Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
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.