After I had waited half an hour with growing impatience, my dinner was brought by the same housemaid who had started the fire. I ate my meal in silence, the clock on the mantel ticking away the long, heavy minutes of my isolation. I tried not to think of Miss St. Claire with her wide-set eyes and auburn hair. I tried not to think of Henry smiling at her and hearing her whispers. And then, abruptly, I could take no more. I pushed the food away, stood, and grabbed a candle. I might not have been invited to the drawing room, but I certainly did not have to stay in this room all evening, no matter what Mrs. Delafield or Sylvia said.
Slipping from the room, I closed the door softly behind me and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light of the hallway. Looking left to the way we had come, I chose to go right instead. The candle did little against the dark here, providing only a small space of light in which to explore and examine. The floor creaked under my feet, and a rogue breeze slipped through the wall and made the flame flicker, causing shadows to dance and loom. I shivered and turned to my right and the unknown things that awaited me.
The hall stood thick with silence. I walked slowly, placing my feet carefully on the uncarpeted floor, which was warped and sloped. I hugged the right-hand side of the corridor, lifting my candle to see the wall. The problem was that I did not know what I was looking for. I stopped at a portrait and lifted the frame away from the wall, peering into the space behind it while trying not to singe my eyebrows with the flame of the candle.
Reaching my hand behind the frame, I felt the wall behind the painting.
But it felt as smooth as the other sections of the wall I had touched.
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I moved on, pausing before a closed door. Setting my hand to the door handle, I considered entering the empty room. But I could not. The hall was dark and chill, but at least it was an open space. I could not sum-mon the courage to put myself into a dark, closed room.
I continued down the hall, checking behind every painting I came across, until I reached the end of the hall where a window stretched from floor to ceiling. I peered through it but could see nothing in the darkness beyond the glass. Turning, I moved to the other side of the corridor and followed the same pattern, my hand trailing along the wall, stopping at anything that might possibly hide an entrance to a secret passageway.
I moved beyond my room, and kept going, passing another window.
Directly past the window, I reached a large tapestry covering the wall.
This would be the perfect spot for hiding a secret door.
I held the candle aloft. My heart quickened its speed, pounding in my chest as I thought that I had finally found what I had dreamed of for so many years. I touched the edge of the tapestry, then slipped my fingers behind it, reaching for the opening, the latch, the crack that would signal that I had indeed found what I’d been looking for. I stretched farther, reaching, running my palm over the surface of the wall, my heart pounding. The tapestry was large. I slipped behind it, holding my candle next to the stone of the wall, away from the tapestry at my back, looking for anything that might hint at an opening.
I paused at a sound. At first I thought it was the wind—the sound that came to me. Then I realized it was weaker than wind. It came in spurts and sputters, and as I cocked my head, puzzling, and concentrated on the sound, I realized I recognized it. It was voices, coming to me on the wind of whispers, raising the hairs of my neck.
I pinched my candle out, the smoke rising to sting my nose, and held as still as I could while my heart raced. But though I strained to make out the whispered words, I could not discern what was being said or from whence the whispers came—from the hallway, beyond the tapestry I hid behind, or from some secret passageway on the other side of this wall.
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Footsteps sounded, soft and scraping, and the whispers teased me, just out of reach of my comprehension. Sylvia’s stories of ghosts haunting this wing floated through my mind, and I shivered with a sudden chill.
Without warning, I was gripped in terror so complete it seized every thought, every impulse. The tapestry hung heavy around me, trapping me. I dropped the candle and scrambled, pushing against the heavy tapestry, frantic to break free. When I stumbled from my hiding place, I col-lapsed against the wall, breathing hard and trembling. The corridor was dark, just as it had been before. I could no longer hear the whispers that had started my terror. In fact, I wondered if I had heard them at all, or if it had only been the wind or my active imagination.
I pressed my hand to my chest and willed myself to breathe slowly, to calm myself, to refuse to allow my imagination to rule my reason. Turning to the window, I looked at the scene below me. The moon was three-quarters full, and from this window I could see the full stretch of ocean.
The silver-white light of the moon on the water calmed my soul, and after a few minutes I could breathe and think clearly again.
I had merely frightened myself by looking for the secret passageway. I had imagined the whispers and the footsteps. There were no ghosts. There was no such thing as a haunting. But just as I had finished telling myself this, I heard them again: the footsteps. I spun around, pressing my back to the wall.
This time there was light—a single candle held aloft, highlighting a familiar face. Henry. The terror drained from me, and a smile eased the firm line of my lips. He stopped at the door across the hall from where I stood and knocked on it. He waited, then called softly, “Kate? Are you awake?” and knocked again.
I breathed in, my throat constricted with sudden emotion, and he turned his head and looked directly at me.
“There you are.” The moonlight bathed me in its silver-white glow, and the flame of Henry’s candle shone golden around him. He stepped 64
toward me, bringing his golden light with him until it merged with the moonlight.
“What are you doing, standing here in the dark?” he asked.
“I did have a candle,” I said, as if that would explain it all. My ner-vousness still coursed through me, causing my hands to tremble. “And what are you doing here? Why are you not downstairs enjoying Miss St.
Claire’s company?”
My voice held a sting, which I regretted as soon as I heard it.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, turned toward me, and set his candle between us on the windowsill.
“I came to check on you. All alone, here, in the west wing? Sylvia would have already talked herself into seeing ghosts if she were in your place.”
“I am not like Sylvia.”
“I know.” A note of affection—a smile—sounded in his voice.
“But, Henry, in truth there is something about this house . . . this wing. I thought I heard whispers just moments ago, when I was behind the tapestry.”
His voice sharpened. “Whispers? Behind the tapestry?”
“Yes. I was looking for the secret passageway—you needn’t grin like that. You must have known I would look for it first thing—and as I looked behind the tapestry I thought I heard soft footsteps and whispers.
Is that madness?”
His eyes betrayed nothing, his face a mask of secrets. “Perhaps it was only the wind.”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“You know, it will be much easier to discover a secret passageway in the daylight.”
“I know.” I smiled faintly. “I was just . . . passing the time.”
His brow furrowed. “Passing the time? Why did you not come downstairs?”
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a question instead of answering his. “Why am I here? At Blackmoore?
And do not tell me that your mother invited me, because it was obvious she does not want me here. I want the truth. Please.”
He looked at me for a long moment while my heart pounded. In my mind, I silently begged him to tell me the truth.
“You are here,” he finally said, “because I had a promise to keep.”
“And this is your last opportunity to fulfill it.”
His gaze turned sharp. “Why do you say that?”
“Sylvia told me. She told me that you intend to propose to Miss St.
Claire during this visit.”
Henry said nothing.
I cleared my throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “Is it true, then? You are going to propose?”
He studied my face for a long moment before answering. “It’s a possibility.”
I breathed. And breathed again. “I see.”