Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson

Chapter 26

Two Years Before

I ran through the woods that separated our houses. Rain fell on my shoulders in fat drops. I had forgotten my bonnet and my cloak. Leaves covered the ground, a wet and thick blanket of fallen dead things, muffling the sound of my running feet. The sky was dark, the leaves were shades of brown, and there was a large, ancient maple tree ahead. It was halfway between my house and Sylvia’s. Its lowest branches started above my head, and it was so tall and substantial, its branches so wide, that it created a canopy—a shelter from the rain. Standing against the trunk was Henry.

I stopped still, my breathing ragged, and stared at him. His head was bowed, his hair dripping wet. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, as if he were trying to hold broken things together inside himself. As I stared, I saw his shoulders shake. Nobody was meant to witness this, and I felt like a thief, standing there, stealing something that was never meant to be mine.

I closed my eyes and breathed and tried to forget what I had just seen, tried to find the courage to do the right thing—to walk away and never, ever let Henry know that I had seen him like this. But a sound reached my ears above the falling rain, the patter of drops hitting fallen leaves. It was a low, muffled sob.

I had known, of course. I had known that morning, when our servant came with the news of Mr. Delafield’s passing. He had been on his sickbed for only a few days, and his death was a terrible shock, for he was stout and strong. I had thought only of Sylvia and her grief. I had not thought of Henry until I saw him there, behind the tree, leaning against its trunk as if he were too weak to support his own weight or the weight of his grief.

I made a decision. I opened my eyes and stepped toward him, onto the dry ground, where the leaves were not wet and my footsteps made a sound. His head jerked up, and his eyes flew open. The sight of those eyes would, I knew, haunt me forever. Such sorrow, such emptiness, such aching despair I had never before seen in Henry’s eyes. When he looked at me, suddenly, I felt a blow to my chest—as if the force of his grief had struck me, and I could not move or breathe in the wave of this revelation. This Henry—this boy—whom I had known all my life, was, in that raw, grief-stricken moment, so much more than just the boy I had known all my life.

I knew I should not be there, and for a moment I feared he would hate me for seeing him like this. But then he moved. He moved toward me with quick steps, and I dropped all my hesitation and moved toward him. He reached out for me, his arms pulling me to him, holding me tight. The smell of wet leaves clung to him. His hair was wet where it touched my cheek. He buried his face in my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around him. And then his shoulders shook again.

How long we stayed like that, I never knew. My face was wet from my tears and his, as was my shoulder, where he had buried his face as he cried. Daylight had faded to deepest dusk when his grip on me loosened, and he pulled back. He took a deep breath, then let it out without any sign of a shudder, while looking down at the carpet of leaves. And then he raised his eyes to me. They were red, but calm, and he looked at me as if I was an entirely new person. In that moment, I was sure it was true. I was sure I was a new person, for I had known Henry all of my fifteen years, but I had never really known him until this day.

I felt unaccountably shy in the moment, until Henry bent his head so that he was looking into my eyes. He smiled. It was not a large smile but a peaceful one. It felt like a gift. And then, to my great surprise, he put a hand on my cheek. His hand was cold, and my cheek was wet. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to my brow, where my hair was messy and falling across my forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered, his breath brushing my skin as lightly as his lips had.

I felt rooted, as if I were reaching into the earth as deeply as the ancient maple tree we stood beneath. I felt something deep within me—something born of Henry’s arms and his eyes and that small, warm smile he had given me like a gift.

“You’re welcome,” I whispered back. The words came from a place of quiet awe within me.

Then he dropped his hand from my cheek, and his thumb brushed my jaw as he did. He stepped away from me. “I’ll walk you back,” he said. “It’s nearly dark.”

I nodded, and we walked together in a silence that was deep and mellow and warm. The silence felt too significant to break, as if everything that might have been said would have trivialized the things that had passed between us without any words at all.

Too soon I spied my house, the glow of candlelight flickering through its windows. I stopped at the edge of the grass, and Henry stopped too. I realized I had forgotten my original aim—to visit Sylvia. To comfort her. To give her my strength, if I could. But I could not go now. I had given what I had to Henry. All of it.

I reached for him without thinking and found my hand grasped by his, easily and naturally. “Tell Sylvia—tell Sylvia I will visit her tomorrow.”

“I will,” he said, holding my hand as he had held me earlier—as if he needed me. As if he wanted me.

My throat was suddenly too dry for speaking, and so I nodded and slipped my hand from his grasp. Turning, I ran quickly to the house, sure that I felt his gaze on me the entire way.