Blackmoore

by Julianne Donaldson

  Henry rubbed a hand over his face, then stood and walked to the window and looked outside for a long time—so long that I gave up waiting for him and pulled the top book off my own stack and cracked it open. But I was only two pages into my study of the life of Mozart when Henry returned to the table, sat down, and picked up his book.

  “Would you like me to tell you about Faust?” He offered me a smile. “I will translate for you.”

  I closed my book. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

  Chapter 35

  Present Day

  “Good morning.”

  I cleared my throat and tried again for something louder than the ragged whisper I had just produced.

  “Good morning, sir.” That was a little bit better. Mama pushed me forward, making me stumble into Henry’s grandfather’s room. I glared at her over my shoulder. “I told you I would do this. Please stop pushing me.”

  She waved her hands at me. “Just get on with it. I’ll be standing guard out in the hall. That servant will discover he wasn’t needed in the kitchens and be back here in under five minutes, unless Maria can distract him.” With another shove at my back, she cleared me of the door, which she shut firmly behind me, leaving me in the dim room.

  Henry’s grandfather was not sitting in his normal chair by the window. He sat up in bed with a tray of food beside him. At the sound of the door closing he looked up, his grey eyes settling on me for a moment.

  “Kate Worthington,” he said, his gravelly voice quiet in the still room.

  My heart pounded out a message that this was all wrong—that I could not go through with this. But I had made a bargain, and bargains had to be fulfilled. I stepped toward him. “Yes. Good morning, sir. I hope you are well today.”

  At my approach, his gaze shifted from me to the door. His fingers clutched at the blanket covering his lap, twitching at it, and his gaze twitched too, back and forth, between me and the door. His legs moved restlessly, and when I reached his bedside, a panicked look filled his eyes.

  “Will you ...” He licked his lips, his fingers pulling at the threads of his blanket. “Will you go outside and close the door and then come back in again?”

  I stopped, looked at him closely, and said, “Of course.”

  My heart beat fast with the feeling that something was not right. I walked to the door, opened it, and passed through the doorway into the hall. Mama saw me and came toward me, but I shook my head at her as I closed the door, waited a moment, and then opened it again. He was waiting for me to come back in. His look was alert and suspicious and worried. As I stood again inside his room he said to me, “Now ... which Kate are you?”

  Dread and fear pooled in my stomach. I looked around, as if I could find an answer to his madness here in the room. “I am Kate, sir. Kate Worthington.”

  “Whose Kate Worthington?”

  I swallowed hard. I was certainly not Henry’s Kate. And I was not my mother’s or my father’s. I was, in fact ...

  “Nobody’s. I am nobody’s Kate.”

  His gaze pierced me for a moment before he closed his eyes and began to move his head back and forth, back and forth, while muttering, “Nobody’s Kate. Nobody’s Kate. Nobody’s Kate.”

  It made my heart quicken with fear. Dismay filled me. I should not have come here. I should never have seen this. Backing up slowly, I reached for the door handle and quietly eased the heavy door open.

  Mama stood right outside the door, leaning toward it eagerly. “Well? What did he say?”

  I shook my head. “Come away from here, Mama. He is not well today. We must leave.” My hands were shaking.

  “Nonsense.” She brushed past me. “Every man can be persuaded. Even the mad ones.”

  I watched with dread as she entered his room. Upon seeing her, his eyes grew wide, fear and alarm etched in his wrinkled face. He dived under his blankets, lifting the covers so roughly that the tray of food clattered to the floor, and pulled the blanket over his head. She reached for the blanket, as if she would pull it off him, like forcing a turtle from its shell.

  “No!” I yelled, suddenly terrified for him. I rushed forward and grabbed her arm. She looked at me with eyes wide with shock. “You mustn’t do this. Leave him be!” I pulled her even when she tried to push me away, and I did not stop pulling her until I had wrestled her toward the door.

  “What’s this?” The butler appeared in the open doorway. “What are you two doing in here?”

  Mama yanked her arm free of my grip and quickly smoothed her hair, shooting me a dark look before turning to the butler with a smile.

  “My silly daughter was trying to give me a tour of the house, and she became completely turned around, I’m afraid. Perhaps you could tell us how to reach the main staircase.”

  The butler looked from us to the bed, where Henry’s grandfather hid under his blanket, to the food scattered all over the rug. My cheeks burned with embarrassment when he turned his accusing glance my way.

  “I shouldn’t leave my master at the moment,” he said, his tone clipped, his expression bordering on hostile. “However, I am sure you can find your way out of this area well enough on your own.”

  Mama lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Her face was red, her hair escaping its pins from our struggle a moment before. She looked wild and fierce, and she said in a haughty tone, “No matter. I shouldn’t like your assistance even if you were to offer it.”

  “Come, Mama,” I murmured. “We should go.”

  She spun on her heel and strode to the door. But at the door she paused and said to me in a loud voice, “Take heed, Kitty, and remember this lesson: An ill-trained servant is the mark of a weak and sloppy master.”

  Shame burned through me. Putting a hand on her back, I pushed her through the doorway and did not stop pushing until she was in the corridor and I had shut the door behind us. As soon as I dropped my hand, she whirled around and faced me. Her steel-trap eyes were blazing with anger and indignation.

  “How dare you push me from a room?” she hissed. “How dare you set a hand on me to turn me away from what I want?”

  I said nothing. I couldn’t speak past the shame that choked me.

  “You have made a grave error today, Kitty.” She pointed a finger at me. Her voice trembled. “A very grave error, indeed.”

  I thought of the mistle thrush singing against a storm. I thought of perching myself high on a tower and singing into a gale and never stopping. Power and resolve surged through me. I turned around, and I walked away from her. It was what I should have done last night or this morning.

  “In fact,” she called, “I no longer think you deserve Henry. I think I shall have Maria trap him instead. You shall have Mr. Cooper.”

  I kept walking.

  “What do you think of that, Kitty? What do you think of this end to your bargain? You will not have your precious India after all. You shall have old Mr. Cooper. In fact, I shall write to him immediately and tell him you have accepted his offer.”

  I reached the staircase and slid my hand onto the smooth wood banister.

  Her laughter rang out louder than my steps. “So you see, child. You see? I have won in the end. Just as I always knew I would.”

  Chapter 36

  Something was different about the small music room. I sensed it as soon as I crossed its threshold. The pianoforte stood in its proper place. The drapes were pulled back, letting in the weak light of an overcast morning. The painting of Icarus hung in its accustomed spot, guarding the entrance to the secret tunnel.

  I looked around, trying to pinpoint what had changed in the room. I closed my eyes and stood very still and listened. And then I realized what was missing. There was no sense of stirring here. My eyes flew open, and I crossed the room with quick strides, worrying that Miss St.Claire had already done something—that she had already taken my dark bird away.

  The cage stood where it always had. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of its curved bars. But two steps a
way from it, I faltered, then stopped and stared at the empty perches. My hand crept to my throat. My dark bird lay still, on its side, on the floor of its cage.

  I sank onto a chair as sadness threatened to overwhelm me. I felt in my bones that I was responsible for this tragedy. That lifeless body was somehow my fault. Touching the bars of the gilded cage, I wondered what had caused its death. Was it injured when it beat itself against the bars? Was it the night of freedom it had enjoyed? Or was it returning to its cage after experiencing that freedom?

  I sat there in silence for a very long time. And after a long time of feeling only sadness and grief over the loss of this bird without a song, I felt something else. I felt some truth rise up within myself. And the truth was that I was just a broken thing who never should have dreamed of having wings. The truth was that nobody was going to open my cage for me and that I was a fool ever to believe I could escape.

  Closing my eyes, I considered my options for my future. I could give in to Mama’s demands and speak with Henry’s grandfather. I could ask him to change his will. Or I could continue to fight her and return home with her, where she would wield her persuasive force to make me marry Mr. Cooper. Or I could go home meekly and do ... what? At every possibility I faced another cage. I could be caged by my own betrayal of my feelings, or I could be caged by an unwanted marriage, or I could be caged by going nowhere and realizing none of my dreams.

  Everywhere I turned in my mind’s eye I saw cages. And considering my future, I thought, This, too, is death.

  “Miss Worthington?”

  I lifted my head.

  “You are just the person I was looking for.”

  Herr Spohr crossed the room to me, gripping a bundle of papers, his hair even wilder than usual. “I hoped you might be here.” He looked at me, then looked harder. “Is something wrong, Fräulein? You are not well?”

  I shook my head. “I was just thinking, Herr Spohr.”

  “Oh? Of what?”

  I could not look away from the limp body and the dark feathers spilled across the bottom of the cage. “I never learned what kind of bird this was. I never heard its song,” I murmured.

  “Fräulein?”

  I pulled my gaze from the birdcage. “I was thinking of Faust, actually.”

  He sat in the chair next to mine and leaned toward me. “What is it you were considering?”

  I gestured at the birdcage. “I was wondering if he could have been content, before his bargain with the devil. Do you think it was his restlessness that led to his doom? Could he have bridled his passions? Subdued his restlessness? Could he have been happy in a cage?”

  Herr Spohr’s eyes lit up with interest. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hand over his head, further disturbing his already untidy hair. “Hmm. You pose an interesting question, Miss Worthington.” He peered into the birdcage. “A very interesting question. Was Faust’s restlessness the cause of his fall? Perhaps. His yearning for more? Definitely. Could he have changed his nature, fundamentally, so that he no longer yearned for more? So that he was not, fundamentally, restless?” He lifted one shoulder. “That is a difficult question to answer. A pointless one, as well, I think, in Faust’s case. A better question is what he might have done differently with his restless nature. He did not have to make a bargain with the devil, for instance. He might have had just as much success in life by using his own knowledge and wit and talent.”

  I thought about his words. This was not the answer I was looking for. I had already made my bargain. I had to live with the consequences. I could not go back in time and remake that decision.

  “Well, then, let us say he has made his bargain,” I said. “Do you think it was worth it to him?”

  “Is anything worth being damned in hell?” Herr Spohr shrugged. “I doubt it very much.”

  I rubbed my nose. This was not helpful at all.

  “But I have come with something for you, Miss Worthington.” Herr Spohr handed me the bundle of papers he carried. “I believe this might suit you very well. It might suit your Faustian struggle. That was what I was trying to tell you the other night, at dinner. That your playing reminded me greatly of Faust’s great struggle. I heard that restlessness in your fight with the music. And I think this might be better for you.”

  I looked at the sheet music, my gaze catching on the name at the top of the composition. “This is an original? One of yours?”

  “Yes.” Herr Spohr stood. “One of my Romantic pieces. Try it. See how it fits with your demon.”

  “But I do not know how to play Romantic music.”

  He waved a hand, a casual gesture. “Let your demon decide how to play it. There are no rules.”

  He began to walk away but then stopped at the door and turned back to me. “I forgot to mention: there is more than one version of Faust’s story. In my opera, he is damned for eternity to pay for his mistakes. He must fulfill the terms of his bargain. But there are other versions—versions that end well for him. He is saved by the innocent and lovely Gertrude, who pleads his case in heaven.” He gestured at the birdcage and smiled kindly. “Something worth remembering. There may be more than one option to what some would consider a foregone conclusion. And perhaps it was not its restlessness that killed the bird, but the cage itself.”

  His words burrowed into my mind, finding room to take root among the miseries there. I stared at the cage for a long time before walking to the pianoforte. I sat on the stool and spread out the papers. I took a deep breath, set my fingers to the keys, and began to play Herr Spohr’s “Meine Kleine Vogel.”

  It was not Mozart. It was not like Mozart at all. These notes were not obedient little soldiers marching in their proper ranks. These notes were wild things that flew like rooks above a crumbling tower. My inner demon recognized this music as the dark, unleashed thing it was. And after an hour of playing, my inner demon had whipped itself into a fury. It flew into the banished corners of my soul and swept up the accumulated grief and frustration and anger of years. It whipped it all into a torrent until tears streamed down my face while my fingers flew across the keys. And my inner demon told me I must fly. It told me I must make a choice now or else I would always feel caged and helpless and powerless and small. I listened to my demon and my heart, until the fury and the torrent had gathered itself into a great surge of courage. Then I stopped playing, picked up the music, and ran from the room.

  Chapter 37

  Alice was surprised to have me ring for her in the middle of the day. I could see it on her face as she rushed into my room. Mama and Maria were with the other guests, no doubt trying to cause another scandal, and I shut the door and locked it behind Alice before turning to her, hope and despair raging within me.

  “I need your help, and I am afraid you will not want to help me.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What do you need, miss?”

  “I need to escape from Blackmoore tonight. I need to find a way to get safely to London.”

  Alice’s eyes opened wide. “You’re running away?”

  Nervousness pounded through me. I swallowed hard. “I am.” I crossed the room to where my traveling trunk stood, lifted the lid, and took the ivory-inlaid box from within. “I know it is a lot to ask,” I said. “I am sure my aunt will be willing to pay you something for your troubles. But I also want to pay you. Here.” I held out the box toward her. “It is very valuable. It’s inlaid with real ivory. You can keep it, or you can sell it in London.”

  She shook her head, pushing out a hand to reject my offering. “No, miss. I won’t take that.”

  My heart fell. “I can pay you something else. I just—”

  “No. I’m sorry. You misunderstood me.” A smile crept across her face. “I will help you. But there are some favors that can’t be bought, and some kindnesses that should only be given freely.”

  “But this is a very large favor you are doing for me.” I thought of all the other favors I had bought from others—all the bargains I had made and the mistakes
I had paid for. Surely this would cost me as well.

  “Aye, but my sisters would not hear of it, miss.” Her reserved face broke into a wide smile.

  I gave her a questioning look.

  “Mary and Katherine. The girls you gave the sweets to. They told me how kind you were—how you came to the house—how you comforted them in the street, even though you didn’t know them. So I will do for you what I would do for any friend of mine.”

  I shook my head and looked down, embarrassed. “It was nothing. Just a few sweets from the bakery.”

  “It made you one of ours.” She said it like a declaration—she was claiming me. The words “nobody’s Kate” filled my mind. I banished them. Perhaps they were not entirely true. Tears stung my eyes.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Will you be returning to India, Mr. Pritchard?” Mama leaned closer to the rude gentleman, whose mustache held the remnants of his dinner.

  Mr. Pritchard glanced at her out of the corner of his eye before grunting and nodding his head curtly.

  Mama still had not grasped what was obvious to everyone else in the drawing room: the man she had chosen to flirt with had no interest in flirting back.

  “Oh, what a shame!” she said. “You really ought to settle down somewhere nearby, so that we can become better acquainted.”

  Miss St.Claire smiled across her teacup. “But surely, Mr. Pritchard, you will not leave soon. You will want to stay for any ... momentous occasion that may be happening shortly among your friends. Will you not?”

  I looked away so I would not be tempted to look at Henry. I did not want to see his reaction to Miss St.Claire’s thinly veiled hint about their upcoming nuptials. Even though Henry and I had occupied the same rooms for more than three hours this evening, I had done a remarkably good job of avoiding him. I had done so well, in fact, that I had not so much as looked at his face once—not during the long dinner, nor afterward, in the drawing room. He had not spoken a word to me. He had not come near me, either. But when I thought of what he had heard me say the night before—those words about preferring Mr. Cooper to him—I did not wonder at his distance. But not wondering about it and not feeling the pain of it, the guilt, and the fresh stab of loss—that was a different thing entirely.