Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
Chapter 19
Three Years Before
Eleanor stood beside me and pointed at the bonnet through the glass window of the shop. “That one. With the broad lace trim. In the middle.”
I inspected the bonnet in question from every available angle. “It is too dear. You would have to save up your pin money for months to afford it.”
“Mama will buy it for me.” She spoke with her characteristic, unfailing confidence. I wondered if such assurance came from being the eldest or if it came from being Eleanor.
“She will not,” I said, but my voice carried a hint of doubt. Where Eleanor and Mama were concerned, I had been surprised more than once.
Eleanor smiled as if she were a cat with a canary between her claws. Leaning toward me, she lowered her voice and said, “She will when I tell her that Henry Delafield will not be able to keep his eyes off me when I wear that bonnet to the picnic next week.”
I scowled at her mention of Henry, a fierce, protective urge blazing to life within me. “Leave him be, Eleanor.”
Her smile stretched. “Do you think you’re the only one with eyes around here?” She tilted her head to the side, studying me. “Or do you have eyes, little Kitty? Hmm? Have you noticed how handsome he has grown?”
My face burned. I pressed my lips together, refusing to answer her question, because it did not deserve an answer. Just as she did not deserve Henry’s attention.
She laughed and, reaching out, pinched my cheek. “You are too serious for your own good.”
I pulled my head back and swatted her hand away. “You cannot have Henry, Eleanor,” I said in a fierce whisper. “I will not allow you to make him into a plaything.”
Her smile fell, and her eyes grew hard, a challenging glint in them. “You will not allow me?”
I knew in that instant that I had made a terrible mistake. I tried to undo my error: I shrugged and said in a voice I forced to sound casual, “Or do play with him. Do whatever you like.”
Her smile curled back into place. “I plan to.” Her gaze shifted to something beyond my right shoulder. “Oh, look. There’s Mama now. I am going to ask her for the bonnet.” She waved, calling out “Mama,” but I did not look. I stared at the cobblestone street and fought the resentment that threatened to consume me.
“What is it, Eleanor?” Mama was annoyed. It was apparent in her voice. But before Eleanor could say more than “Do you not think this bonnet will—” a new voice joined the conversation.
“Mrs. Worthington.” It was a man’s voice, and it was rich with secrets.
I looked up sharply and moved closer to Eleanor, who had pulled away from Mama and shut her mouth quickly. He was tall and young and wore a red officer’s coat. And Mama was looking at him in the same way she looked at the gentlemen who came to dinner.
“Who is he?” I whispered to Eleanor.
She lifted one shoulder and whispered back, “Her latest flirt. She hasn’t told me his name.”
The man did not look at either me or Eleanor. In fact, he appeared to have eyes only for Mama as he stood close to her and smiled. “It has been too long since we last saw each other. How have you been?”
I glanced around quickly to see if anyone else was watching them. Eleanor shifted so that between the two of us, Eleanor’s parasol, and the wall of the store, Mama could hardly be seen by any passerby. I waved my fan furiously and nodded, wearing a broad smile, pretending the man was addressing all of us.
Mama laughed and murmured something too quiet for me to hear. Then the man said, loudly enough that my face burned, “You are much too coy, my kitten.”
I fanned all the harder and grinned like a fool, but inside I had to fight the urge to retch. Eleanor leaned closer to me and murmured, “He must be half her age.” I looked at her sharply, sure I must have imagined the admiration I heard in her voice. But no—it gleamed in her eyes as well, and in that moment it became clear to me that Eleanor saw in this spectacle not something to be disgusted by but something to aspire to.
The man was leaving, thank heavens. He whispered something too low for me to hear, and with a wicked grin he walked away. I dropped my fan and my stupid grin, and without a word to either Mama or Eleanor, I walked away in the opposite direction. Working hard to keep my face expressionless, I left the village by the shortest route possible, ending up close to the river. I walked with measured steps until I reached the broad shade of a tree by the river.
I threw off my bonnet and knelt at the water’s edge, thrusting my hands into the cold water and then splashing it on my burning cheeks. The shame would not leave me; the water would not cool the burning of it. And it would not wash away the memory of that man’s wicked grin and what he had said to my mother. My stomach heaved at the thought.
I had seen hints of such behavior in my own home with the gentlemen who came to dinner. I had witnessed my father’s growing disdain across the table. But this was the first time I had seen her behave indiscreetly in public. In our own village, where anyone might have seen them. It was enough to ruin us—all of us, if she continued down this path. It was enough to ruin any chance at a respectable marriage for Eleanor or me or Maria or Lily. Oliver would not be hurt by her, but we would. We would be hurt in ways we would never be able to recover from.
I sat back on my heels, pulled my dripping hands out of the water, and stared at the reflection of sunlight on the water as despair and shame threatened to overwhelm me. I was ashamed of my mother, and soon I would be ashamed of my older sister as well. For it was more apparent each day that Eleanor was following in Mama’s footsteps. The thought of her flirting with Henry—of toying with his feelings—hit me with a fresh onslaught of shame. And then, in the midst of that shame, the words came to me: I am not like them. I will never be like them. The words formed themselves, and I caught onto them like a lifeline. “I will never be like them,” I repeated over and over, first with desperation, then with a growing conviction. I would do something different. I would be something different.
A sound broke into my reverie—harsh and grating. It was a group of boys, standing upstream from me, yelling and laughing and fighting over something. Then, as I watched, one of them swung something dark, back and forth, and with a cheer from all of them, let it sail into the air. I was on my feet as it arced over the river. I was running when it struck the water. And I was diving headfirst into the river when it began to sink.
The cold water made me gasp and I coughed, choking on water, stroking through the current to reach the sinking dark object. I dived under, keeping my eyes open, stretching and kicking and flailing until my fingers brushed the burlap sack. I grasped it, turned toward the surface, and kicked hard. My boots and dress weighed me down. The sack, though, was worse. It was like an anchor, and it became heavier with every passing second. I kicked harder, my lungs begging for air. But the surface retreated, the sunlight moved away from me, and my legs burned and the sack was too heavy and I had to breathe.
Suddenly an arm was around my waist, legs were kicking next to mine, and I was pulled up, out of the water. I sucked in air and coughed and struggled to hold onto the heavy sack.
“Calm down. I have you.” It was Henry’s arm around me, and it was Henry’s voice in my ear, and I relaxed at once, knowing I was safe. He was three years older than I. He was strong. He was dependable. I was safe.
It felt like an eternity before we were able to fight clear of the current and reach the bank of the river. I heaved the wet sack out of the water and fell onto the grass, panting, still coughing up the water I had sucked in. Henry sat on the grass beside me, out of breath, and shook his wet hair out of his eyes.
“What were you doing out there?”
I knelt and turned the sack around, looking for the tied opening. “I had to rescue them.” There was the twine, but I could not make my fingers unravel the knots. I shook too much with the cold, and water dripped from my hair into my eyes, making it impossible to see clearly. But Henry was quicker than I was, and in seconds he had pulled off the twine and spread open the mouth of the burlap sack.
Six grey-and-white kittens lay motionless within the sack. I picked them up one by one, rubbed their wet bodies, and lifted them to my face, trying to feel their breath or their hearts beat. Henry did the same, both of us moving quickly, silently, until Henry said, “Here!”
The grey-and-white kitten cupped in his hands moved weakly and meowed plaintively. He handed it to me, and I cradled it to my chest, my hands shaking, and suddenly I was crying. I sobbed and shook from the cold, and Henry stayed very still beside me.
“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.