Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
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 crossing 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.”
“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.
By the time we returned to Blackmoore, it was time to dress for dinner. And dinner was a grand affair with all forty guests in the grand dining room. I was seated next to Herr Spohr, far down the table from Henry and Sylvia. I did not mind, though, as I had something important to ask of him.
“Herr Spohr, I believe we had some sort of misunderstanding last night. When you took my music away from me.”
I watched him chew a piece of roasted duck. He chewed it for what seemed a long time while I awaited his response. I had to have misunderstood his intentions last night. Gentlemen did not walk around confiscating the belongings of young ladies. His behavior was so highly irregular. Surely there was some explanation for it.
He finally swallowed, looked at me briefly, and shook his head. “No. Mozart is not good for you.”
“But it belongs to me. You cannot just take something that belongs to someone else.”
He speared another piece of duck. “It is for your own good, meine kleine Vogel. Trust me.”
At a loss, I shook my head and would have felt inclined to resent his heavy-handed attitude, were it not for the rather charming combination of his wild hair and his German accent and the term he called me. Little bird. And I did feel rather in awe of him—a real composer. A professional musician. I respected him, despite his unorthodox methods of separating young musicians from their musical geniuses.
“Do you know Faust, Miss Worthington?”
I sat up straight. “What?”
“Faust.” He regarded me steadily, his eyes a deep blue.
My heart lurched in my chest. My gaze darted across the room, to where Henry sat at the head of the table with Miss St.Claire at his right hand. His gaze was down, his dark hair shone in the candlelight, and he occupied that seat of authority with a casual grace that could not be taught, only earned. I looked away and tried not to think of the morning I had first heard of Faust. I nodded. “Yes. A little.”
“What do you know?” Herr Spohr had set down his fork and was regarding me with the unwavering attention of a tutor for his pupil.
“Faust was a brilliant man who yearned for more than he already had. He struck a bargain with the devil—with Mephistopheles. He bargained away his soul in exchange for greater wisdom, greater favors, greater accomplishments.”
“And in the end?” Herr Spohr prompted.
I swallowed. “In the end, he lost his soul.”
Herr Spohr nodded, his hair flopping with the movement. “Yes, Fräulein. That is good. You know the important things. The ambition. The restlessness. The greed. The great struggle for more.” He rubbed a hand over the top of his head. “I wrote an opera about him, you know. About Faust.” He picked up his fork and speared another piece of meat. I watched him, waiting for more, as he chewed thoroughly, then picked up his drink and took a long swallow.
“But what does Faust have to do with Mozart?” I finally asked, impatient.
He shook his head. “No, no. Faust has nothing to do with Mozart.” His gaze settled on me, weighted with significance. “Just as you have nothing to do with Mozart.”
He turned back to his dinner, clearly dismissing me, and I was left with nothing but confusion.
The crowd of guests was infuriating. I doubted I would ever have a chance to find Henry alone with all of these guests around. After dinner we all sat in the drawing room and enjoyed a short recital by Herr and Frau Spohr, who played a violin and harp duet—an original composition by Herr Spohr. After the music, Mr. Brandon found me and asked me to be his partner for a game of whist with Sylvia and his father. My mind was not on the game, though. I was only thinking of how I needed to make my escape to India, and how I needed to speak to Henry, and how every time I looked for him he was occupied with one guest or another. Half the time Miss St.Claire was at his side. And more than once I caught Mrs. Delafield staring at me in a warning way. As if I was going to repeat my mistakes of the night before, when I had tried to flirt. I felt scrutinized, and unhappy, and frustrated. And then I could not find Henry at all, and my plan to get his help seemed doomed to fail before it even began, and I could not bear to stay in that drawing room one minute longer.
Disappointment accompanied me up the stairs when all the guests dispersed for the night. I had spent the whole day trying for one simple thing—a chance to speak with Henry alone. Now it was nighttime, and another day here had passed without advancing my plot of earning my trip to India.
Alice was waiting for me in my room, but I was not ready to go to bed. I had to accomplish something this day. I asked her, “If one wished to go outside at night, without being seen, how might one accomplish that?”
A startled look passed over her face. “You are not thinking of going outside, miss. Not at night.”
She said it like a statement rather than a question. “Perhaps I am thinking of it. Why should I not?”
A hint of fear shadowed her eyes. “Ah, no, miss, you mustn’t. Not a soul ventures out at night in these parts. Everyone knows to beware of Linger’s Ghost.” She looked at me more closely. “You must have heard of Linger’s Ghost, miss.”
I shook my head. I did not believe in ghost stories, and I thought Alice would have grown out of them by now as well.
“He travels the moors on horseback at night, miss, especially on the nights of a full moon. If you see him, you must hurry and hide yourself, and if you’re out on the moors, with nowhere to hide ...” She shook her head, her hand creeping to her throat. She squeezed it, as if trying to strangle the idea of a supernatural meeting on the moors at night.
A shiver ran through me, and I took a step away from her. “I do not believe in ghosts.”
Shaking a finger at me, she said in a low voice, “You needn’t believe in something for it to be real, miss.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, neither of us giving an inch. I sighed. “I only want to go down to the beach. I promised my brother a seashell that I find under the light of the moon. I have no plans to go to the moors at all.”
Her eyes widened. “The beach? At night?” Her voice cracked. She pressed her lips tightly closed and shook her head. “No. It is unwise. You shouldn’t go, miss. You should never go to the beach at night.”
I clenched my fists, feeling my frustration burn into anger. “But I want to go to the beach and find a seashell for my brother. That does not seem like too much to ask.”
“I cannot help you, miss. I am sorry.” She bent her head and stood before me in an attitude of such humility that I could not be angry with her.
I sat on my bed with a sigh of defeat. “You may go, Alice.”
“Do you not want my help undressing?”
I shook my head. “No. Thank you.”
She opened the door and slipped out of the room before I could say another word. I looked from the closed door to the closed window, feeling the stir of restlessness grow greater within me. I had to leave this room.