“Oh no, I am sure it is not. Who does not like birds?” His voice lowered and grew more intimate as he said, “But you came out onto the moors before sunrise to listen to birds. And that, Miss Worthington, makes you fascinating.”
His words, his smile, and the look in his eyes, all combined, surprised me and robbed me of speech. I could only stare at him, while he smiled at me, and a blush crept up my face.
“You look surprised,” he said in a soft voice.
I laughed. I did not know what else to do. “I am sorry. I am not ac-customed to people finding my interest in birds fascinating. ”
His smile stretched wide. “All the better for me, then.”
“And what do you do out here, Mr. Brandon, so early in the morning?”
He breathed in deeply and lifted his face to the sky, where the sun had just sprung over the horizon in all its golden glory. “I came outside to explore. It’s my first time on the moors, you see. And to be in such a location—to have both the ocean and the moors at once—it’s rather . . .”
His gaze settled on me. “It’s rather ideal, is it not?”
I nodded, agreeing with his sentiment. The sunlight grew stronger, the light changed, and I changed my mind about his eye color. They were not the green of the moors. They were the green of the trees at home. He was golden in the dawn light—golden hair and skin and light stubble across his jaw and chin. He was tall, I realized—probably as tall as Henry.
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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n And I suddenly wondered how Sylvia could overlook the son and like the father instead.
He gestured to his left. “Shall we walk back together? I am quite fam-ished after all of my exploring, and I imagine you must be as well, after your own adventure.”
I walked beside him. After a moment I cleared my throat. “Speaking of my adventure, do you mind not telling the others about that? I’m afraid some would not approve.”
He looked quickly at me, his brow furrowed, but only smiled. “I am happy to share a secret with you, Miss Worthington.” I hardly had time to think of his words before he said, “Now. Tell me about your birds.”
I looked at him, the wind blowing my hair around my face. “What about them?”
“Everything. Something. What interests you?”
“Their songs. Their natures.” I glanced at him, wondering if he was really as interested as he sounded. But his gaze hardly strayed from my face, and the expression on his face was no less than fascinated. Very few people actually gave me an invitation to talk about my interest in birds, and I found myself suddenly eager to talk. “They are deceptive, as a group. One might think that all birds are similar, but they are quite unique from one species to another.”
He nodded, so I went on.
“Each bird’s song is identifiable. Their calls are so much more com-plex than tweets or chirps. The blackbird, for example, sounds like this.”
I produced the whistle that Henry and I had spent hours perfecting one rainy day a few years ago.
His eyebrows lifted. “That was you, earlier. Wasn’t it? I heard that whistle out on the moors.”
I nodded. “Well, one of the whistles was mine. One was . . . an actual bird. I suppose.” I thought again of how disappointed I had been when Henry had not walked out of the fog.
“What is your favorite bird?” Mr. Brandon asked.
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I waved his question away. “That is impossible to answer.”
His smile flashed. “Very well. Tell me about one of your favorites.”
I thought for a moment before answering. I would have told him about the woodlark. But I felt that I would be somehow betraying Henry to talk about the woodlark.
The dry heather gave way to the green grass surrounding Blackmoore.
The sun was fully up now, the golden light and heat burning off the fog, little by little. Mr. Brandon stopped walking and faced me, waiting.
I stopped too and thought of the birds I loved. Finally I answered.
“The mistle thrush.”
“What about it?”
I looked a question at him.
He waved a hand, as if urging me to continue. “What makes that bird one of your favorites?
He asked it as if he was genuinely interested in my thoughts about birds. It seemed so strange to me.
“Er . . . well . . . If you really want to know . . .”
“I do.”
“For one thing, if one sees it from above, it looks like it’s wearing a smooth grey coat. But its chest and belly are speckled. White with dark grey speckles that look quite festive. As if it is going to a party. You might think it a proper and boring creature, until you see those jaunty speckles, and then you know that you misunderstood it initially. You underesti-mated it.” I drew a breath. “But I think what I like most about the mistle thrush is how . . . audacious it is. It perches at the top of very large trees and sings into the face of a storm. As if daring the storm to frighten it. As if trying to prove that it can outsing a gale. It is so very brave.” I smiled and shrugged. “I admire it.”
He was studying me with a look I could not interpret. He almost seemed to look at me in the same way I looked at my birds. I suddenly felt transparent and crossed my arms over my chest. “Do you think it strange?
That I admire a bird?”
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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n “Not at all,” he said briskly. “In fact, I have suddenly become very interested in birds myself.”
The wind blew off the ocean, throwing my hair across my face in a tangled mess. I pushed it back and held it with one hand, turning so the wind blew my hair behind me. “Speaking of gales . . .” I said.
“Yes. Let’s go inside,” Mr. Brandon said and walked beside me across the green and the courtyard and through the front doors of Blackmoore. I crossed the great entry hall, eager to get upstairs and make myself look decent before anyone else saw me in this state. At the curve of the staircase, I could look up and see the painting of Phaeton on the domed ceiling. Or I could look down into the entry hall below me. I looked down. And standing there still, looking up at me, stood Mr. Brandon, with that infectious smile on his face. And I could not help but smile in return.
It was clear he saw my answering smile. My face burned for a reason I could not name, and I hurried to turn away and hide my blush from him.
I saw only a blur before I bumped into someone standing right behind me.
“Oh! Pardon me!” I said, gripping the banister to regain my balance.
Mrs. Delafield reared back. “Do watch where you’re going, Kitty.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
Mrs. Delafield turned her chilly blue eyes to my face, then her gaze traveled upward and settled on my hair. “Have you been outdoors, Kitty?”
“Kate,” I reminded her, resisting the urge to smooth my hair. “And, yes, I have been.”
She sighed and looked upward, as if seeking divine help. “I must speak with you about acceptable behavior while you are here.”
I could not stop myself from glancing over my shoulder. I felt a lec-ture coming, and I did not want Mr. Brandon to overhear it. But he stood below, still looking up, and Mrs. Delafield’s voice carried clearly across the domed space between us.
Mrs. Delafield stepped forward, looked over the railing, and her hand gripped the wooden banister, the veins on the back of her hands bulging.
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“Mr. Brandon.” Her voice was the epitome of strained politeness.
“Good morning. I trust you slept well.”
“Indeed.” His smile changed from the infectious width I had just admired, becoming more controlled, more strictly polite.
I edged away from the banister. “If you will excuse me, Mrs.
Delafield . . .”
“Kitty, I would like to have a word with you.”
I paused and watched with a growing sense of dread as she drew close to me. Leaning toward me, she whispered, “Were you outside with Mr.
Brandon? Alone? Did you two have some sort of . . . assignation? ”
“Of course not.” I whispered back, appalled. “We ran into each other outside, but I did not plan to meet him there.”
Her eyes narrowed, a warning in their blue depths. “There will be no scandal here, Kitty. Not like at Brighton.”
I burned with the shame of her implication. “I am not Eleanor, Mrs.