Blackmoore(20)

“And let us be clear. Did I not, for the past year and a half, make it very clear to everyone around me that I have no intention of marrying?” I glared at her until she nodded.

“Yes. You have made that very clear.”

“So if you believe me, then there is no need to look at me like that or to apologize or to feel sorry for me. In fact, you should be happy for me, because I have finally convinced Mama to let me go with my aunt Charlotte to India.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Have you really?”

“Indeed I have.” I lifted my chin. “I will leave straight from Blackmoore. It is quite an accomplishment, you know.”

“I know. I can hardly believe it. I thought she would never agree to your scheme.”

“She has. She has agreed to it. And soon I will be accomplishing my own goals and fulfilling my own dreams. So there is no need to worry about me, Sylvia. Indeed, I have never been happier.”

Relief softened the worry lines that had creased her face. She put her hand on mine and squeezed it gently. “I am so happy to hear it, my dear.

So happy. And I am glad we could talk about this, because I have to ask something of you, and I did not know how to.”

“What is it?”

“Mama has asked me to . . . see if you might be willing . . . to keep to your room tonight.” She bit her lip.

I stared at her.

“You are probably tired from your journey at any rate,” she hurried to say. “And it would be easier, for all of us, if Henry and Juliet had this 57



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evening to be together, without any other distractions. It was why we brought her here with us from London, earlier than the other guests.”

My smile felt very stiff, but I tried to lift it anyway. “I see.”

“Of course I will have dinner sent up to you. You need not go hun-gry.” She laughed, an awkward, forced sound.

My face was hot with embarrassment, and when my eyes started to sting with tears, I knew I needed to get rid of Sylvia quickly. “I am happy to stay here. I am quite tired, as you say, and it will be nice to relax. So this is exactly what I would have wished for myself.” I stood, walked to the door, and opened it. A footman was bringing my trunk down the hall. “Oh, look. Here is my trunk already. I will unpack, and you can go downstairs.”

Sylvia stood beside me, looking ill at ease, as if she was searching for something to say. But I quickly hugged her, before she could say more, and said, “I am so happy to see you again.” Then I gently shoved her out the door as the footman approached.

“Thank you, yes, that is mine. In here, please. Just set it by the end of the bed.” I hurried him out of the room, grabbing the door to close it behind him.

“I will have some dinner sent up,” Sylvia said in a quiet voice, linger-ing in the doorway. But my embarrassment threatened to overwhelm my control, and I did not want her to see that.

I nodded and, smiling bravely, closed the door between us.

58







Chapter 8


The servants at Blackmoore seemed quite efficient. Not ten minutes had passed since Sylvia’s departure before a maid was in my room, getting a fire blazing in the hearth. With more light now, I saw that all of the walls had dark wood paneling, that the color of the drapes reminded me greatly of the color of the grass and the stunted trees on the moors, that the deep plum of the bedclothes mimicked the heather. I walked around the room, touching the velvet, running my hand over the smooth wood paneling of the walls, and pulling aside the drapes to look out the window.

The window was criss-crossed with metal casings that made diamond shapes of the glass. I wrestled with the latch on the window until I was able to push it open. It opened quite unwillingly, offering up a pathetic creak as metal screeched against metal. Leaning out the window, I looked to my right and left. To my right, around the corner of the house, shone the ocean, a dark, changing light under the luminance of the moon. To my left, beyond the house, stretched rough darkness: the moors. And below my window, two stories down, was a stretch of smoothness that might have been grass.

The night wind brought a chill into the room and made the candles sputter in their holders. I drew my head and shoulders back inside and closed the window, making sure I latched it properly. Then I closed the 59



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velvet drapes and turned back to the small space I had been assigned within this great house. I had distracted myself as much as I could, but now Sylvia’s message ate at me from the inside, where I revolted against feeling caged.

I had become accustomed to Mrs. Delafield’s dislike of me. I had become accustomed to being excluded. But to sentence me to my room, on my first night here, simply because they did not want me to distract Henry from Miss St. Claire . . . It was the worst kind of insult—the un-expected kind. I rubbed my nose hard and choked down the emotion that rose within me. I could not give way to it. It would make me a lesser person if I did. I could not care about being unwanted.

My dinner had not arrived yet, so I set about unpacking my trunk.

My Mozart, my clothes, and the ivory-inlaid box with the letter from my aunt inside. All that I owned of any value. I traced the shape of the elephant on the top of the box before opening it and rereading the letter I had first read six months before: