Blackmoore(18)

Was something settled between them, then? Had Henry already proposed to Miss St. Claire? Was it decided that she was going to be mistress of Blackmoore?

I finally managed to nod and smile faintly. “Thank you. I am happy to finally be here.” I could not keep myself from faintly stressing the word finally. I wanted Miss St. Claire to know that she might have visited here first, but my heart had belonged here longer than hers. I was ten when Henry and she had met for the first time. I knew him long before she did, and better, too. I had loved Blackmoore long before she had even heard of it.

“Dawson, please have Miss Worthington’s things taken to her room,”

Mrs. Delafield said, taking charge. She glanced around the room. “Mrs.

Pettigrew! What do you do here?”

The old nurse had finally put her knitting away and was standing a few paces away from our group. “Master Henry invited me to come along. As a chaperone.”

Mrs. Delafield cast a sharp glance at Henry. “It seems Henry is full of surprises this evening.”

Henry’s jaw was tight, his eyes steely as they met his mother’s. They looked as if they were at silent war with each other, and I had to guess that Henry won when Mrs. Delafield looked away with a sigh, glancing around the room as if looking for something she had misplaced.

“Katherine.” She sighed again. “Where is your maid?”

“I—I didn’t bring one.” My mother had a lady’s maid, but my sisters 51



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n and I shared a maid among us, and Mama had not wanted to lose a servant to this trip.

Mrs. Delafield raised one haughty eyebrow and examined me as if I were a strange insect she did not remember stepping on. I had seen her look at me like that before. But this time I was all too aware of Miss St. Claire’s watchful gaze and Henry standing close behind me. My face burned.

With another heavy sigh, she said in a bored voice, “Dawson, find someone from town to come here first thing in the morning to be Miss Worthington’s maid. We must not allow her to run around like a wild thing here. Not with our guests coming.”

“Yes, Mrs. Delafield,” Dawson said, bowing.

“Sylvia, a word.” Mrs. Delafield walked a few steps away, pulling Sylvia with her. They spoke with lowered voices, but I heard their words anyway. I was very good at eavesdropping. “No extra rooms in the east wing. She will have to be in the west wing.”

“Can’t someone share a room—”

“No. I won’t inconvenience one of my guests for her sake. I told you so when you . . .” Her voice dropped to a murmur, and I strained to catch the stream of their conversation again without looking as if I was listening.

Another moment passed, and then Sylvia returned to my side and looped her arm through mine.

“Come. Let me show you to your room.” She took a candle from a side table and tugged me toward the arched opening at the other end of the room. It appeared Henry had forgotten all about me. He was completely engrossed in whatever Miss St. Claire was saying to him in soft tones as they stood before the fire.

Before we passed through the archway, I could not keep myself from glancing back. Miss St. Claire had moved closer to Henry, and the fire-light flickered over her hair, casting it copper. She laid a graceful hand on his arm and looked up into his face. The last thing I saw before turning away was Henry smiling down at her.

52







Chapter 7


“Mama told me to put you in the west wing,” Sylvia said, looking at me with a flash of nervousness in her eyes. “The other guests will be in the east wing. You know Mama has spent the past year decorating it, and she has invited all of her friends here to show off her work. But Mama was not counting on you, and we have no extra bedrooms over there. So you will be alone in the west wing. You will not mind, will you?”

“But . . .” I stumbled over the top stair and caught myself on the banister. “But what do you mean? Surely your mother was expecting me.”

“Hm?” Sylvia cast me a quick glance, then looked back at the hallway in front of us.

The hall was dark, the candle doing little to illuminate the vast cor-ridor stretching before us. A chill settled between my shoulders. I was sud-denly grateful for Sylvia’s arm looped through mine. “What did you mean when you said, just now, ‘Mama was not counting on you’? Your mother did invite me, did she not? Henry told me she did. He was holding a letter from her, from London. She did invite me, Sylvia.”

My heart sick with dread, I watched her profile as she walked next to me, with the candlelight highlighting her golden hair. She looked very much like her mother. Tall, like all the Delafields. Golden hair that would 53



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turn ashy brown before it turned grey. And those cold blue eyes, like a frosted sky.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I only meant that she had not counted properly—she had not counted all of her guests. She didn’t count you. So when she made her plans for this party . . .” She waved a hand dismis-sively. “You will have to be in the west wing. That is all I meant.”

Unease joined the chill that had settled over me, but I tried to shake it off with the thought that Sylvia would not lie to me, nor would Henry.

If they said I was invited, I would accept their words as truth. I smiled a little. I was here, at Blackmoore. That was all that mattered. I had finally been invited. I had finally been included, and I would finally see where Henry would spend the rest of his life. I stopped my thoughts there, before they could add “with Miss Juliet St. Claire.” My smile grew broader as I thought that I was fortunate to stay in the old west wing, which Sylvia had always told me was haunted. This was perfect. This was exactly how I would have chosen to experience Blackmoore. We climbed two flights of stairs and turned right.