that I did love him. Sylvia looked stern and uncomfortable. I wondered if she knew the truth as well. I wondered what she thought about it if she did know.
It was too awkward for words. I backed away, gesturing over my shoulder.
“I should . . . go.”
I ran home with fear and hope battling for dominance within my pound-
ing heart.
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Chapter 31
Present Day
I had debated whether or not I had the strength to endure dinner at Blackmoore with Mama and Maria. As it turned out, I had barely enough self-control left to me. Mrs. Delafield had placed them as far away from her as she could without displacing Miss St. Claire in the place of honor on Henry’s right hand. They were both too loud, and I cringed every time one of them spoke. In my embarrassment I avoided looking at Henry or Sylvia. I caught Mr. Brandon’s eye once—the younger Mr. Brandon—and it continued to hold that pity I had seen in him earlier. After that I kept my eyes on my plate and thought of the ocean and India and a long voyage away from my shameful family.
Herr and Frau Spohr performed for the company again, which I was quietly relieved about, as that made it difficult for Mama or Maria to make a spectacle of themselves. As soon as the recital concluded, Mrs.
Delafield approached Mama and said, with a cold smile, “You have had a long day of traveling and must surely want to retire early. Come. I will show you to your room.”
Mama looked around, as if searching for someone to rescue her. “But I have not yet been introduced to all of your friends.”
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Mrs. Delafield gestured toward the door. “There will be plenty of time for introductions tomorrow.” The two women stared at one another, each wearing their cruel, cold smiles. I could not guess who would win. Mrs.
Delafield had the advantage of standing in her ancestral home; Mama had the advantage of not caring one whit if she made a scene.
I did not wait to see what would happen next. I grabbed Maria by the arm and pulled her toward Mama, saying, “It is time for all of us to retire.
Come, Mama. I will show you the west wing.” I touched my mother’s elbow, begging her with a look to come quietly. After a long moment of staring at Mrs. Delafield, Mama finally drew a deep breath, lifted her chin, and said, “I would like nothing better, Kitty.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I dragged a protesting Maria and an au-daciously offended Mama from the drawing room and up the stairs. I stopped at my bedroom door and surveyed the two additional trunks in the room. It seemed Mama and Maria were not to be given their own rooms. I looked at the bed and sighed again, this time with nothing short of misery. Perhaps I would find somewhere else to sleep. Anywhere would be better than here, with these two.
It was almost midnight when Mama and Maria finally stopped talking (which consisted mainly of complaining about their reception from Mrs. Delafield) and fell asleep. I had let them take the bed, insisting I would be comfortable on the chair in front of the fire. Alice had helped them undress, had watched and listened to us with wide eyes, but had said nothing. Finally, after all their talking and moving about and complaining about every little thing, the two of them were asleep. I quietly stole out of the room, then practically ran to the bird room, afraid I would be too late and that Henry would leave. But when I burst into the room, there he stood with the lantern and a smile meant just for me.
“This is awful,” I declared as soon as I saw him.
“I know.” He stepped toward me, held out a hand, and said, “Come.
Let’s escape together.”
I slipped my hand into his and felt his fingers curl around mine. My 215
J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n heart thumped hard in my chest. I would hold onto him for tonight.
When he tugged on my hand, I followed him into the darkness of the secret passageway.
L
The sky was dark with clouds, only an occasional cluster of stars steal-ing through to light the night. Henry set the lantern on the grass of the tower and lifted all of its shutters to illuminate the space. The dark sky and the birds cawing in the towers made this place feel like another world.
And I felt almost as if I had stolen back in time. As if Henry and I had found a secret passageway to the way we were two years ago, before the ball at Delafield manor that had changed everything.
We sat on the grass and I leaned back on my hands, content to stay up here for a very long time. Content to sleep up here, if need be, just to forget about Mama and Maria and Mrs. Delafield all waiting for me in the house with their anger.
Henry leaned closer, nudging me with his shoulder. “Kate.”
“Hm?”
“What are you most afraid of?”
I glanced at him, but his head was tipped back, like mine, and his gaze was focused on the dark night sky.
“Is this for our bargain?”
He sent me a sharp look, his brow furrowed. “Does everything be-tween us have to be about that bargain?”
“No,” I said, smiling at his response, glad that he cared still.
I thought about his question, and then I stood and walked around the tower, listening to the haunting cries of the rooks, feeling the wind, and smelling the ocean. This was a wild place. All of my careful constraints had come undone here in just a matter of days. I felt untethered and unraveled and wild as the gale blowing my hair into dark tangles. This night signaled the end of our bargain, and therefore the beginning of my 216
escape, and in this moment of things coming undone, I wanted to confide in Henry. I wanted to confide everything.
“I am afraid of India,” I finally confessed.
Henry stood and came toward me. He looked confused. “I thought India was your dream. Your ideal.”
“Yes. I have thought that. But what if it’s not? What if I feel just as . . . restless . . . and—and caged and unhappy there as I do here? What if it doesn’t fix anything? What if I have gone to all of this trouble for something awful?” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to stop the trem-bling that had overtaken me. Hearing myself speak this truth shook me.
“Truly, it frightens me to think that all of my dreaming will end in disappointment. And the thought of being disappointed in India makes me feel completely helpless. As if I am incapable of truly being happy. As if my ambition will be my curse. My dreams will turn into my condemnation.”
I ran my fingers through my loose hair. And more words tumbled out, as if once I started talking about my fears, I could not stop myself.
“And what will I do after I have seen India? I am not yet twenty years old, Henry! What will I live for? What if life does not hold anything signifi-cant for me, and I waste my days with this restlessness plaguing me, and it’s all for . . . nothing?”
Henry’s gaze on me was dark and troubled, and he thought about my words for a long moment before sighing and saying, “Truthfully, I would spend all my breath trying to convince you that you have made the wrong choice, if I could. I hate the thought of that journey—the danger of the voyage, the unknown threats of that country. But I would not rob you of your dreams.” He shrugged. “So, if India is not your heart’s desire, at least you will know. At least you will never have the regret, the wonder of what would have happened had you simply dared . . .” His gaze locked on mine.
Dared. The word snagged on my thoughts. I remembered what Henry had told me the other night, about why he had gone swimming in the ocean. That he wanted to do something daring. And suddenly, I very 217
J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n much wanted to do something daring. I wanted to face something truly fearsome and walk away from it alive. The dark birds rose from the tower next to ours. I tipped my head back and watched them soar. And then I knew what I wanted to do.
I reached for the wall with one hand and held the other one out to Henry. “Give me your hand.”
He raised an eyebrow.