Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson

Chapter 28

Mr. Brandon found me on the moors. I had been unable to sleep most of the night, and sneaked out of the house before dawn. This morning I could not stop thinking of how quickly my time here was drawing to a close. Just one more proposal from Henry and I would leave this place and probably never see it again. And at that realization, everything became achingly beautiful. The bracken, the peat, the bruised heather, the thorny yellow flowers, the twisted shrubs, and the rock outcroppings. It all became exquisite and dear, and I loved it. I bent and picked some flowers and grass, tore off a branch of heather, and tucked them all into my pocket. I was just straightening when Mr. Brandon called out.

“Miss Worthington! I feel I have hardly had a chance to speak with you lately. You were absent all day yesterday.”

The sun was rising behind him as he walked toward me. He was a nice man. He would probably make some other lady adequately happy. But not me.

“Indeed. I took a trip into Robin Hood’s Bay.”

His eyes looked greener than I had remembered, his hair more golden. He held a hand to his ear. “I have been listening for your birds, Miss Worthington. But I’m afraid I need someone to help me identify them. I do not know enough about them myself.”

I thought of what Henry had said to me—about a man not needing encouragement to lose his heart. I certainly didn’t imagine that Mr. Brandon had lost his heart to me, but he was being very particular in his attentions. And it was time for me to do him a kindness.

“I would enjoy that, Mr. Brandon, but I am afraid I am leaving very soon.”

Both eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Where will you go?”

“To India. With my aunt.”

His face fell. “I was under the impression that was a distant plan. From what Miss Delafield told me, I thought things were not quite certain in that regard.”

I clutched the golden flowers. “They are quite certain. I will leave very soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”

He stepped toward me, a look of determination on his face. “Then I am happy to have this opportunity to speak with you alone. I have to tell you, Miss Worthington, what must have been already obvious to you. I find you fascinating. And beautiful. And kind. I rarely find a young lady who fascinates me, you know. More often than not, they bore me.” He flashed me his infectious grin. “I would like very much to know you better. To have a chance to win your heart. So I would ask you to please—please postpone your trip, and give me a chance.”

My heart fell. I had no idea he felt so strongly. I had assumed he was merely at my side every day because I was a convenient companion.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “I should have said something sooner, I suppose. I—I have no intention of marrying. Ever. Please forgive me if I unknowingly encouraged you to feel something for me that I cannot feel in return.”

His infectious smile was gone, and disappointment tightened his eyes. “No intention of marrying? You do not have to go that far to refuse me. You could just tell me you are not interested in knowing me better.”

“No! It’s true.” I reached out and grabbed his arm as he backed away from me. “I am not being unkind. You can ask Sylvia. Or Mrs. Delafield. Or Henry. They know. I have been telling them so these past two years.”

He pulled away from me. “Well, none of them saw fit to warn me, I am afraid.” He bowed his head to me. “Please excuse me, Miss Worthington.”

As he walked away, a sharp pain pierced my hand. I looked down and uncurled my fingers. The limp, thorny flowers I held were mixed with my blood.

I lingered outside the open door, chewing on my lip uncertainly. I had come this far. I had my pockets full of seashells and flowers I had picked on the moors. I had watched the routine of the servants and waited long enough to make sure the maid on duty was fully engaged in her afternoon nap by the fire. I could see Henry’s grandfather sitting in his chair by the window.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and with soft steps walked inside. I did not want to startle him. The maid snored softly in front of the fire. The chair next to Grandfather’s was empty. Waiting. I touched the back of it and tilted my head to look at Grandfather. His gaze was vacant, his face turned toward the window. His hands rested idly in his lap, covered by a blanket.

“Hello,” I said softly.

He stirred, moving his shoulders, shifting his legs. But he didn’t look toward me. I edged around the chair and slid onto its cushioned seat, careful not to bump his chair or the low table in front of him in the process.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked, watching his face carefully. His eyes moved, shifting in little jerks back and forth, but still looking out the window.

I waited a moment, but he made no further movement. Reaching into one pocket, I grasped a handful of shells and drew them forth. I leaned forward and carefully set them out on the low table, one at a time, some curved down, some up, with their translucent bellies showing. I did not look up until I was finished with my task.

When I did, his eyes had moved from the window to the table.

“I know you like shells, so I found these on the beach and brought them to you.” I reached into my pocket again and pulled out the remaining shell. “This one is different than all the others.” I showed him the strange, bullet-shaped, dark shell I had found. It did not look like a shell, but it clearly belonged on the beach. “I wondered if you knew what it was.”

He pulled a hand out from under the blanket that covered his lap and held it, trembling, toward me. I set the shell in his hand, and he twisted it between his heavy-knuckled fingers. “It’s a—” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “It’s a fossil. A very old fossil.”

I bit back the smile that threatened to burst through my careful control. He had spoken to me.

I slipped my hand into my other pocket, pulling out the golden flowers I had gathered on the moors. I laid them on the table next to the shells. I had pried loose a sprig of dark, purple-brown heather, and a few blades of the hardy, laurel-green grass that grew on the moors. These too I set down, then sat back and waited.

He picked up the yellow flowers, and I reached to warn him, to remind him of the thorn, but before I could, I saw him wince, then look with surprise at the drop of blood on his thumb. He turned his gaze to me for the first time. His eyes were a familiar grey. His eyebrows were thick and white and wiry. His face was sunken in. But the eyes were clear, and I suddenly realized why they looked familiar. They were Henry’s eyes. Or, rather, Henry’s eyes were from his grandfather.

“Who are you?” he asked, just as he had asked Henry the other day.

“I am Kate. Kate Worthington.”

His craggy eyebrows lifted. “Henry’s Kate?”

My heart stuttered. I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Henry’s Kate? I am his friend. We grew up together.” He was still waiting. “Um ... I suppose ... I am.”

“You finally came, then.” His eyes were clear, his gaze direct. He was seeing me. His thoughts were organized. I had heard before, from Henry, that he had occasional moments like these. But I was surprised to have stumbled upon such a happy incident on my first try.

“Yes.” My smile felt wide enough to split my cheeks. “Yes, I finally came.”

His gaze touched my face, and he sat back with a pleased smile lifting his features. “You are lovely. So very lovely. Just as he said.”

I clenched my hands together in my lap, hardly daring to breathe, my face on fire. “Just as Henry said?”

But his gaze had drifted to the window, and a softness replaced the sharp clarity I had seen in his eyes a moment before. His fingers twitched in his lap, restlessly, as if they were missing something. I leaned toward him and gently placed a shell in his hands. His fingers turned the shell over and over, tracing its grooves and curves.

I watched him expectantly but knowing all the while that he had slipped away again.

Taking a cue from Henry’s visit, I asked, “Shall I read to you?”

He nodded, with his gaze out the window, and as I reached for the stack of books, he said something softly. So softly I could not hear him clearly. I leaned toward him.

“What did you say?”

“The Woodlark,” he murmured, turning his shell over and over.

I looked from his face to the window he was gazing at. But I could see no sign of a bird within its frame.

“Pardon me?”

“The Woodlark. Henry’s woodlark. The Woodlark.” He pointed a trembling finger at the table. I picked up the first book on the stack in front of me, showing it to him with raised eyebrows. He pointed again. “The Woodlark.” I lifted another book, and another, and then I found a piece of paper wedged between two books. It was a poem, it seemed. Handwritten. And at the top of the page were the words “The Woodlark by Robert Burns.”

I picked it up and showed it to him. “This? You would like me to read this to you?”

He sat back, a look of contentment on his face, and nodded.

He had called this Henry’s woodlark. I cleared my throat, and with a quickened heart I read,

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay

Nor quit for me the trembling spray,

A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing, fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,

That I may catch thy melting art;

For surely that wad touch her heart

Wha’ kills me wi’ disdaining.

Thou tells o’ never-ending care;

O’ speechless grief, and dark despair:

For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!

Or my poor heart is broken.

I held the paper gently after I had finished reading. “That is so beautiful,” I murmured.

“His heart is broken,” Grandfather said, looking out the window. “That is why he loves the woodlark.”

I stared at him. “Who? Whose heart is broken?” I asked in a whisper.

He turned his face to me, and I saw the clarity in his grey eyes. He was present. He was sure of what he was saying. He opened his mouth to speak.

“What are you doing here?”

I jumped at the sound and whirled around to face the door. Mrs. Delafield came striding into the room, ready for battle.

I stood quickly and edged away from the chair I had occupied. She looked from me to her father. I saw her gaze take in the seashells and the flowers.

“I was just ... reading to him,” I said, knowing it was not an adequate excuse. I knew I was not supposed to be here. The sleeping guard attested to that fact.

She gestured for me to come to her, which I did with a pounding heart and dread pouring through my veins. She backed into the hall and closed the door soundly before facing me. I stepped back a pace.

“What did you say to my father? Did you talk about his will?”

My mouth fell open. “No!”

“It can’t be changed, Kitty. I don’t care what he said to you or what you said to him. The will can’t be changed. So if that was your design in visiting him—”

“No!” I was appalled. “I never said a word about his will!” I stared at her as realization dawned on me. My heart pounded. I thought back to that evening eighteen months before, at the Delafield ball. I thought back to that dark room and the drapes that hid me from view as I listened to a conversation I had not been invited to. “Why would you think that?” I asked, my voice quiet. Scared. The smell of peonies was so strong in my mind I almost looked around to see if they were nearby. “Why would you suspect me of talking to him about his will?”

Her eyes were all cold blue suspicion. “My father is unwell. Whatever he said to you cannot be believed. And no usurper is going to come here and change my plans for my son.”

“Mama!” It was Sylvia. Her call sounded urgent. She came walking around the corner of the hall, moving faster than I had ever seen her move. When she saw me standing by her mother, she stopped suddenly, a look of dread on her face.

“What is it?” Mrs. Delafield went to her. “What’s wrong?”

Sylvia looked at me when she answered. “It’s your mother, Kitty. She is here. She has brought Maria.”