Blackmoore

by Julianne Donaldson

  “The moors are as beautiful as ever,” Henry said. “Aren’t they?” He paused, but his grandfather—it had to be his grandfather—said nothing. “You should have heard what Kate said about them. She called them ugly—so very ugly.” I heard the smile in his voice. “You would have something to say about that, wouldn’t you? You would convince her that they are beautiful, even at this time of year.” He paused again, but still no sound came from his companion. “Do you remember how you always told me to come before the heather was in bloom? You always told me that anyone could find beauty here in the fall, when the heather was bright and the moors were brilliant with color. But it took a real eye to appreciate the beauty in this land the rest of the year. You told me ...” Henry’s voice softened. “You told me that if I was going to be the master of Blackmoore, that I would have to love the land the same way you do.”

  A clicking sound reached my ears, and I tilted my head, wondering what caused the new noise. Then I saw that his grandfather held seashells in his old hands. Now he moved his hands, and the shells clacked together, but still he said nothing, and did not move his gaze from the window.

  “Yes, Kate is here,” Henry said, as if his grandfather had spoken. “I have finally brought her. You remember her, of course. She is the one I made the model for. That was one of the most enjoyable visits I’ve ever had here, Grandfather. The hours we spent working together on that ... the splinters you had to pull out of my fingers ...” A wistful tone had crept into Henry’s voice.

  His grandfather turned his head and looked at Henry. My heart quickened with anticipation. And I forgot that I had not been invited to this scene. I leaned forward, waiting to hear his words.

  “Who?” he said, in a voice that sounded frail and rough from disuse.

  “Kate. Kate is here. At last.” A note of pride and relief colored Henry’s voice.

  The old man shook his head. The shells clacked more loudly in his fumbling hands. “Who are you?”

  My heart fell. After a brief pause, Henry said, “I am Henry, Grandfather.”

  “Henry. Which Henry?”

  “Your grandson.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  The shells clacked more furiously, and several fell to the floor with a clatter. Henry leaned over and picked them up, setting them gently in his grandfather’s lap, and covered his old hands with his.

  “Never mind,” he said in a quiet voice. But I saw, in his profile, a broken look on his face. “I have rambled on too long. Shall I read to you instead?”

  Grandfather pointed a trembling finger at the stack of books on the low table in front of them. Henry picked up the top book, looked at it, then set it aside. He did the same with two more books. The fourth book brought a smile to his face, and he asked, “Would Shakespeare suit you?”

  The old man nodded briefly. His gaze turned back to the window, and as Henry cracked the cover of the book, the clicking of the shells quieted.

  Henry’s voice reached me like a lullaby. I closed my eyes and listened to him read the words I had heard him read before, years ago.

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove:

  O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

  That looks on tempests, and is never shaken,

  It is the star to every wandering bark,

  Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

  Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

  Henry’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, and a tear fell on my cheek. I leaned against the doorframe, weak with sorrow, my hand pressed over my breaking heart. I heard his roughly drawn breath, and then he went on:

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

  If this be error, and upon me proved,

  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

  I kept my eyes closed as his voice faded, feeling the full measure of devotion of this young man for the grandfather who had forgotten him.

  “Again, please,” his grandfather said.

  I opened my eyes in time to see Henry reach out and place another fallen shell in his grandfather’s hands. He started reading again, and I backed up carefully, knowing I had stayed too long. I had seen and heard many things in my life that I had not been invited to. I had regretted eavesdropping more times than I could count. It was always too hard on my heart.

  I walked away with soft footsteps and tried to shut my heart to what I had witnessed. But my heart protested the closing, and stayed open, tender and raw, and it whispered to me, There is nothing more beautiful in the natural world than what you have just seen. There is nothing more moving than that devotion, that steadfast love.

  But I shushed my heart. I did not want to be told such things, and I certainly did not want to feel. I did not want beauty to move me. I did not want to be won over by my heart. This was my path. This was how I would change the course of my life: by rejecting everything that Worthington women did naturally.

  Chapter 24

  Two and a Half Years Before

  I was spending more and more time in the library at Delafield Manor. I now had a stack of my own books on one side of the table, and when I was not reading, I was debating with Henry. He had a tutor all morning, and so he had plenty of time to learn more than I did. It took most of my afternoons to feel even halfway caught up with the progress he was making. My own mother cared little for my education, just as she cared little that I spent most of my day away from home.

  Sylvia was content to lie in front of the fire and dangle a piece of yarn for the kitten to play with. When I needed a break from my more rigorous studies of philosophy and science, I always turned back to the illustrated book on birds. My greatest frustration, though, was being unable to hear their calls for myself. Surely I had heard them—everyone hears birdsong. But I wanted to know them individually, to be able to identify them and connect each bird with its song.

  “Have you ever heard the call of a woodlark?” I asked Henry.

  He looked up from his notes. He was writing a paper comparing the Greek myths of Icarus and Phaeton, a subject we had discussed at length the previous afternoon. “I can’t say that I have,” he said, casting his gaze on my open book.

  I sighed.

  “What?”

  I shrugged. “I would just like to be able to hear some of these calls.”

  “Our gamekeeper is a great birder. I could ask him about it.”

  “Would you?” I looked up, finding Henry’s eyes right on me. He looked at me in silence for a moment, and I remembered, just as if it was happening again, how he had pulled me to safety—how strong he was when he had lifted me onto his horse—how he had called me Kate when I asked him to.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, a little smile curving up one side of his mouth. “I would do that for you, Kate.”

  He looked down then, with a smile tugging at his lips. He pressed it away, and a line creased his cheek, near his mouth. I stared at that crease, feeling something melt inside of me.

  It was full dark when the pebble hit my window. I jerked awake, then immediately cursed myself for oversleeping. I was not even dressed yet. Scrambling out of bed, I lurched toward the window and threw it open.

  Leaning my head and shoulders out, I looked down and spied Henry standing near the rose bushes beneath my window. “I need to dress,” I whisper-called. “Wait just a moment.”

  “Be quick about it. Carson said this is the perfect time.”

  I had my clothes already stuffed under my pillow. And not for the first time, I was grateful I did not share a room with any of my sisters. I hurried to pull on my dress, two pairs of my thickest stockings, and my boots. The laces were tricky in the dark, but I wasn’t going to risk lighting a candle and being caug
ht. I was ready in record time. Henry was pacing impatiently under the window, and when I was halfway out he softly called out, “Just jump and I’ll catch you.”

  “I can do this,” I hissed, searching for my customary footholds in the lattice. I felt clumsy. After a few fumbling steps down the lattice, I felt Henry grip my ankle.

  “I have you,” he said, and knowing he could catch me if I needed him, I hurried down the rest of the way until he grabbed me by my waist and pulled me away from the wall, setting me down on my feet. He gave me not a second to catch my breath but grabbed my hand and started running for the woods.

  I ran too, looking over my shoulder to check for any lights in the house—for any sign that I had been heard and was about to be discovered. But the windows stayed black, and the full moon lit our way. I grinned and faced the woods, and the clearing, and the birds that awaited.

  Carson was an old man. As old as the land, it seemed. He waited in the clearing, and when we crashed through the last of the trees, panting and laughing with the thrill of our adventure, he shushed us as if we were naughty children.

  I had known him as long as I had known all the servants at Delafield Manor. It had been a second home to me, and the people there were like a second family. Carson, a man of very few words, always tipped his hat to me and always had a shy smile for me.

  I sidled up next to him and said, “Thank you for doing this.”

  He nodded briefly, a curt acknowledgment of my words.

  “Your arthritis is not bothering you this morning, is it?”

  “No, Miss Katherine.” His voice was low and gruff.

  Henry moved closer to us, his warmth blanketing that side of my body from the chill of the morning. “Have you heard them yet, Carson?”

  “How can a soul hear a thing a’tall, with you two blathering on the way you are?” he muttered.

  I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh and felt Henry’s shoulders shaking silently beside me.

  “This way.” Carson nodded his head toward the woods on the other side of the clearing—the Delafield side. When he finally stopped his slow creeping through the trees, the sky was beginning to change, imperceptibly, from night to morning. A lightening was taking place all around us, and when we crouched down and sat, surrounded by bushes, the ground was wet with dew. I sat between Henry and Carson and close to them both, letting them warm me as the wet grass seeped through both layers of my skirts. Carson lifted one finger, warning us with a look to keep quiet, and then cupped his hand to hisear.

  Henry flashed me a smile full of excitement and anticipation. I gripped my hands together tightly and leaned toward the clearing. We were just on the edge of the clearing, where we could see and hear the birds both in the woods and in the clearing. Here was our best chance, according to Carson, of hearing a woodlark.

  Birdsong started softly, but as the sky lightened, and the birds emerged from their roosts to forage for breakfast, it was all around us. Every time we heard a different song, Carson would whisper, “Blackbird,” or “Swallow,” or “Thrush.” And still we waited, until the sky was golden and peach and the lightest of blues all at once, and I held my breath and hoped. I hoped for a woodlark, more than anything.

  And then, a new sound, and I felt Carson go still beside me. I looked at Henry, with wide eyes, as the air was filled with a high, haunting song. A piercing, downward spiral of notes that ended in melancholy before beginning again and again.

  “There he is,” Carson whispered. “Woodlark.”

  I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply and let the birdsong fill my soul with melancholy and heartache and beauty. And when it ended, I pressed a hand to my chest, making sure my heart was still in one piece, before opening my eyes. I had to blink away tears, and I turned my head to see Henry, to make sure he had heard it too.

  Henry was watching me, and I saw in his eyes the same thing I felt in my own heart. I saw the heartache and the beauty.

  He leaned toward me, and his breath brushed my neck, sending a shiver down my spine as he whispered in my ear, “What do you think of your birdsong?”

  I paused, feeling my heart swell with so much emotion I wondered how I would be able to contain it all. “It was ...” I shook my head. “It was the most hauntingly beautiful thing I have ever heard.”

  His gaze swept over my face, his eyes looking like a reflection of my heart, all dammed emotion threatening to overflow. “Yes,” he said, his voice low, only for my ears. “Hauntingly beautiful.” He reached up and brushed away the hair that had fallen over my eyes, with a gentle touch and a familiarity that awakened me and startled me. “That is exactly what I was thinking.”

  My breath came brokenly, and my heart was beating much too fast. In fact, in that still moment, with the sun pouring gold into the air and Henry’s hair still rumpled from sleep, his freckles still showing in that dusting across his cheeks, his eyes that charcoal grey, and his gaze settling on me with an unexplained weight—with the stubble on his jaw and the curve of his mouth and the breadth of his shoulders—I caught my breath, realizing that there was just as much poignant beauty in the face before me as there had been in the birdsong.

  In an instant, everything changed. I felt more than just the melting I had felt with Henry before. I felt a sudden flame—a burning—and I was immediately consumed by it. My face turned hot, and I looked away from him, but not before I saw a little smile twitch Henry’s lips. I found Carson watching me.

  “Well, Miss Katherine?”

  I cleared my throat. “It was beautiful. Thank you,” I added, moving to stand. My legs had gone numb, and I wobbled on my feet until Henry stood beside me and gripped my elbow. “Stamp your feet. It will help.”

  Blushing, I kept my face down, as if I needed to focus all of my attention on my tingling feet. “I should be getting home. Before I am missed.”

  “I’ll walk you there,” Henry said, but I moved away from him and flashed him a bright smile, covering up my pounding heart and my shaking legs.

  “No!” The word came out sharper than I intended. I did not feel quite myself. In fact, I did not feel at all myself. My heart was on fire, and I was terrified that it showed in my face. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. Thank you again, Carson. Thank you, Henry.” And then I hurried away, as fast as my trembling legs could carry me, but I did not go home. I hid behind a tree just outside the rim of my garden, and I pressed a hand to my chest and wondered what had happened to my heart.

  Chapter 25

  Present Day

  Miss St.Claire kept her promise, finding me that afternoon when the sky cleared to tell me we would all three of us take a walk to Robin Hood’s Bay. When I met her and Sylvia in the entry hall, Miss St.Claire carried a basket of food. “For the poor,” she told me, gesturing to it with one graceful hand. “It is the duty of every lady blessed enough to be in my position to be mindful of those less fortunate.”

  “Indeed,” I muttered.

  As we walked down the hill to the town and I watched Miss St.Claire carry that basket with a sunny smile on her face, it struck me how perfectly suited she was for her station in life. I could see why Mrs. Delafield had chosen her for Henry. I could easily envision her as the mistress of Blackmoore. She had been trained for this position. She had prepared all her life to take her rightful place at Henry’s side. And the truth I could not deny was that she would make him proud. She would be proper and lovely and thoughtful and generous and absolutely predictable in every way. For all of these reasons, I heartily disliked her.

  The street into Robin Hood’s Bay was steep and cobbled, following the path of a ravine to the sea. The red-roofed cottages tumbled down the slope, all angles and tenacious grasping to land that looked anxious to tumble into the sea as well. I could guess that a hard living was earned here by fishermen with hands that were cracked and brown, weathered faces that looked like the wind itself had etched the lines in them the same way it pushed the waves and marked the sand. I admired these families, pitting their wil
l to survive against the will of the sea to devour them and their houses and their town as well.

  Miss St.Claire drew closer to me, her basket bumping against my side.

  “Surely such a quaint village should not smell so strongly of fish,” she said, pressing a gloved hand to her nose and looking at the ground. The cobblestones were wet, and the smell of fish was very strong. But what did she expect from a fishing village?

  “One would think these fishermen’s wives could keep their streets a little cleaner,” she said as she stepped around a woman hanging her wash on a line. I saw the dark look the woman cast Miss St.Claire, but the elfin queen did not seem to notice. “I believe I shall do something kind for them. Perhaps I shall teach them how to keep their streets and homes clean so it does not smell quite so bad here.”

  She fanned at her face with one white-gloved hand. “Thank heavens it doesn’t smell like this at Blackmoore.”

  Then, as if suddenly remembering her basket, she paused, drew out a bundle of food, and held it out to the woman hanging her wash.

  The woman wiped her wet hands on her apron, her look still dark with suspicion as she took the bundle from Miss St.Claire.

  “Here is some food, courtesy of Mr. Henry Delafield of Blackmoore.”

  The woman bobbed a small curtsy and muttered a gruff thank-you before thrusting the food at a child by her side. She went back to her washing, and Miss St.Claire turned her sunny smile on the street and the people in front of her.