“I can never look at a bird without thinking of you,” he said. “I wonder what you will do with your wings once you have found them. I wonder how far away they will take you. And I fear them, for my sake, at the same time that I hope for them, for yours.”
I drew in a breath, feeling the air shudder into my lungs but could not find any words to speak. He had never touched me like this. He had never looked at me like this. He had never spoken to me like this. My hand crept up my throat, and I felt my burning cheek, sure that some fundamental change had occurred where he had touched it.
“Now,” he said, his voice low and husky, and he was gazing into my eyes without flinching, “are we even? Have I made myself vulnerable enough to suit you?”
I could have leaned into him and kissed him. He was that close to me.
My heart pounded, and I found myself staring at his mouth. I gripped the stone wall behind me, telling myself not to reach for him, not to lift my lips to touch his, not to hold him tightly and tell him that I did not want to fly away from him.
We were fragile, the two of us, breathing the same air, caught in this taut moment of secrets and half-truths. I could sense how everything could go wrong with one misstep, one misspoken word. So I nodded and did not say a word, terrified to speak and ruin this thing we were trying to balance between ourselves—this fragile and deep and flammable friendship.
“Good,” Henry whispered, standing upright and backing up a step. I shivered in the sudden cold without the warmth of his nearness.
“Do you want to go inside?” he asked, noticing my chill.
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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n “No. Let’s—let’s finish this here.” Awkwardness made me feel tongue-tied now. “You want to know why I object to marriage.”
“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. What I really want to know is why you’re afraid of love.”
My breath came sharply. I tried to laugh but couldn’t. He was not supposed to ask me that. He was not supposed to even know to ask me that. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, as if telling me that he would wait all night if he had to.
I crossed my arms too, wanting to protect myself, and took a deep breath, “My love is as a fever . . .”
“You want to quote Shakespeare?” He shook his head. “You can do better than that.”
I glared at him, clenching my hands into fists. Anger was much less complicated than fear; defensiveness was much safer than vulnerability.
“It is true, though. Love is like a disease. It ravages. It maims. It destroys everything in its wake. I am wise to shun the idea of it, just as wise as if I were to avoid a plague. It is a weakness of the human heart to imagine that something that starts with passion can last. Passion is a fire that burns and leaves nothing standing in its wake. It is illogical and unreasonable.
Love is the downfall of men and the entrapment of women. It is a cage that once one enters, one can never escape.
“I have seen it time and time again. With my mother. With my father. With Eleanor. Now with Maria. It is a scourge to all that is tender and good. It is disloyal. It is no respecter of persons. It creates bondage, heartache, betrayal, resentment—” My breath caught unexpectedly, and I had to wait and swallow. I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart ached so badly I could not breathe. “That is what I have seen of love. That is why I will avoid it. I will be wiser than my parents and my sisters and everyone else who was entrapped by a fleeting feeling and then made to suffer for it for the rest of their lives.”
Henry moved toward me, until I could see his face in the moonlight.
It was full of aching and compassion and denial. “That is not love you 190
speak of. You have seen the decay of the imitation of love. Your parents never loved. Your sisters never truly loved. I wonder if they’re even capable of it. But you, dear Kate . . .” He shook his head. “You are not like them.”
But what if I am? I turned the question over in my mind, letting it tear me up with doubt, and then I looked up at the dark sky and sighed.
“I have given you my answer, Henry. Now it is your turn.”
I was looking away from him. I was looking at the stars, wishing I could turn back time and not eavesdrop at that ball. I was wishing I could remake our fortunes and change the families we had been born into.
I wasn’t prepared for the touch of Henry’s hand on mine. A jolt of surprise rushed through me, and my gaze flew to his face. He was watch-ing me with a quiet intensity that made my heart race. He did not merely take my hand in his. He slipped his fingers around the back of my hand, his touch a caress as his fingers encircled my wrist, slid up my palm, then slipped between my fingers. My heart pounded as he lifted our joined hands and bowed his head and pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.
Panic pulsed through me with the racing rhythm of my heart. And something else, too. Some deep, slow melting that made me feel weak all over.
“Kate,” he whispered, stepping closer to me, “you are not like your mother. You are a different creature from your sisters. The depths of your soul are fathomless. You are brave and loyal and true. You have such a good heart.” He held my hand close to his chest and covered it with his other hand. “It is only afraid. But I would take such good care of it, love, if you would give it to me.” He bent his head and pressed his lips to my fingers.
I was all fire and fear and more fear inside. My heart threatened to bound out of my chest. My knees were weak from the melting that was happening within me. I trembled everywhere, and as my thoughts raced, I caught onto the first reasonable one I noticed.
In a shaking voice I said, “Thank you, but no.”
I felt him flinch. But when I opened my eyes, his face was turned 191
J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n from me, and he stepped away, letting my hand fall from his grip. I folded my arms into myself, feeling wounded and weak. His back was to me, and with his head tipped back I could see he was looking at the stars. Or per-haps it was the birds, nesting in the tower next to ours, that he watched.
After a long moment of silence between us, he reached for the lantern on the wall and said, “That’s two. Only one more to go.”
I nodded and pushed back the weakness that threatened my calm.
This was what was supposed to happen. This would give me my dream— my trip to India. This was the right thing to do. We walked back through the secret passageway in silence, and the only words Henry spoke to me when he left me in the west wing was “good night.”
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Chapter 28
Mr. Brandon found me on the moors. I had been unable to sleep most of the night, and sneaked out of the house before dawn. This morn-ing I could not stop thinking of how quickly my time here was drawing to a close. Just one more proposal from Henry and I would leave this place and probably never see it again. And at that realization, everything became achingly beautiful. The bracken, the peat, the bruised heather, the thorny yellow flowers, the twisted shrubs, and the rock outcroppings. It all became exquisite and dear, and I loved it. I bent and picked some flowers and grass, tore off a branch of heather, and tucked them all into my pocket. I was just straightening when Mr. Brandon called out.
“Miss Worthington! I feel I have hardly had a chance to speak with you lately. You were absent all day yesterday.”
The sun was rising behind him as he walked toward me. He was a nice man. He would probably make some other lady adequately happy.
But not me.
“Indeed. I took a trip into Robin Hood’s Bay.”
His eyes looked greener than I had remembered, his hair more golden.
He held a hand to his ear. “I have been listening for your birds, Miss Worthington. But I’m afraid I need someone to help me identify them. I do not know enough about them myself.”
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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n I thought of what Henry had said to me—about a man not need-ing encouragement to lose his heart. I certainly didn’t imagine that Mr.