, eager to get upstairs and make myself look decent before anyone else saw me in this state. At the curve of the staircase, I could look up and see the painting of Phaeton on the domed ceiling. Or I could look down into the entry hall below me. I looked down. And standing there still, looking up at me, stood Mr. Brandon, with that infectious smile on his face. And I could not help but smile in return.
It was clear he saw my answering smile. My face burned for a reason I could not name, and I hurried to turn away and hide my blush from him. I saw only a blur before I bumped into someone standing right behind me.
“Oh! Pardon me!” I said, gripping the banister to regain my balance.
Mrs. Delafield reared back. “Do watch where you’re going, Kitty.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
Mrs. Delafield turned her chilly blue eyes to my face, then her gaze traveled upward and settled on my hair. “Have you been outdoors, Kitty?”
“Kate,” I reminded her, resisting the urge to smooth my hair. “And yes, I have been.”
She sighed and looked upward, as if seeking divine help. “I must speak with you about acceptable behavior while you are here.”
I could not stop myself from glancing over my shoulder. I felt a lecture coming, and I did not want Mr. Brandon to overhear it. But he stood below, still looking up, and Mrs. Delafield’s voice carried clearly across the domed space between us.
Mrs. Delafield stepped forward, looked over the railing, and her hand gripped the wooden banister, the veins on the back of her hands bulging.
“Mr. Brandon.” Her voice was the epitome of strained politeness. “Good morning. I trust you slept well.”
“Indeed.” His smile changed from the infectious width I had just admired, becoming more controlled, more strictly polite.
I edged away from the banister. “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Delafield ...”
“Kitty, I would like to have a word with you.”
I paused and watched with a growing sense of dread as she drew close to me. Leaning toward me, she whispered, “Were you outside with Mr. Brandon? Alone? Did you two have some sort of ... assignation?”
“Of course not,” I whispered back, appalled. “We ran into each other outside, but I did not plan to meet him there.”
Her eyes narrowed, a warning in their blue depths. “There will be no scandal here, Kitty. Not like at Brighton.”
I burned with the shame of her implication. “I am not Eleanor, Mrs. Delafield. I never have been.”
I turned my back on her and climbed the stairs with an air of calm I did not feel. As I turned the corner, the temptation to look down overcame me. Against my better judgment, I looked over the railing. Mrs. Delafield had descended the stairs and was crossing the foyer to Mr. Brandon. She was nearly to him now. He glanced up at me with a frown and then turned to her, as she took his arm and spoke quietly in his ear.
My face was on fire, imagining what she was telling him about me. But I shoved from my thoughts the lingering shame I felt and turned my steps to the west wing. It did not matter to me what Mr. Brandon thought of me. I was going to find Henry and get my three proposals and leave at once for India. Nobody would be able to look down on me there. Nobody would exclude me or try to control me. India would solve everything.
Chapter 14
I needed to speak with Henry. The hope of my escape—the open door to my cage—worked such nervous energy within me that I could not be still. I had to speak with him. I had to ask him if he would grant me this favor, if he would release me from my cage. But when I found him in the dining room at breakfast, I could not speak to him alone. And I was certainly not going to ask him to propose to me while others were around to hear.
At least half the company was assembled in the dining room. The room was loud with chatter and the clanking of silverware. I stood inside the doorway and scanned the company, trying to decide where to sit. He threw me a questioning glance, and I remembered how he had left me last night, when I had sunk into the depths of despair. I smiled to let him know that I was no longer despairing. He looked content and turned away before I could signal to him that although I was not on the verge of tears, I desperately needed to speak with him alone.
Frustrated, I picked at my breakfast and watched Henry’s conversation with Herr Spohr with growing impatience. Sylvia entered the room, and I caught her eye as she sat across the table from me.
My cheeks grew warm as I remembered how we had spoken to each other the night before. Her glance at me was fleeting and hesitant. I wasn’t sure how to behave. She had been blunt to the point of cruelty the night before, and I was half surprised she had not come to apologize to me before breakfast. Miss St.Claire sat beside her and leaned over Herr Spohr to tell Henry good morning.
Henry smiled at her and I looked away, disgusted.
And then Mr. Brandon entered the room. His gaze fell on me. I met it briefly, struggled to hold it, and then glanced away. I was sure that he intended to snub me—sure that Mrs. Delafield had poisoned him against me. But when I glanced up again he was crossi
ng the room with long, easy strides that reminded me of how he had looked walking across the moors. He stopped beside my chair and gestured at the empty seat next to mine.
“May I join you, Miss Worthington?”
I sat up in my chair and looked at him with surprise. “Of course you may.”
He sat next to me, pulling his chair closer to mine than it had been, and turned toward me, ignoring everyone else in the room.
“You have put your hair up,” he said, in such a quiet voice it was almost a whisper. I touched my neck self-consciously, remembering how wild I had looked on the moors this morning. His gaze roamed over my face, and then he said, still quietly, but matter-of-factly, “You are quite beautiful. But never more than you were this morning on the moors.”
My face burned. I looked fleetingly across the table. Henry was staring at me, and so was Sylvia.
I cleared my throat and looked back at Mr. Brandon, at his clear green eyes looking directly into mine. “You have robbed me of speech, Mr. Brandon.”
“That would be a shame if it were true, Miss Worthington.” He flashed me his wide smile and then turned his attention to the other side of the table. “Good morning, Miss Delafield, Mr. Delafield, Miss St.Claire.”
Murmured responses and surprised looks met his greetings.
“I believe we had planned last night on a picnic to the ruined abbey today, and it looks like a perfect day for it.” Mr. Brandon looked from the others to me, and his eyes were lit up with excitement. “We should all go.”
So. Whatever Mrs. Delafield had told him, it had not resulted in the snubbing I expected. A smile tugged at my lips, and I lowered my gaze so that Mr. Brandon would not see how happy his invitation made me.
“It looks like rain,” Henry said, his voice curt.
I turned around in my seat and looked out the window. The sky was clear blue and the fog had burned off with the morning sun.
“Does it?” I said, turning back around and frowning at him.
He frowned back at me and then looked down at his plate, stabbing his fork into a piece of ham before attacking it with his knife.
“I think a picnic sounds lovely,” Miss St.Claire said, smiling at Henry and trying to angle her face so as to catch his eye. But he was glowering at his plate and would not look at her.
“Will your father be joining us?” Sylvia asked.
“Of course! The more the merrier, I say.” There seemed to be no limit to Mr. Brandon’s enthusiasm for his plan. “What about it, Henry? Can you have your excellent kitchen staff put together a picnic for us?”
Henry pushed his plate away. “Of course I can, Mr. Brandon.” He looked at me, and his eyes were hard like flecks of granite, something like accusation in his expression. “If you all are eager to go along with this plan.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Why would we not be? It sounds like a fun adventure.”
He shrugged, shoved his chair back from the table, and stood. “Then we shall meet in the foyer at noon.” He nodded briefly to us before walking away without another word.
I watched his retreating back and wondered what he had against Mr. Brandon’s plan. I tried to remember if Henry had ever mentioned a ruined abbey to me. He had spent hours telling me stories of Blackmoore. Or rather, he had spent hours answering my questions about Blackmoore. But I could not remember ever hearing him tell of a ruined abbey. I wondered why.
The walk across the moors to the ruined abbey was fraught with awkwardness. Sylvia still had not spoken to me since our conversation the night before. She stayed apart the entire walk, placing herself close to the elder Mr. Brandon. Miss St.Claire had a very firm grip on Henry’s arm and seemed intent on never leaving his side. Henry did not smile or laugh—he did not look at all like he was enjoying himself, and he had not spoken to me either. The only person, in fact, who seemed at all inclined to talk to me was the younger Mr. Brandon, who was full of enthusiasm for everything about the day, the weather, the walk, the food we would be eating, the sky, the ocean, and anything else that caught his attention.
We walked in the middle of the group, with Henry and Miss St.Claire at the front and Sylvia and the elder Mr. Brandon bringing up the rear. Servants led two ponies that carried the materials for our picnic. The sun shone down on us in a clear blue sky, but the wind whipped at our bonnets and hats and skirts. We followed a rough trail through the heather and bracken, and it suddenly struck me that neither of my two best friends was speaking to me.
This was not the way this visit was supposed to go. We were supposed to be here together at Blackmoore, at last, and we were supposed to enjoy every moment, and there was not supposed to be any awkward silence or strangers coming between us. Anger and frustration rose up within me until I hated the sight of Henry’s back and Miss St.Claire’s arm tucked through his. I hated Sylvia’s silence.
We topped a rise in the moors, and I could see the ruined abbey stretched below us. I caught my breath and my feet slowed, then stopped, as I took in the sight. The scattered towers and crumbled walls and arched, blackened window openings rose in a sea of green grass. It was so very lovely, in a wild and ruined way.
When I pulled my gaze away, I found Henry watching me, a look of expectation in his eyes.
“There it is!” Mr. Brandon called next to me. “The ruined abbey! Come, Miss Worthington! Let us be the first to explore it!” He grabbed hold of my hand and pulled me along, grinning back at me with his wide smile. His hand felt strong and warm wrapped around mine. And I did not mind the feeling at all.
Rooks wheeled about in the sky, claiming the highest tower as their own. Their calls were harsh and vulnerable at the same time, their black shapes foreboding above me. The abbey was magnificent. The building itself was magnificent, but its ruin was magnificent also. I was drawn to the crumbling stone, the roofless walls, and the blank, blackened windows.
After exploring for half an hour, we sat in the shade of one of the towers. Our picnic was placed before us on the blanket we sat on. The sun slipped behind a cloud, and the wind cast a chill over us. It was not just the wind that chilled the outing, though. It was Henry’s silence and his accusing looks whenever I met his gaze. I wanted nothing more than to pull him aside and ask him what he had to accuse me of. And then I wanted Henry my friend back so that I could ask him to grant me my wish and make it possible for me to go to India.
I nibbled on a cucumber sandwich while listening with only half my attention to Mr. Brandon’s exclamations about the glory of the ruins. He had not left my side during the entire outing. Miss St.Claire had done the same with Henry. Now she sat beside him, and I watched how thoughtfully she treated him. I watched how she noticed the food on his plate and offered him more strawberries and poured his lemonade before the servant had a chance to wait on him. I watched her gaze settle affectionately on his face when he spoke. I watched the elegance of her actions and heard the lilt of her laugh and noted that even the dirt did not seem to want to spoil her white gown.
She was too good. I wanted to hate her, yet to hate her would be a greater condemnation of my own faults than of hers.
I did not want to watch Miss St.Claire and Henry any longer. Brushing off my hands, I sat up and said, “Henry, tell us about the smugglers here.”
He looked at me. “What about them?”
“Aha! You admit there are smugglers! I have finally caught you!”
He smiled at me. It was the first smile he had given me all day, and the force of it made me catch my breath. “You infer too much,” he said.
“Are there truly smugglers in these parts?” the younger Mr. Brandon asked.
A look of irritation flashed over Henry’s face, and his smile vanished completely. He looked ready to say something curt to Mr. Brandon, but Sylvia spoke up before he could.
“We always hear rumors of smuggling, especially in Robin Hood’s Bay. But there is nothing to worry about now. Mother would never stand for anything inappropriate happening at Blackmoore.”
&nbs
p; “I surely hope so,” Miss St.Claire said, her large green eyes opened even wider than usual.
The elder Mr. Brandon nodded his head and offered another sandwich to Sylvia, which she accepted with a bashful smile. Henry said nothing. He only continued to frown at the younger Mr. Brandon, who had just asked me if I would like to explore the ruins some more.
I watched Henry from the corner of my eye as his jaw clenched and he scowled at the rooks wheeling above us. I wondered what about this lovely day had put him in such a foul temper. I stood and brushed the grass from my skirt. “I would like that very much, Mr. Brandon,” I said. But it was a lie. What I would really have liked was for all of these strangers to go away and leave me here alone with Henry and the ruins and the birds.
The walk to the ruined abbey, the exploration of its crumbling form, the picnic, and the return to Blackmoore took the greater part of the afternoon. As pleasant as Mr. Brandon’s company was, I wished the whole time for the company of only Henry and Sylvia. But not Henry and Sylvia as they were behaving today: angry and cold, respectively. I wanted the Henry and Sylvia who had been my dearest friends all my life. What had happened to us? And how had it happened in such a short time?
And then there was the need to speak to Henry alone. I had to ask him for my proposals. This day, just as much as last night, solidified the rightness of my decision to leave. There was no happy life for me here. Sylvia would marry and move away. Henry would marry Miss St.Claire, and they would live together at Blackmoore, and I would most likely never see him again. And I would be left home, alone, with no prospects and no independence. No. It was India or a caged life.
But Henry was impossible to speak to alone. At every opportunity when I might have had a quiet word with him, Miss St.Claire was at his side, finding a reason to touch his arm, or smile at him, or find an errant streak of sunlight to illuminate the copper in her hair. She was altogether too pretty, and worse than that, she seemed to know it.
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