Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
Chapter 9
The wind woke me with its howls and moans throughout the night. I cracked my eyes open to a blackened room, then closed them again and slipped into strange dreams of howling birds and dark corridors and a boy who ran away from me and would not turn back no matter how I called for him. When I finally pulled myself from my dark dreams, it was to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I rolled over, blinking in confusion at my surroundings. The knock came again.
“Miss Worthington?” a voice called through the door.
“Yes?” I answered groggily, trying to shake off the remnant shadows of my dreams.
The door cracked open, and a young face framed by a maid’s white cap appeared. “I am your maid. May I come in?”
“Oh.” I sat up and pushed back my dark hair. “Yes, please do.”
She entered the room and dropped a curtsy. Her cheeks were rosy and covered with freckles. Her hands fidgeted with her white apron.
I smiled to try to ease her obvious nervousness. “What is your name?”
“Alice, miss.” She dropped another curtsy.
“And do you come from Robin Hood’s Bay, Alice?” I asked, remembering Mrs. Delafield’s instructions to Dawson the night before.
“Yes, miss.”
“Well, I am very happy to have you.”
She smiled bashfully and, gesturing to my trunk, asked if she should finish unpacking my things for me. I nodded, but when she moved to open the drapes first, I groaned with disappointment to discover how late I had slept. Moving to the window, I saw that the sun had risen during my dreams, and the moors were already brightly lit but shrouded by fog. How could I have slept past dawn on my first morning here? I had gone to bed with every intention of being outside before sunrise in order to hear the birds.
I shivered standing near the window with nothing but the cold floor beneath my feet. Tomorrow morning I would not oversleep. I would not let the nightly hauntings of this place steal my morning birds from me.
With Alice’s help I dressed and then made my way downstairs for breakfast, finding only Sylvia and Miss St.Claire in the dining room. I paused in the doorway, trying to collect my composure and my good intentions. I had been tired last night after my days of travel. That was the only reason I thought Miss St.Claire a tad irritating and a bit presumptuous. Perhaps she was perfectly acceptable as a human being. Perhaps she would make Henry a good wife.
“Good morning, Miss Worthington,” Miss St.Claire called as I made my way to the sideboard, where breakfast was laid out for the guests to choose from. “I hope you slept well.”
“Yes, I slept well, thank you.” I had to bite back other, less polite words, about how I was Henry’s guest, not hers, and that she was not supposed to be here on my first and only visit to Blackmoore. It was supposed to be just me and Henry and Sylvia, like we had been growing up. If anyone asked about my sleep, it should have been Sylvia. I bit back the uncharitable words that rose to my tongue and struggled to think something kind about this interloper, this young woman who had come here to rob me of the visit I was supposed to have. I thought hard while I piled food on my plate, and by the time I turned to the table and the empty seat across from the two of them, I had thought of one thing: Miss St.Claire was a thoughtful interloper. I could grant her that.
“You are very interested in India, I understand,” Miss St.Claire said to me. She looked pretty in the morning light. Her hair really was a deep, glorious auburn that glinted with a hint of copper when the sunlight shone on it the right way. And those wide-set, green eyes were a force to be reckoned with.
“Oh? Who told you that?”
Sylvia spoke up. “I did. Juliet and I spent a great deal of time together in London.”
I tried not to resent that fact. I knew that Sylvia would have made new friends in London. But I did not like this stranger knowing things about me. Miss St.Claire was watching me, both eyebrows up, and I realized she was waiting for an answer.
“Yes, I am quite interested in India. In fact, I hope soon to travel there myself, with my aunt.”
The elfin queen shook her head, making a gentle tsking sound. “I cannot conceive of why one would ever desire to go so far from England’s shores. It seems so dangerous!”
“It can be.”
“How long is the voyage?”
“Depending on the season, between four and six months.”
Her green eyes opened wide. She carefully set down her cup. “Then one could not travel there and back in less than ... a year. Conceivably.”
I nodded.
She shook her head, her eyes large with compassion. “You poor thing.” She reached her hand across the table and touched my own, stopping me when I would have lifted my fork to my mouth. “I understand that your situation at home is not as ... ideal as some of us are blessed with. And I feel for you, I truly do, that things could be so uncomfortable that you would choose to put such a distance between yourself and your loved ones.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I understand your parents are not as caring as mine are. You poor, poor thing.” Her mouth pulled down into the prettiest frown I had ever seen.
I dropped my fork and darted a glance at Sylvia, who looked as if she would like to sink into the ground. How could she tell Miss St.Claire such personal things about me?
She tried to smile at me, but her eyes were full of dread. “You mustn’t be angry with me, Kitty. You know that Juliet is like one of the family.”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin, using the movement as an excuse to pull my hand out from under Miss St.Claire’s unwelcome touch.
“Kate,” I said quietly. “I wish to be called Kate.”
“Oh, dear me, surely you are not upset that I know such details of your life!” Miss St.Claire put both hands to her chest. “I assure you, I am the soul of discretion! And I do not judge you in the least! My dear Miss Worthington, indeed, I feel as if you and I are old friends, so much have I heard of you over the years from the Delafields. No, no, you must not be upset. You must thank Sylvia for being such a good friend to you that she has enlisted my aid.”
I sat very still and looked from her to Sylvia, who was squirming in her chair. “Your aid?” I cleared my throat. “What aid would that be, pray tell?”
Miss St.Claire looked to Sylvia, as if for permission, but Sylvia only shrugged, as if she had already given up control.
“Why, my aid in bringing you here, of course,” the elfin queen said, with a beatific smile in my direction.
I was suddenly very aware of my heartbeat and the heat flooding my cheeks. “Oh?” I tried to smile. “Exactly what aid did you render, Miss St.Claire?”
She smiled on, completely oblivious to my feelings. “I assured Mrs. Delafield that I would not object to your company, knowing how desperately you need some positive influences in your life.”
I looked with disbelief from her to Sylvia, who was staring at her plate with a steadfastness I had never seen in her before.
“Well ...” I was at a loss as to how to respond to such condescending compassion. “I thank you for your generosity, Miss St.Claire,” I finally said, my smile tight as I tried to keep back the astonishing number of impolite thoughts that entered my mind.
“I was happy to help,” she said, picking up her fork and daintily proceeding with her breakfast.
I had completely lost my appetite, and I did not think I could stay much longer in Miss St.Claire’s company without losing my temper. I took a deep breath, then tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground.
“Sylvia, I hope you will introduce me to your grandfather this morning.”
“I’m afraid Grandpapa is not well, Kitty,” she said with a look of regret. “I doubt you shall have any opportunity to meet him while you are here.”
My disappointment was great at this news. I had looked forward to meeting the man who had played such a significant role in Henry’s life. “I am sorry to hear it.”
Miss St.Claire tsked, shaking her head. “Indeed, it will be a great sadness to all of our family to lose Grandfather.”
I cast a disbelieving glance in Miss St.Claire’s direction. She was going too far, claiming this family as her own, and I could not tolerate one more minute of her company. Pushing my plate away, I stood. “Sylvia. Come show me the house.”
She looked at me as if I had just asked her to grow a second head. “Kitty. The house is enormous.”
“Yes, and I want to see all of it.” I smiled encouragingly.
She groaned and leaned back in her chair. “The thought is too exhausting to contemplate.”
“Come. A little movement will be good for you. It will help you to wake up.”
She waved me away. “I have no desire to go traipsing all over. Go find Henry and ask him for a tour.”
At that, Miss St.Claire dropped her fork and stood abruptly, bumping the table and making everything rattle. “I will give you a tour, Miss Worthington. It will be good practice for me.”
I looked from her to Sylvia, letting Sylvia see the extent of my displeasure. “How kind. But I insist on Sylvia coming along.”
“No, Juliet knows the house as well as—”
I shot her a dark look. If I was going to suffer in Miss St.Claire’s company, then Sylvia was going to suffer along with me. After a moment of competing stares, she said, with great reluctance, “Of course I would like to come as well.”
“We will start in the great hall,” Miss St.Claire said, leading the way from the dining room and down the corridor to the entrance. She stopped in the middle of the room, right under the domed ceiling. I looked around curiously, glad for the daylight to illuminate what was hidden from me the night before.
“This is the original portion of the house,” she said, gesturing to the circular room we stood in. “It was completed in 1504. Other parts of the house were added later. The most important feature here is, of course, the domed ceiling, painted to depict the story of Icarus.”
I tipped my head back and studied the painting on the dome that stood two floors above us. “That is not Icarus.”
“Yes. It is.” Her voice was more forceful and disbelieving—as if she could not believe I would question her. “Of course it is.”
She looked at Sylvia, who held up both hands with a “don’t ask me” gesture.
I pointed up at the dome. “That is Phaeton, not Icarus. Phaeton drove the chariot sun across the sky, lost control of the horses, and was killed by a thunderbolt from Zeus after burning the earth. Icarus also suffered death after trying to fly,” I went on, “but he flew with wings made by his father, Daedalus, so they could escape Crete. He plunged to his death when he flew too close to the sun and the wax of his wings melted.”
Miss St.Claire’s brow puckered as she looked at the dome above us. “Hmm. I suppose you may be correct, but you do sound like quite a Bluestocking, Miss Worthington, and if you want my opinion ...” She moved closer to me, bent her head to mine, and said, “I would not want to be considered a Bluestocking, myself. It will hurt your chances, you know.”
It was all I could do to keep my mouth curved up into a smile. “My chances of what?”
“Marriage, of course,” she said with a laugh. “How droll you are. Sylvia told me you were quite studious, but I did not believe her. Isn’t that right, Sylvia? I did not believe you when you told me how very well read your friend was.” Sylvia had sagged into a chair by the fireplace, as if standing was too much exertion for her. “But now I see she was quite right! But how dull your youth must have been, to sit for so long in a stuffy library reading old books! I declare, the more I hear of your life, the more I pity you, Miss Worthington. Indeed, I do.”
I could not believe her. I had never met someone so thoughtful and yet so offensive at the same time. But I had one secret that she did not seem to know, and for that reason I had to bite back a smile. What she did not know was that my days spent in the old library at Delafield Manor were anything but dull. What she did not know was that Henry was my study companion for years.
“What shall we see next, Miss St.Claire?” I asked.
She turned on her heel. “This way.”
I dragged Sylvia up from her chair and urged her on, linking my arm through hers. She groaned. “My legs are already tired, Kitty. You can explore the house yourself, on your own, you know.”
“Don’t worry. I will act on that offer as soon as I can,” I murmured.
My opportunity came several rooms later. Miss St.Claire had shown me the dining room, the drawing room, the library, the music room, and the long gallery, and was about to turn around to take me upstairs via the great entry hall again. But I noticed, at the end of a hall, tucked into an alcove, a door. It looked forgotten. And, as a sympathizer of forgotten things, I asked, “Where does that door lead?”
Miss St.Claire waved a hand in dismissal. “That is just a small, second music room.”
I walked toward the door, ignoring Sylvia’s protests about her aching feet. The door was intricately carved, unlike the other interior doors I had seen. I ran my hand over its surface, finding vines and leaves and a scattering of small birds carved into the wood. I turned the handle and swung open the heavy door, walking into a room held in darkness by heavy drapes. But something stirred in there, and a matching something stirred in my heart. With quickened steps, I crossed the room and threw open the drapes across three tall windows that rose from floor to ceiling. Sunlight poured in, and I turned. It was a small room with a high ceiling. My gaze darted around the room, skimming over the pianoforte in the center, the stuffed armchairs, the tapestries covering the walls, the paintings, looking for that thing I had sensed—that stirring thing. And then my eyes landed on an ornate, gilded birdcage tucked into a corner, nearly hidden by the drapes.
And then I understood why I had thought something stirred in this room. A dark bird fluttered wildly around the cage, its feathers hitting against the iron bars. But besides the sounds of its wings, the bird made no noise. I held my breath as I watched it and felt a connection with this dark, wild bird that I could not explain.
“I told you this was a waste of time,” Sylvia said from behind me.
Miss St.Claire stood on the threshold, a look of distaste wrinkling her perfect nose. “I hate the smell of birds,” she declared, eyeing it with distrust. “This will be the first room to be changed when I—”
She stopped herself just shy of finishing her statement, but it was clear to me what she had left off: when she became the mistress of this house. Resentment and a burning dislike rose within me, swift and fierce, and I had an overwhelming urge to push her from this room—to lock the door behind her and to stand guard over this space, protecting it from her destroying touch.
This is my room.
The thought appeared in my mind without any planning on my part. It was simply a recognition of truth. This was my room. I felt it deep in my bones. This room should never cease to exist. These tapestries, these paintings, these tall windows and especially—oh, especially—this dark bird, should be preserved, should be treasured, should be esteemed.
“I hope this room never changes,” I said, looking at her directly. “I love it. I hope it stays this way always.”
Her smile was nothing but soft and innocent. “Everything will change, Miss Worthington. That is what happens when a house passes to new owners.”
I stood there and felt helpless and furious all at once.
“Are you ready to finish the tour?” she asked, gesturing at the door.
“No.” The word was torn from me. I could not abide her company for one more moment. “No. I want to stay here. I’ll continue on my own in a little while.”
Sylvia looked from me to Miss St.Claire, as if trying to choose between us. But only an instant passed before she made her choice. She took Miss St.Claire’s arm, saying, “Let us go sit by the fire in the drawing room. We can watch out the window for the guests.”
As they left me, I knelt in front of the birdcage, looking at the dark bird up close. Its feathers were a shiny, rich black that almost looked blue in the sunlight. Its tail was forked and twitched, over and over. This was a bird I had never seen before—not in books nor in the real world. And even though I watched it for a long time, not once did it sing.