Blackmoore(14)

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.

39



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.

“Ah. It seems Master Henry has chosen the scenic route. This will be a treat for you.”

“What is the scenic route?” I asked, eager to talk about anything after two days of humming.

“You’ll see soon enough.” She sat back and click-clack went her knitting needles, and the low drone of her humming filled my ears once again.

She could not know that “soon enough” had grown old years ago, that “at length” was sick and frail, that “finally” was a dying breath. Patience was not one of my virtues. Neither was endurance.

The humming took on a high, keening quality that reverberated inside the carriage and within the bones of my skull. I thought I would go mad with the sound. The horses slowed, and I looked out the window and saw that they were pulling us up an incline.

“You know, the horses are having a hard time with this hill,” I said, moving toward the door, “so I shall just get out and stretch my legs a little.”

Mrs. Pettigrew looked up, startled, as I opened the carriage door.

“Oh, no! You will break a leg! Ask the driver to stop.”

40



The carriage was traveling no faster than I would on foot. “I will not break a leg, I assure you.” I jumped down lightly and swung the door shut behind me, breathing a sigh of relief to finally be free of that tuneless droning.

Henry had been riding ahead of us, but he looked back and turned his horse to me.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, drawing near.

I shot him a look of accusation. “Mrs. Pettigrew hums.”

He laughed as he dismounted, his smile bright in the sunshine. “The humming! I had forgotten about the humming!”

“How could you forget about the humming? It is embedded in the very matter of my brain!” I imitated the high, droning, tuneless sound I had been enduring the past day and a half.

He just grinned, with a devious look in his eyes that made me wonder if he really had forgotten the humming after all. Realizing I was making my headache worse, I stopped humming and rubbed my forehead for a moment. Henry drew near me, leading his horse by the reins.

“So . . . you stayed at a different inn last night,” I said.

He nodded.

I squinted up at him. “Was that really necessary?”

He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to risk . . .

your reputation.”

“Ah.” I looked away, my face hot. The memory of my sister Eleanor hung in the silence between us. I would not mention her name, though, and I breathed a sigh of relief when, after a moment, I realized that Henry was not going to mention her either.

Gesturing at the land before us, Henry said, “There is something you will want to see at the top of that hill.”

“What is it?”

“The moors.” He said it as if the word itself was a gift, just as he had always talked about the moors—as if they were as important to his inheritance as the house or the living.

41



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n

Gripped with new excitement, I flashed him a grin and hurried to the top of the hill, Henry leading his horse and trailing behind me. A hearty wind blew my skirts, tangling them around my legs as I reached the top of the hill. I stopped at the crest and looked at a bleak valley of wasteland.