“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 70
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 real-ized 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 uncomfort-able 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 71
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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 desper-ately 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.
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“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 pro-ceeding 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 re-gret. “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 sad-ness 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 ex-hausting 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.”
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Miss St. Claire dropped her fork at that and stood abruptly, bump-ing 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 displea-sure. “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.