The birds flew high, crying and wheeling, drawing me back from my reverie. I watched their shapes until they settled back into their roost at the top of the next tower, and I thought of how to answer Henry’s question.
“Those are rooks, you know,” I finally said, nodding up at the top of the tower. “Rooks claim a place as their own, and they stay there for centuries. Generations ago, rooks were here, haunting this tower. The off-spring follow the habits of the parents.” I watched the birds settle, then fly again, then settle with another round of cries. “They do not question, do they?” I took a deep breath. “But I do.”
I looked at Henry now and found his gaze on me. “That day you rescued me from the river . . .” He nodded. “I was running away from my mother that day. She was in town, with a . . . captain . . . of the militia.” I blushed and looked away. Even in the dark, I could not look at Henry and tell this story. “She was . . . indiscreet. I saw her. I heard what they said to each other. He called her a kitten.” I spit out the word with distaste. “His kitten.”
My hands trembled. I folded my arms tightly across my chest. “It was 155
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the first time I had witnessed such a thing. I daresay I had been blind before, or too na?ve. But I saw it that day.” Henry was still and quiet beside me. “I am not like her, Henry.” I whispered fiercely, clenching my hands into fists. “I am not. ”
“I know,” he said, his voice quiet.
Something calmed within me at his words. He knew. He knew. I breathed. My limbs stopped their trembling. We stood in silence for a long time, until the wind blew a chill through me.
“Is that all?” I asked. “Is that the secret you wanted to know tonight?”
“Yes. That is all.” Henry picked up the lantern and I followed him to the trapdoor. But before he began the climb down, he turned to me and said quietly, “Thank you.”
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Chapter 21
“Oh! A letter from my dear friend Miss Louisa Wyndham!” Miss St. Claire’s cheerful voice brought me sharply awake. I had fallen into a brown study while sitting in the morning room with her and Sylvia after breakfast. Most of Mrs. Delafield’s guests were older, married women who took their breakfast in bed and did not come downstairs until hours after we had eaten. So only the three of us occupied the morning room, and I had quickly slipped into my own thoughts while Sylvia and Miss St.
Claire chatted. Sleep had not come easily to me last night after sneaking back into my room. I lay awake and thought of Henry taking my hand, of him kneeling before me, of him declaring his love for me.
And to look at Miss St. Claire and imagine him doing those things with her, but to have them be real, sickened me.
“You remember I introduced you to her in Town,” Miss St. Claire continued “Now that is a well-connected family. Too bad they do not have any more unmarried sons. For your sake.”
I glanced sharply at Sylvia, and she shot me a look of warning in return. Had she not told Miss St. Claire of her attachment to the elder Mr. Brandon?
“Yes, that is too bad,” Sylvia said, giving me another meaningful look.
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I smiled at her, letting her know she had nothing to worry about from me. And she smiled back, tremulously, with a hint of relief.
“I shall have to read her letter to you, Sylvia. You will be most interested in what she writes about some of our acquaintances from Town.”
She cast a glance at me. “Although I don’t know how interesting this cor-respondence would be to someone who had never been to Town . . .” She folded the letter. “How rude of me, Miss Worthington, to speak in front of you about things you cannot be a part of. I am so sorry. How you must long for a Season! And I understand your mother is not likely to give you one. Well,” she smiled brightly, “never mind. We shall speak of other things while you are here.”
I stood up. “You are too kind, Miss St. Claire. Indeed, you are the epitome of thoughtfulness. But I think I will do something else and let you two have your chat.”
“Where are you going, Kitty?” Sylvia asked.
“I think I’ll explore the house again, since it is too rainy for the moors.”
Miss St. Claire frowned at the window. “It is most unsatisfactory that it has rained two of our three days here. But we shall entertain ourselves.
Perhaps later we can play some charades. Or whist. Or we could organize a ball! Oh, let’s do organize a ball. It will be such fun for the other guests.
We are responsible for their entertainment, you know, and I would so hate it if any of our guests were to feel bored here.”
I walked across the room, ready to be rid of Miss St. Claire’s exhaust-ing thoughtfulness.
“If it clears up this afternoon, Miss Worthington,” Miss St. Claire called to me before I closed the door, “we should all walk to Robin Hood’s Bay.”
She was so unbelievably kind. She made it most difficult for me to dislike her. I smiled. “I would like that very much.”
But instead of exploring the house immediately, I went to the bird room. Touching the painting of Icarus, I thought again of the tower and 158
Henry’s confession last night. I thought of the secret he had asked for; the memories that had awakened stayed with me all day. I was, for a short time, transported back in time, to two years before, to the days immediately after Henry saved me from the river.
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Chapter 22
three years BeFore
The weather had turned unpredictably, and grey skies became the back-
drop upon which the stifling boredom of my time played out. Finally, on the fourth day of rain, I took my kitten, bundled her up in an old shawl, and tucked her inside my coat. Then I tied on my bonnet, picked up a parasol, and marched through the woods to Sylvia’s house. I saw Sylvia through the French windows and ran up to knock at them. She hurried to let me, dripping, into the morning room. Luckily her mother was nowhere to be seen.
“I could not stay away any longer,” I announced as she helped me take off my dripping wet coat. “Eleanor has been talking ceaselessly about her latest interest, and I cannot listen to one more syllable about his many fine qualities.” I held up my scarf-wrapped bundle. “So I have brought my kitten for us to play with.” Sylvia cooed and pulled away the scarf until we could see the kitten’s grey and white face, eyes closed in sleep.
“I am so glad you have come,” Sylvia said, taking the kitten from me and cradling it like a baby in her arms. “I have been dying of boredom. Henry too.
He has been in the most impatient, short-tempered mood these past few days.
Always complaining about the rain and watching out the window.”
My heart quickened, as it had every time I had thought of Henry since
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he had rescued me from the river. But I said nothing to Sylvia about it. I had told her I found the kitten but not about Henry jumping into the river to save me. It was the first secret I had ever kept from her.
“So what have you decided to name her?” Sylvia asked.
“I haven’t chosen a name yet. I was hoping you could help me think of it.”
Sylvia looked into the kitten’s face. “I think she looks like a Mimi.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Mimi?”
“Yes. Or perhaps Dorothy, and you could call her Dot for short.”
I shook my head.
“Why not? Those are good names.”
“Let’s keep thinking,” I said. Sylvia rattled off more ideas, all of which sounded too silly to me. But I was not paying real attention to her. The impatience that had plagued me for the last four days was as strong as ever. I realized that I was impatient to see Henry. In fact, the longer I sat here in his house without seeing him or hearing his voice, the more restless I became.
Finally I stood and said, “Let’s ask Henry. He always has good ideas,”
Sylvia followed with the kitten, muttering something about having better ideas for a cat’s name than a boy would have.