Blackmoore(19)

Sylvia shivered next to me. It was colder here, in this wing. I could feel the wind leaking through the stone walls. I could hear it, too—a high, fickle, moaning that came and went in sporadic gusts. A groan sounded from the wood floor where I stepped. Sylvia clutched my arm even more tightly and quickened her steps. I looked at her, smiling.

“Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of the west wing.”

“Nonsense. I am eighteen. Of course I am not afraid,” she scoffed.

Then she swerved abruptly, nearly knocking me over in her rush to reach a door to my right. “Here. Here is your room.”

The door was made of heavy, carved wood, and it creaked when she pushed it open. “I shall send a maid up right away to start a fire,” she said, moving into the room and lighting the candles left on the bedside table and the mantle. By the bed, she tugged on a rope, which would ring a bell downstairs to signal a servant to come.

She looked around nervously and shuddered. “I do hate the west 54



wing. I admit it. You will no doubt love it, though. You were always so fascinated by the hauntings of this place.”

Looking around the room, I decided that I did love it. It was dark and chilly and matched perfectly the mood of the house.

“This is perfect,” I said, sitting on the bed. After lighting the other candles, Sylvia set hers down on the bedside table. Now that we were here, I realized how much I had missed her these past four months while she had been in Town. “Now, tell me everything about London that you have not already told me in your letters.”

She dropped onto the bed and said with a tortured sigh, “It was exhausting. Every day. So exhausting.”

I snorted. “Adventures are wasted on you, Sylvia. You would rather curl up in front of a fire than go anywhere or see anything.”

She smiled good-naturedly. “It is true. In fact, from now on, suitors will have to come to me. London is too tiring to do again.”

“Speaking of suitors . . .” I raised my eyebrows. “Were there any promising men in Town?”

She sighed again, but this time a blissful smile slipped out, and stayed on her face, and her eyes took on a dreamy quality. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her gown, she drew out a small scrap of paper and handed it to me. In an elegant scrawl were the words, What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy, if Sylvia be not by?

She watched me with her eyes brimming with excitement. “Well?”

she asked, her voice rich with enthusiasm. “Isn’t he wonderfully poetic?”

“Shakespeare? Yes. He was.” I handed her the paper.

Her brows furrowed. “No. Not Shakespeare.” She leaned toward me, and even though the door was shut and no one was around to hear, she whispered, “Mr. Brandon gave me that. He wrote it. Just for me.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat and, pointing to the paper, said, “But this is a line from Shakespeare, Sylvia.” I did not speak the thought that fol-lowed—that if she had studied half as much as she had played with my cat, she might have known that herself.

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

Her crestfallen expression shot an arrow of regret through me.

She stroked the paper with one finger. “I thought he had composed it himself.”

“But it is very romantic of him,” I hurried to say. “He must admire you very much. And it is the thought that counts, after all, and not neces-sarily the originality of the thought.”

Her face brightened a little. “Yes. That is true. It is the thought that counts.”

I felt wicked for having crushed her hope. “So tell me more about this thoughtful and romantic Mr. Brandon.”

Her smile widened to a grin. “You will meet him for yourself. He is due to arrive tomorrow.”

“Then I am doubly happy to be here.”

“Yes. I am happy too, no matter what Mama may say—” She bit off her words with a look of consternation.

I looked at her pointedly. “No matter what Mama may say?”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she shook her head, as if advising me not to press the matter. But I did not let things go easily.

“What would your mother have to say about my visit? Did she truly not know I was coming?”

Sylvia looked down and traced lines in the quilt. After a long pause, she spoke hesitantly, carefully. “She is concerned that with you here, Henry might be . . . distracted. From his goal.”

My brows drew together in confusion. “What goal?”

She took a breath and let it out on a sigh. “He intends to make things . . . final. With Miss St. Claire.”

My heart pumped loudly. I fixed my gaze on her golden hair. “You mean he intends to propose to her.”

She lifted her gaze, an apology written all over her face. “You knew this was coming,” she whispered. “You’ve known it as long as we have.

You’ve had years to come to terms with this, Kitty. And so has Henry.

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And you saw him, tonight. Downstairs. You must have seen that he now welcomes this match.”

My pride bristled. I set my expression in a look of derision. “I have no issue with Henry’s match with Miss St. Claire. You needn’t look at me as if you pity me, Sylvia.”

“I didn’t mean to—”