“Good.”
My aunt’s letter and the music from Herr Spohr were tucked inside my traveling cloak, along with Oliver’s shells, tied up in a handkerchief inside a pocket. I looked around the room. It was such a beautiful room— as beautiful as the moors had become to me. I would miss it. But it was nearly half past ten, and if I lingered any longer, I ran the risk of encountering Mama or Maria on their way up to bed.
“Yes. I am ready.” I handed Alice my gloves, my bonnet, and my cloak. “I will meet you downstairs.”
L
At half past ten precisely I eased open the door to the bird room and slipped inside, then closed it softly behind me. The drapes were open, 254
allowing the light of the full moon to bathe the room with its silver sheen.
I moved carefully through the room until I approached the bird cage and knelt in front of it. With a soft creak of metal, I pried open the cage door. I assumed the bird’s limp body would be discovered by a maid and disposed of. But I would leave it with its door open, because it’s what I would have wanted.
I heard a sound behind me, a soft step. And then Henry’s voice.
“You’re leaving.”
My heart jumped. I stood and whirled around to face him, my pulse racing with nervousness.
The door was still closed. He must have been waiting in this room.
Waiting for me.
“How did you know?” I asked.
He stood far away from me, on the other side of the room in front of the Icarus painting. The moonlight illuminated only his outline. But I heard the accusation in his voice when he said, “It was written all over your face tonight.”
I drew a shaky breath. “You’re right. I am leaving.”
He stepped toward me. “Because you would rather marry that repulsive Mr. Cooper than be forced to marry me?”
The hard, hurt, accusing tone of his voice struck me like a physical blow. I reeled back from the force of it. My voice came out trembling and quiet. “No.”
“Then why?” His voice broke on the last word, and something broke inside me. Something that was keeping me steady in my course broke at the sound of that why. I looked down at the birdcage, feeling my heart racing in my chest, feeling my hands trembling. And I spoke the greatest truth I could.
“Because if I don’t escape my cage now, I never will.”
A long silence followed my words, and then Henry sighed and raked his hand through his hair. He turned away from me and stood looking at the Icarus painting. A great stillness in the room, and in him, reminded 255
J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n me of the bird that no longer stirred. And suddenly I needed to be near him. I needed to be sure that he was not also lifeless. I moved toward him quietly, until I saw the moonlight cast his face half in light, half in shadow.
He had his arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed on the image of Icarus being granted his wings.
“To be so close to heaven, to fall so far . . .” His voice was quiet, and for a moment I wondered if he was even talking to me. He sighed. “I was a fool to agree to this bargain, Kate. I thought I understood suffering before—those years that you lived a mile away—when I saw you often— when I had your confidences but not your love. Hearing your regular declarations of never wanting to marry . . .”
He rubbed his hand over his face. “That was suffering. But this . . .”
He shook his head, and I noticed how tightly he held himself—how a tremor spread through him. “This was madness. This was as mad as Icarus flying too close to the sun. To be so close, to have you in my arms, to whisper the words I have dreamed of saying to you, and to have you reject me, over and over.” His voice was low and rough, and the look he shot me sent fire through me, rooting me speechless to the ground. A ragged, shuddering breath shook him. “This is suffering of the most acute kind.”
I was afraid to breathe. I stood there with my heart in my throat and my hands clenched into fists and my lips sealed against the words I would not speak to him.
“This is not for the bargain,” he said. “And this is the final time I will ask this question, Kate. Never again. I just have to know—apart from that cursed bargain—I have to know. I cannot spend the rest of my life wondering . . .”
Tears ran down my face.
He turned to me, took my hand in his, and rubbed his thumb across my knuckles. He looked into my eyes, the moonlight illuminating his face. “I love you,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I want to be with you always. Marry me. Please.”
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I had to swallow, and could not, and when I finally pushed the word passed my lips, it was a choked whisper. “No.”
He flinched. I stifled a sob. I could hardly see him at all through my tears. He dropped my hand and turned from me, and I walked to the window and looked at the moon as tears streamed down my face. They came so furiously I could hardly breathe, and my chest shuddered with the attempt.
After a long stretch of time, I felt Henry stand behind me. His warmth at my back was so tempting. He said, in a broken voice, “I have one last question, and then I will let you go.”
I wrapped my hand around my throat, trying to stifle the sobs that shook me. I nodded.
He took a breath. I heard it catch. I heard his voice shake as he asked, in a low, husky tone, “If you loved me . . .”
I do.
He was so still. I felt his shock. And then, after a long pause, he breathed, “What?”
I turned around and stared at him with wide eyes, my heart pounding hard.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
I shook my head, my face on fire. Had I really spoken those words aloud? “Nothing. I said nothing.” I backed away from him, but he grabbed me by the shoulders and stepped closer and leaned down.
“You said I do. ”
He pulled me into his arms. And I hardly had time to think before he was kissing me. One hand at my waist, holding me close, the other at the back of my neck, his kisses firm, deliberate, pleading. I stopped thinking.
Everything that had been working at unraveling my heart had been too powerful to resist. Now I was nothing but heart, and I was pulling him closer and kissing him, and when I kissed him back, I heard a moan escape him. I pulled away, gasping for breath, and he pulled me back again, as if he needed me more than he needed breath. His hands were pressing 257
J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n me close, and he whispered my name, and suddenly I realized that I had to stop this. This was a mistake that should never have happened. It was cruel—too cruel—to do this once when I would never be able to do it again.
I sobbed at the thought and pushed him away. “No, Henry.” My voice was a broken cry. I saw the pain in his face before I grabbed him, pulled him close, and buried my face in his chest. I held him tight around his neck, his arms reaching around my waist, holding me close.
“You said you loved me,” he whispered.
“I do,” I whispered on a sob.
“Then why do you refuse me?” His voice hurt me—the pain in it.
The anguish. The sound of broken things.
I pulled away from him. “I know what loving me will cost you. I know, Henry! I heard your mother, that night at the ball. Two years ago.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean? What did you hear?”
I shook my head. This was the secret I had never meant to tell. But things had come undone within me, and I found I no longer had the strength to keep this secret. It rose within me as if with a life of its own, intent on escaping its own cage. It burst from me with a fresh wave of sobbing.
“I heard her tell your aunt Agnes that you will l-lose Blackmoore if you connect yourself with anyone in my family. She said she h-had the will changed. That your grandfather signed it. That the solicitor was there. And that sh-she would separate us if I showed any sign of favoring you, if I—”
“What? She had the will changed?” His voice was raw with shock and disbelief.