Blackmoore(25)

“Kate,” I said quietly. “I wish to be called Kate.”

“Oh, dear me, surely you are not upset that I know such details of your life!” Miss St. Claire put both hands to her chest. “I assure you, I am the soul of discretion! And I do not judge you in the least! My dear Miss Worthington, indeed, I feel as if you and I are old friends, so much have I heard of you over the years from the Delafields. No, no, you must not be upset. You must thank Sylvia for being such a good friend to you that she has enlisted my aid.”

I sat very still and looked from her to Sylvia, who was squirming in her chair. “Your aid?” I cleared my throat. “What aid would that be, pray tell?”

Miss St. Claire looked to Sylvia, as if for permission, but Sylvia only shrugged, as if she had already given up control.

“Why, my aid in bringing you here, of course,” the elfin queen said, with a beatific smile in my direction.

I was suddenly very aware of my heartbeat and the heat flooding my cheeks. “Oh?” I tried to smile. “Exactly what aid did you render, Miss St.

Claire?”

She smiled on, completely oblivious to my feelings. “I assured Mrs.

Delafield that I would not object to your company, knowing how desper-ately you need some positive influences in your life.”

I looked with disbelief from her to Sylvia, who was staring at her plate with a steadfastness I had never seen in her before.

72



“Well . . .” I was at a loss as to how to respond to such condescending compassion. “I thank you for your generosity, Miss St. Claire,” I finally said, my smile tight as I tried to keep back the astonishing number of impolite thoughts that entered my mind.

“I was happy to help,” she said, picking up her fork and daintily pro-ceeding with her breakfast.

I had completely lost my appetite, and I did not think I could stay much longer in Miss St. Claire’s company without losing my temper. I took a deep breath, then tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground.

“Sylvia, I hope you will introduce me to your grandfather this morning.”

“I’m afraid Grandpapa is not well, Kitty,” she said with a look of re-gret. “I doubt you shall have any opportunity to meet him while you are here.”

My disappointment was great at this news. I had looked forward to meeting the man who had played such a significant role in Henry’s life. “I am sorry to hear it.”

Miss St. Claire tsked, shaking her head. “Indeed, it will be a great sad-ness to all of our family to lose Grandfather.”

I cast a disbelieving glance in Miss St. Claire’s direction. She was going too far, claiming this family as her own, and I could not tolerate one more minute of her company. Pushing my plate away, I stood. “Sylvia.

Come show me the house.”

She looked at me as if I had just asked her to grow a second head.

“Kitty. The house is enormous.”

“Yes, and I want to see all of it.” I smiled encouragingly.

She groaned and leaned back in her chair. “The thought is too ex-hausting to contemplate.”

“Come. A little movement will be good for you. It will help you to wake up.”

She waved me away. “I have no desire to go traipsing all over. Go find Henry and ask him for a tour.”

73



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

Miss St. Claire dropped her fork at that and stood abruptly, bump-ing the table and making everything rattle. “I will give you a tour, Miss Worthington. It will be good practice for me.”

I looked from her to Sylvia, letting Sylvia see the extent of my displea-sure. “How kind. But I insist on Sylvia coming along.”

“No, Juliet knows the house as well as—”

I shot her a dark look. If I was going to suffer in Miss St. Claire’s company, then Sylvia was going to suffer along with me. After a moment of competing stares, she said, with great reluctance, “Of course I would like to come as well.”

“We will start in the great hall,” Miss St. Claire said, leading the way from the dining room and down the corridor to the entrance. She stopped in the middle of the room, right under the domed ceiling. I looked around curiously, glad for the daylight to illuminate what was hidden from me the night before.

“This is the original portion of the house,” she said, gesturing to the circular room we stood in. “It was completed in 1504. Other parts of the house were added later. The most important feature here is, of course, the domed ceiling, painted to depict the story of Icarus.”

I tipped my head back and studied the painting on the dome that stood two floors above us. “That is not Icarus.”

“Yes. It is.” Her voice was more forceful and disbelieving—as if she could not believe I would question her. “Of course it is.”

She looked at Sylvia, who held up both hands with a “don’t ask me”

gesture.

I pointed up at the dome. “That is Phaeton, not Icarus. Phaeton drove the chariot sun across the sky, lost control of the horses, and was killed by a thunderbolt from Zeus after burning the earth. Icarus also suffered death after trying to fly,” I went on, “but he flew with wings made by his father, Daedalus, so they could escape Crete. He plunged to his death when he flew too close to the sun and the wax of his wings melted.”