I stared at her as surprise rendered me speechless. But before I could wonder any more at her agreeable mood, she hurried off to “see to Maria’s comfort.” Watching her go, I tried to remember if I had ever heard her utter such a phrase before.
Unease stirred within me, but I shook it off and focused on this one thought: Maria would not be coming to Blackmoore after all! My smile stretched wide before I had to time to recall it. Of course, I should have worried about Maria’s health. But this fever was probably only a result of her refusing to eat and crying in odd places yesterday. Surely this was nothing serious.
Counting myself fortunate, I went forth to complete my last duties of 35
J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n the morning before I would be free to leave. I found Oliver in the kitchen, sitting on a stool next to Cook, who was rolling out pastry dough.
“Ollie, I have something to ask of you.”
Cook turned to reach for the flour, and Oliver sneaked out a hand, quick as a flash, and grabbed a piece of the pastry dough.
“What is it?” Oliver asked, popping the dough quickly into his mouth. At seven, he was missing several teeth, and his cheeks and nose were dusted generously with freckles. I sometimes watched him, when he wasn’t aware, and thanked my good fortune to have finally been granted a brother after so many sisters.
“I need you to take care of Cora while I am away.”
“What will I have to do?”
“Not much. Just keep an eye out for her. Don’t let the dogs terrorize her, and make sure Cook does not hurt her when she sneaks into the kitchen. Don’t let Mama get rid of her, either.”
Cook gave a loud humph when I mentioned her, but she went on rolling the dough, her beefy forearms covered in flour. Oliver stole a longing glance at the pastry dough again.
I cleared my throat to bring his attention back to me. “If you agree, I am prepared to offer you something very special as payment.”
That brought his eyes to me. They were large and hazel, like mine.
“What would you give me?”
“Something from Blackmoore. Something special that nobody else has.”
His eyes widened. “What? What is it?”
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table, and smiled at him.
“A seashell.”
He frowned. “That is not so special.”
My smile fell.
Cook clucked her tongue. “Nay, Oliver, your sister is right. A seashell is a very special thing.”
36
“Really?” Oliver lifted his gaze to Cook, who nodded and turned the dough, causing a puff of flour to lift into the air.
“Aye. Especially one that is found under the light of the moon. Some say it can bring the owner great luck.”
Oliver’s eyes grew wider, his mouth crooking up into a gap-toothed smile. “Great luck?”
Cook nodded, winking slyly at me when Oliver was not looking.
I grinned in return. “Would you like such a thing, Oliver? A lucky seashell?”
“Oh, yes, I would. Very much.” He was watching the pastry dough again, which Cook was cutting into strips. He stretched out a small hand while Cook was deliberately looking away.
“So you will watch over Cora? And not let any harm come to her?”
Oliver nodded, pinched off a piece of dough, and shoved it quickly into his mouth. But even though Cook pretended not to notice, I saw the smile on her flour-dusted face. I reached across the table to grab his face with both hands. I planted a kiss on each of his freckled cheeks. He squirmed and protested halfheartedly.
“Good-bye, Ollie,” I said, looking into his eyes. “I will miss you.”
“Good-bye Kate.” He smiled at me before turning his gaze back to the dough.
I caught Cook’s eye, grateful once again that she was kind and moth-erly and so very fond of my little brother. “He needs a haircut, and please do see to his fingernails. They’re atrocious.”
Ollie snickered and said, “I prefer them atrocious.”
I threw an affectionate glance at his bent head, then whispered, “You will . . . take care of him . . . watch out for him . . .”
Cook shushed me with a frown that was a gentle rebuke. “Of course, Miss Katherine. Do not worry yourself about Master Oliver here. He and I shall have adventures together while you’re away. Won’t we?”
Oliver had eyes only for that pastry dough, but he nodded his head.
37
J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n I left, if not with a light heart, at least without a heart troubled on his account.
There was only one more thing to do. I stopped before the door to the library and tapped on it softly, almost hoping he would not hear my quiet knock. But he did hear, and he called for me to enter. I opened the heavy door and leaned only my head and shoulders into the room. “Papa, I have come to say good-bye.”
He sat in his chair by the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other.
The sun lit the dust motes in the air, and the sweet smell of pipe tobacco mingled with the old leather of books. The smell was intoxicating to me, and one whiff of it brought a strong pang of nostalgia for things I was missing.
He lifted his head. “Hm? Where are you off to?”
“To Blackmoore with the Delafields. And hopefully to Aunt Charlotte’s afterward. She will take me to India with her.”
“Is that so?” His gaze settled on me for a brief moment before he took his pipe from his mouth. The smoke drifted between us, disguising us from each other, making us strangers. “Well . . .” He looked back down at his book, turning his attention from me too soon. “Godspeed,” he said, then clamped the pipe between his teeth.
I nodded, expecting nothing different, and quietly closed the door between us.
Then I turned to the front door and the carriage waiting to take me away, for the first time in my life, to someplace new.
38
Chapter 5
The Delafields’ old nurse, Mrs. Pettigrew, sat across from me in the carriage, humming under her breath and knitting at a breathtaking speed, the needles clacking together in time with the clomping of the horses’
hooves. I looked longingly out the window at Henry’s back. He was riding, of course. I knew he would—I knew he always rode to Blackmoore.
And a small, grudging part of me had to admit that I was grateful that his old nurse had agreed to come along to act as chaperone. But after two full days of this swaying carriage and that humming and those clicking needles, my head felt ready to split open.
We had taken advantage of the long summer daylight hours to travel a good distance yesterday. After twelve hours in the carriage with Mrs.
Pettigrew’s noise but no conversation to help pass the time, I had been looking forward to talking to Henry. But when we had stopped at the inn last night, Henry had not dismounted. He had only said that I would stay there, with the coachman and Mrs. Pettigrew, and he would go on to another inn down the road.
I had frowned at his retreating back and trudged inside the inn, where I did not enjoy my meal nor the room I shared with Mrs. Pettigrew. This morning, Henry was astride his horse and waiting for us outside the inn after breakfast. We were off with hardly a word spoken between us.
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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n
I had never truly appreciated either the restfulness of silence nor the entertainment of intelligent conversation as much as I did today. I sighed as I leaned my forehead against the window, wishing the rumble of the carriage wheels could drown out the clack and hum of Mrs. Pettigrew, wishing I had someone to talk to, wishing the long drive was already over. I shifted, trying to stretch my legs, without success. Mrs. Pettigrew glanced up from her knitting to smile briefly at me.
“It tries one’s patience, doesn’t it? The waiting. But it is well worth it.”
With her smile, I was reminded that Mrs. Pettigrew had accompanied the Delafield family on their trips to Blackmoore every summer. She had been such a part of the family that when the children grew up and George had inherited Delafield Manor, he kept Mrs. Pettigrew on to be nurse to his own children. Henry must have been very persuasive to convince George to let her come with us. She leaned forward to peer out the window.