Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
Chapter 6
I sat back and watched the moors swallow us whole until there was no groomed green grass to break up the barrenness of this wasteland. And then, before I was prepared for it, the carriage turned south and the ocean suddenly became a part of the world.
Mrs. Pettigrew, with a glance out the window, remarked, “We’re on the Whitby road. It won’t be long now.” I scooted over to the window on the left side of the carriage and watched the undulating coastline. The water looked grey-blue in the afternoon light and wide enough to swallow everything I knew about life. The sharp angles of birds in flight dropped and lifted and dropped again above the water. I knew nothing about birds that lived near the ocean. I would have something new to ask Henry about.
I looked back and forth between the two windows, with the sea on one side and the moors on the other, both prospects overwhelming me with their vastness and their strangeness. The sun was beginning its slide over the horizon, the light fading when we came upon a town—the famed Robin Hood’s Bay, which I had heard about for as long as I had heard about Blackmoore.
I looked with greater interest at the steep, cobbled streets and the red-roofed houses that flowed down the hill toward the ocean. “Did Robin Hood really live here, once?”
“Legend says he did,” came Mrs. Pettigrew’s response. But legend and truth were two different things.
“Don’t you know? For certain?”
She glanced up briefly from her knitting. “Nobody knows for certain, my dear.”
I remembered what Henry had hinted at—something about smuggling. “But are there still clandestine activities taking place here? Like smuggling?”
She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Of course not! What a fanciful imagination you have!”
I sighed with disappointment. Leaning forward, I lowered the window and caught my breath as the salty cool air rushed over me. If I were an outlaw, this would be a place I would choose for a stronghold. The streets were narrow, the houses crowded together like a band of ragtag rebels, shoulders crammed together, elbows locked. The angled red roofs met and blended and tumbled down the hill to the water’s edge.
A moment later, the carriage stopped, the door opened, and Henry climbed inside. His shoulders seemed to fill the small space, and he smelled like the salty wind and the moors. He grinned at my look of surprise and sat beside me. “I don’t want to miss this,” he said, then rapped on the carriage roof. It rolled on.
The anticipation in his eyes made my heart quicken. Blackmoore must be near. I wished for speed, for flight, for “finally” to come.
Henry leaned forward, looking out the window, and pointed, saying, “There. On the top of the cliff.”
I leaned forward eagerly, and he moved back to allow me the full window’s view to see Blackmoore for the first time. I stared, then stared again. The light of day was fading, the sky painted navy. The building that stood between ocean and sky looked dead black. The house was misshapen, just as Henry had made it in the model, with one wing stretching much longer than the other. It hunched on the edge of the cliff like a deformed creature, and the candles that lit the windows from within made it look as if it had a dozen eyes, all turned toward the sea. As the daylight faded, I blinked while the image before me shifted and blurred. Whether it was my imagination or a trick of the light, I knew not, but for a moment the house looked to me like a hulking bird of prey, with wings unfolded, ready to drop from the precipice into the empty sky.
I blinked again, shaking my head to fix the strange twist in my eyesight, and my heart pumped. But it was closer to excitement than fear—this energy that coursed through me. I had wanted this my whole life. Now I had it. I had my visit to Blackmoore, and come what may, it felt as if everything in my life had led me to this place at this time.
I sat back, feeling breathless, and found Henry’s gaze on my face. “Well?”
Shaking my head, I found myself speechless and could only smile. It seemed good enough for him, for he settled back with a contented smile on his face and watched me watch out the window as we approached his future home.
Daylight had vanished completely when the carriage wheels struck the gravel of the courtyard. Blazing torches illuminated the area as a footman stepped forward and opened the carriage door, holding out a gloved hand for me to take. I took it and stepped down onto the gravel. Walking away from the carriage, I tipped my head back to take in the extent of the house. It was a great hulking thing, perched here on the edge of the world between ocean and moors, an anchor of dark stone and towering walls.
Before this day, I had imagined the building—the dark stones, the peaked roof, the staggering line of chimneys—but I had imagined it in vacancy. Now I saw the bulk of it loom between a dark sky and a barren cliff that bore the brunt of endless crashes of ocean waves. The chill that ran down my spine reached beyond the cold wind and the fine salt spray. This building was born of an austere atmosphere made real. It was a haunting in stone.
The ocean wet the air, flavoring each breath with salt and freedom and foreignness. The towering building loomed overhead, darker than the darkening sky. The moors stood like a stretch of barrier—an impenetrable wilderness hemming and shielding and pushing this building toward the ocean. It was wild and dark and grand and tall and fierce and haunting all at once. And it thrilled me to the core. It thrilled me and it frightened me, for it whipped at my carefully closeted heart, much as the wind had whipped at my hair and skirts and sent my bonnet tumbling.
Such unfettering was possible within this sphere that I felt to shrink back with the power of what I felt here. I smelled the ocean and the peat. I tasted the salt in the air, and I heard the haunting cries of birds. The wind whipped at me still, with a cold blast from the ocean. This was a place where things came undone. This cliff would come undone by the crashing of waves. These stones would come undone by the wind. What power would it have in me? What in me might come undone here? So many things could be unfettered, could be loosed, could be thrown to the wind and the waves in this primal place of wilderness and natural power.
Henry flashed me a look of excitement as he walked quickly toward the open doors. I followed him just as quickly, eager to breathe my “finally” when I crossed the threshold of Blackmoore for the first time.
Henry waited for me at the door and watched as I walked into the great hall that I had first seen in miniature through a tiny wooden door. Here the details were the same as in the model—the white-and-black checkered floor, the ornately carved fireplace to the left, the arched opening at the opposite end—but the scale made everything feel new and foreign. I felt rather than saw the loftiness of its ceiling, which was swallowed up in darkness, despite the roaring fire in the fireplace and the candles lit all around. The cold ocean wind followed us through the door, chasing at our backs, causing the flames of the candles to flicker and cast strange shadows about the stone walls and floor. Despite the fire and candlelight, the room was losing the fight against darkness.
An older servant with the regal bearing of a butler approached Henry, bowing and saying, “Welcome home, Mr. Delafield. I trust your travel was uneventful?”
It was the word home that caught my attention. I looked at Henry’s face and recognized it in an instant. That excitement to be here—those hurried steps—the look of happiness and contentment and deep peace filling his features: this was home to Henry.
“Thank you, Dawson. Yes, the journey was fine. And it is always good to be back.” Dawson helped Henry out of his cloak, taking his gloves and hat, while I handed my bonnet and coat to a waiting footman.
Footsteps sounded, sharp on the tile, and then a familiar voice came from behind us. “Is that you, Henry? Have you finally arrived?” I turned around, forming my mouth into a polite smile for Mrs. Delafield, who looked more elegant than she had ever looked before. She must have benefited from the dressmakers in London, I assumed. But before I could greet her—before I could thank her for finally inviting me to Blackmoore, she froze mid-step and stared at me. Even in the flickering, dim light, I could see the surprise and dislike in her eyes.
“Katherine.” Mrs. Delafield’s voice was as chilly as the ocean wind. “What are you doing here?”
I looked in confusion from her to Henry, who stood close by my side.
“Yes, Mother, we have come sooner than expected. I thought Kate would enjoy a day here with Sylvia before the rest of our guests arrived.”
Her expression was set in a look of distaste, and before she could answer, more footsteps sounded, and Sylvia and a young lady I had never met appeared at her side, almost seeming to materialize out of the darkness. At the same instant, a gust of wind shook the doors and the candles flickered and threw their erratic shadows again. My heart jumped.
“Kitty?” Sylvia asked, peering at me as if she did not recognize me. I smoothed down my hair, feeling self-conscious under the weight of Sylvia’s stare. But after a heartbeat’s awkward pause, she stepped forward and pulled me into an embrace. “I am so happy you’re here!” She squeezed me tightly.
I relaxed with a sigh of relief. There was nothing amiss here. Mrs. Delafield had never favored me. That was nothing new. I had nothing to worry about.
“And are you surprised to see me, Mr. Delafield?” A laugh followed the words.
I pulled out of Sylvia’s embrace, shooting a quick glance from Henry to the young lady who had entered the room with Sylvia. The young lady was not looking at me. Her hands were clasped together, and her gaze was steadfastly, affectionately, settled on Henry’s face.
“Miss St.Claire,” Henry said with warmth in his voice. “I did not know you had arrived already.”
“Your mother was kind enough to bring me here herself. From London.”
My eyes narrowed. So this was Miss St.Claire. The one Henry intended to marry.
Mrs. Delafield moved into my line of sight, and when I glanced at her, she smiled at me. If there was one thing she and Mama had in common, it was their arsenal of weapons. They both used smiles to hurt, to deceive, to injure. The smile she used on me at this moment was sharp and cruel, cutting at me like a quick knife.
“Miss St.Claire, this is Miss Katherine Worthington. An old friend of the family. Katherine, this is Miss Juliet St.Claire.”
Miss St.Claire turned her gaze to me for the first time. That was when I saw the full measure of her beauty, with her deep auburn hair, her eyes, large and green, set apart just a bit wider than average. Her face narrowed in a heart shape, her mouth small, her nose straight and long. I felt my chest constrict. Taken altogether, the combination of her features was breathtaking. Otherworldly, even. As if she had been whisked to this place from some elfin realm. I shook myself, wondering where such a fantastical idea had come from. It must have been the shadows and the moors and the wild ocean wind that were making nonsense of my thoughts.
“Miss Worthington. Welcome to Blackmoore,” the elfin queen said, her voice clear and confident. “We are so happy to have you here.”
I stared at her for a shocked moment before shutting my mouth and swallowing my surprise. She was happy to have me? She welcomed me to Blackmoore? That was the duty of a hostess. I looked quickly from her to Mrs. Delafield, who was watching with approval, to Henry, who wore a completely guarded expression, keeping me from guessing his thoughts. Was something settled between them, then? Had Henry already proposed to Miss St.Claire? Was it decided that she was going to be mistress of Blackmoore?
I finally managed to nod and smile faintly. “Thank you. I am happy to finally be here.” I could not keep myself from faintly stressing the word finally. I wanted Miss St.Claire to know that she might have visited here first, but my heart had belonged here longer than hers. I was ten when Henry and she had met for the first time. I knew him long before she did, and better, too. I had loved Blackmoore long before she had even heard of it.
“Dawson, please have Miss Worthington’s things taken to her room,” Mrs. Delafield said, taking charge. She glanced around the room. “Mrs. Pettigrew! What do you do here?”
The old nurse had finally put her knitting away and was standing a few paces away from our group. “Master Henry invited me to come along. As a chaperone.”
Mrs. Delafield cast a sharp glance at Henry. “It seems Henry is full of surprises this evening.”
Henry’s jaw was tight, his eyes steely as they met his mother’s. They looked as if they were at silent war with each other, and I had to guess that Henry won when Mrs. Delafield looked away with a sigh, glancing around the room as if looking for something she had misplaced.
“Katherine.” She sighed again. “Where is your maid?”
“I—I didn’t bring one.” My mother had a lady’s maid, but my sisters and I shared a maid among us, and Mama had not wanted to lose a servant to this trip.
Mrs. Delafield raised one haughty eyebrow and examined me as if I were a strange insect she did not remember stepping on. I had seen her look at me like that before. But this time I was all too aware of Miss St.Claire’s watchful gaze and Henry standing close behind me. My face burned.
With another heavy sigh, she said in a bored voice, “Dawson, find someone from town to come here first thing in the morning to be Miss Worthington’s maid. We must not allow her to run around like a wild thing here. Not with our guests coming.”
“Yes, Mrs. Delafield,” Dawson said, bowing.
“Sylvia, a word.” Mrs. Delafield walked a few steps away, pulling Sylvia with her. They spoke with lowered voices, but I heard their words anyway. I was very good at eavesdropping. “No extra rooms in the east wing. She will have to be in the west wing.”
“Can’t someone share a room—”
“No. I won’t inconvenience one of my guests for her sake. I told you so when you ...” Her voice dropped to a murmur, and I strained to catch the stream of their conversation again without looking as if I was listening.
Another moment passed, and then Sylvia returned to my side and looped her arm through mine.
“Come. Let me show you to your room.” She took a candle from a side table and tugged me toward the arched opening at the other end of the room. It appeared Henry had forgotten all about me. He was completely engrossed in whatever Miss St.Claire was saying to him in soft tones as they stood before the fire.
Before we passed through the archway, I could not keep myself from glancing back. Miss St.Claire had moved closer to Henry, and the firelight flickered over her hair, casting it copper. She laid a graceful hand on his arm and looked up into his face. The last thing I saw before turning away was Henry smiling down at her.