“Do you think it will live?” I asked through my tears.
“Hold it close to you for warmth,” he said. “And let’s get it dry as soon as possible.”
Wiping my streaming nose, I sniffed and looked up at him. “Thank you,” I said, as tears continued to pour down my cheeks. He nodded. His cheeks were red with the cold, and his hair was plastered to his head. But his eyes were so kind, so full of compassion, that he had never looked more handsome to me. I do have eyes, Eleanor, I thought. And at the thought of my sister, the same protective surge I felt for Henry earlier rose in me again, even more fiercely this time.
“Are you hurt, Kitty?” he asked.
I shook my head. I could not explain to him why I was crying so and why this kitten’s life was worth risking my own. I could not tell him about Mama and Eleanor. But I lifted my chin and said to him with a quivering voice, “I don’t want to be called Kitty anymore.”
A slow smile lifted his lips. “Very well. What do you want to be called instead?”
“Kate.”
His smile widened. “Kate it is, then.”
The kitten meowed, a small, weak sound, and I felt it tremble from the cold. Henry stood and grasped my elbow, pulling me to my feet. “Come. Let’s get you two home.” He walked me to his horse, which was standing near the bank of the river. He must have been riding into the village when he saw me jump into the river.
Stepping in front of me, he put his hands at my waist, ready to lift me onto the horse. But I stopped him. With a hand on his shoulder, I said, “Henry, wait. I must tell you something. It’s important.”
He paused.
“You must stay away from Eleanor.”
He studied my face for a moment before nodding and saying just as seriously, “I will.” It sounded like a promise, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
He helped me up, then climbed on behind me, reaching his arms around me to hold the reins. His chest was broad and warm, and I leaned against him as he took me home.
Chapter 20
Present Day
The birds flew high, crying and wheeling, drawing me back from my reverie. I watched their shapes until they settled back into their roost at the top of the next tower, and I thought of how to answer Henry’s question.
“Those are rooks, you know,” I finally said, nodding up at the top of the tower. “Rooks claim a place as their own, and they stay there for centuries. Generations ago, rooks were here, haunting this tower. The offspring follow the habits of the parents.” I watched the birds settle, then fly again, then settle with another round of cries. “They do not question, do they?” I took a deep breath. “But I do.”
I looked at Henry now and found his gaze on me. “That day you rescued me from the river ...” He nodded. “I was running away from my mother that day. She was in town, with a ... captain ... of the militia.” I blushed and looked away. Even in the dark, I could not look at Henry and tell this story. “She was ... indiscreet. I saw her. I heard what they said to each other. He called her a kitten.” I spit out the word with distaste. “His kitten.”
My hands trembled. I folded my arms tightly across my chest. “It was the first time I had witnessed such a thing. I daresay I had been blind before, or too naïve. But I saw it that day.” Henry was still and quiet beside me. “I am not like her, Henry,” I whispered fiercely, clenching my hands into fists. “I am not.”
“I know,” he said, his voice quiet.
Something calmed within me at his words. He knew. He knew. I breathed. My limbs stopped their trembling. We stood in silence for a long time, until the wind blew a chill through me.
“Is that all?” I asked. “Is that the secret you wanted to know tonight?”
“Yes. That is all.” Henry picked up the lantern and I followed him to the trapdoor. But before he began the climb down, he turned to me and said quietly, “Thank you.”
Chapter 21
“Oh! A letter from my dear friend Miss Louisa Wyndham!” Miss St.Claire’s cheerful voice brought me sharply awake. I had fallen into a brown study while sitting in the morning room with her and Sylvia after breakfast. Most of Mrs. Delafield’s guests were older, married women who took their breakfast in bed and did not come downstairs until hours after we had eaten. So only the three of us occupied the morning room, and I had quickly slipped into my own thoughts while Sylvia and Miss St.Claire chatted. Sleep had not come easily to me last night after sneaking back into my room. I lay awake and thought of Henry taking my hand, of him kneeling before me, of him declaring his love for me.
And to look at Miss St.Claire and imagine him doing those things with her, but to have them be real, sickened me.
“You remember I introduced you to her in Town,” Miss St.Claire continued. “Now that is a well-connected family. Too bad they do not have any more unmarried sons. For your sake.”
I glanced sharply at Sylvia, and she shot me a look of warning in return. Had she not told Miss St.Claire of her attachment to the elder Mr. Brandon?
“Yes, that is too bad,” Sylvia said, giving me another meaningful look.
I smiled at her, letting her know she had nothing to worry about from me. And she smiled back, tremulously, with a hint of relief.
“I shall have to read her letter to you, Sylvia. You will be most interested in what she writes about some of our acquaintances from Town.” She cast a glance at me. “Although I don’t know how interesting this correspondence would be to someone who had never been to Town ...” She folded the letter. “How rude of me, Miss Worthington, to speak in front of you about things you cannot be a part of. I am so sorry. How you must long for a Season! And I understand your mother is not likely to give you one. Well,” she smiled brightly, “never mind. We shall speak of other things while you are here.”
I stood up. “You are too kind, Miss St.Claire. Indeed, you are the epitome of thoughtfulness. But I think I will do something else and let you two have your chat.”
“Where are you going, Kitty?” Sylvia asked.
“I think I’ll explore the house again, since it is too rainy for the moors.”
Miss St.Claire frowned at the window. “It is most unsatisfactory that it has rained two of our three days here. But we shall entertain ourselves. Perhaps later we can play some charades. Or whist. Or we could organize a ball! Oh, let’s do organize a ball. It will be such fun for the other guests. We are responsible for their entertainment, you know, and I would so hate it if any of our guests were to feel bored here.”
I walked across the room, ready to be rid of Miss St.Claire’s exhausting thoughtfulness.
“If it clears up this afternoon, Miss Worthington,” Miss St.Claire called to me before I closed the door, “we should all walk to Robin Hood’s Bay.”
She was so unbelievably kind. She made it most difficult for me to dislike her. I smiled. “I would like that very much.”
But instead of exploring the house immediately, I went to the bird room. Touching the painting of Icarus, I thought again of the tower and Henry’s confession last night. I thought of the secret he had asked for; the memories that had awakened stayed with me all day. I was, for a short time, transported back in time, to three years before, to the days immediately after Henry saved me from the river.
Chapter 22
Three Years Before
The weather had turned unpredictable, and grey skies became the backdrop upon which the stifling boredom of my time played out. Finally, on the fourth day of rain, I took my kitten, bundled her up in an old shawl, and tucked her inside my coat. Then I tied on my bonnet, picked up a parasol, and marched through the woods to Sylvia’s house. I saw Sylvia through the French windows and ran up to knock at them. She hurried to let me, dripping, into the morning room. Luckily her mother was nowhere to be seen.
“I could not stay away any longer,” I announced as she helped me take off my dripping wet coat. “Eleanor has been talking ceaselessly about her latest interest, and I cannot listen to one more syllable about
his many fine qualities.” I held up my scarf-wrapped bundle. “So I have brought my kitten for us to play with.” Sylvia cooed and pulled away the scarf until we could see the kitten’s grey-and-white face, eyes closed in sleep.
“I am so glad you have come,” Sylvia said, taking the kitten from me and cradling it like a baby in her arms. “I have been dying of boredom. Henry too. He has been in the most impatient, short-tempered mood these past few days. Always complaining about the rain and watching out the window.”
My heart quickened, as it had every time I had thought of Henry since he had rescued me from the river. But I said nothing to Sylvia about it. I had told her I found the kitten but not about Henry jumping into the river to save me. It was the first secret I had ever kept from her.
“So what have you decided to name her?” Sylvia asked.
“I haven’t chosen a name yet. I was hoping you could help me think of it.”
Sylvia looked into the kitten’s face. “I think she looks like a Mimi.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Mimi?”
“Yes. Or perhaps Dorothy, and you could call her Dot for short.”
I shook my head.
“Why not? Those are good names.”
“Let’s keep thinking,” I said. Sylvia rattled off more ideas, all of which sounded too silly to me. But I was not paying real attention to her. The impatience that had plagued me for the last four days was as strong as ever. I realized that I was impatient to see Henry. In fact, the longer I sat here in his house without seeing him or hearing his voice, the more restless I became.
Finally I stood and said, “Let’s ask Henry. He always has good ideas.”
Sylvia followed with the kitten, muttering something about having better ideas for a cat’s name than a boy would have.
I knew where Henry would be. He spent most of his afternoons studying at the large round table in the library after spending the morning with his tutor. He took his education very seriously. The window was usually open, bringing a bracing chill into the room, fluttering pages of his books and notes. Today, though, it was closed against the rain, and candles were lit all around to combat the gloom of the overcast day.
“Henry, we need your help,” Sylvia said as we walked into the library.
Henry lifted his head and looked directly at me. I froze where I stood, feeling as if he had just told me a secret with that look. It was new. It was a question and a statement and a quick, hidden secret all at once, and then he glanced back at his work, set down his pen, pushed back his books and papers, and turned to us again. And that dark, secret look was gone. There was only Henry, with a little lift of the corner of his mouth.
“What do you need my help with?” he asked.
She held up my kitten. “We cannot think of a suitable name.”
“Let me see it,” he said, standing and crossing the room toward us. Sylvia handed the kitten to him, and he walked over to the seats in front of the fireplace, where the light was brightest. A rug cushioned the floor, and chairs encircled the warmer space. Sylvia and I followed. Henry sprawled out on the rug, leaning against the settee, and held up the kitten, inspecting her from all angles.
“Whatever you do,” he said, “do not give in to feminine temptation and name it something silly, like Mimi or Dot.”
Sylvia made an outraged sound. I smiled to myself and sat on the floor near Henry.
“There is nothing silly about Mimi or Dot,” Sylvia said, sitting beside me and reaching out for the kitten. As she took the cat from him, Henry glanced at me sideways. He leaned toward me, quickly, while Sylvia was distracted, and whispered in my ear, “Are you well?”
His whispered breath sent a shiver across my neck and down my spine. I nodded. “Are you?” A quick glance at Sylvia. She had her face buried in the kitten’s fur and was saying, “I think Mimi is a fine name. Do you not agree?”
“You have not caught a cold, have you?” I murmured. I did not know why this was a secret between us. I did not know why I didn’t tell Sylvia how Henry had jumped into the river to rescue me. I only knew that I wanted this secret between us. I also knew, with a surge of relief, that Henry felt the same way. My heart lifted, over and over, at the thought.
His mouth quirked up, a sardonic smile, and he shook his head. “I have been swimming in much colder water than that.” I looked down, seeing how close his hand rested next to mine on the rug. “But thank you for your concern, Kate,” he whispered.
A smile sprang to my lips, a quick burst of happiness in my heart, and I threw him a quick glance out of the corner of my eyes, to let him know I had heard him—and there again was that new look, that look that was part question, part secret, part statement. But what he was stating, I could not say. And what he was asking, I had no idea. And the secret, I feared, I would never know.
“Well, if we cannot use Mimi or Dot,” Sylvia said, “you must help us think of another name.”
“It is Kate’s kitten, you know,” Henry said. “Perhaps she should think of her own name.”
“Kate?” Sylvia looked from Henry to me with an expression of confusion. “What is this?”
I reached out and took my kitten from Sylvia, feigning a casual expression as I placed her on the floor and took the piece of yarn from my pocket that I had brought for her to play with. Once she was batting it around with her paws, I lifted my gaze to Sylvia and said, matter-of-factly, “I have decided I wish to be called Kate from now on.”
Sylvia blanched and shook her head. “I could never call you that. You have always been Kitty to me and you always will be.”
That was that, her voice said. My heart sank. Perhaps everyone would feel the same way as Sylvia. If my best friend would not allow me to change, then what hope had I of anyone else giving me that freedom?
I glanced down, watching my kitten, feeling my heart lift and fall. I had felt for quite a while that I had no proper place for my heart. There was no one I could entrust it to. There was too much buying and selling and stealing and ignoring of hearts among the Worthington women. I wanted a safe place for mine. Perhaps this kitten would be a safe keeper of my heart—this gentle creature who did not coerce or bargain or demand anything.
“What is the Latin word for heart?” I asked Henry in a whisper.
“Cor,” he whispered back, leaning toward me as he did. I met his gaze, and his dark grey eyes were looking into mine as if there was another secret—a secret only Henry knew.
“You could name her Cora,” he whispered, a little smile tugging half his mouth upward. “Then nobody would guess.”
He saw me. He saw so much of me, just in that look, and those words told me that he understood. He somehow knew that this cat was a place for my heart to belong and that I would not want anyone to know something so personal. Except for him. For some reason, I did not mind that he knew this secret about me. I leaned away from him just a little and cleared my throat. “Cora. I shall name her Cora.”
Sylvia frowned. “Cora? For a cat?”
I shot her a dark look, my brows furrowed. She might refuse to call me by the name I had chosen for myself, but I would not let her bully me about my cat’s name. After a start of surprise, she said meekly, “I like it.”
When I glanced at Henry, he was watching me with a thoughtful expression, as if I was a new thing he was trying to puzzle out. I liked his watchfulness. I liked his grey, thoughtful eyes. And when he stood and walked back to the table and his books, I watched him go, and I felt, for the first time, the knowledge that I would choose him for a friend over Sylvia.
He slid a book toward an empty chair at the large round table and said, “If you’re interested, either of you, here is a new book from a bookstore in London. About birds.”
Sylvia acted as if she hadn’t heard him speak. She lay sprawled on the rug in front of the fire and dragged her finger over the kitten’s back. I looked from her to the table and back, and then I stood and walked across the library.
“I am interested,” I said,
taking the empty chair and pulling the large book toward me. It was an old, beautifully illustrated collection of drawings of birds, with their names written underneath. I glanced up just as Henry looked down at his book, but I did not miss the small smile that he tucked away, creasing a line in his cheek. I stared at that line for a moment, feeling something shift within me. And then I began my study of birds.
Chapter 23
Present Day
I shook myself awake from my daydream when I heard the bird fluttering about in its cage. Surely I had something better to do than sit in this quiet room and reminisce about things that had happened years before. Taking myself to task for the weakness of my heart, I set about actually accomplishing something.
My wanderings the day before had been focused on finding the painting that hid the entrance to the secret passageway. Today I wanted to see the house as I had wanted to see it as a child—as an endless treasure trove, a place to which Henry and Sylvia went away and came back happy.
I found a part of the house I had not discovered the day before. It was easy to overlook, as the house had been added onto so many times over the centuries that there was no real pattern or logic to its structure. A doorway took me into a wing I had not seen before. It must have been on the back of the house, facing the moors. I walked down the hall but paused at an open door. I heard the soft murmur of a low voice. I eased closer, treading carefully on the old wood floor that I was sure would squeak in places.
The door to the bedchamber stood wide open. I paused outside the doorframe, not hiding but not announcing myself either. It was Henry’s voice I had heard—it was Henry’s voice I knew, even at a distance, even when it was just a murmur. Resting my hand on the doorframe, I watched him quietly as he sat before the large window that overlooked the moors. Two high-backed chairs were drawn before the window, facing each other. Henry’s attention was fixed on the old gentleman sitting in the other chair. The old gentleman’s gaze was fixed on the scene beyond the window.
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