Blackmoore(26)

Miss St. Claire’s brow puckered as she looked at the dome above 74



us. “Hm. I suppose you may be correct, but you do sound like quite a Bluestocking, Miss Worthington, and if you want my opinion . . .” She moved closer to me, bent her head to mine, and said, “I would not want to be considered a Bluestocking, myself. It will hurt your chances, you know.”

It was all I could do to keep my mouth curved up into a smile. “My chances of what?”

“Marriage, of course,” she said with a laugh. “How droll you are.

Sylvia told me you were quite studious, but I did not believe her. Isn’t that right, Sylvia? I did not believe you when you told me how very well read your friend was.” Sylvia had sagged into a chair by the fireplace, as if standing was too much exertion for her. “But now I see she was quite right! But how dull your youth must have been, to sit for so long in a stuffy library reading old books! I declare, the more I hear of your life, the more I pity you, Miss Worthington. Indeed, I do.”

I could not believe her. I had never met someone so thoughtful and yet so offensive at the same time. But I had one secret that she did not seem to know, and for that reason I had to bite back a smile. What she did not know was that my days spent in the old library at Delafield Manor were anything but dull. What she did not know was that Henry was my study companion for years.

“What shall we see next, Miss St. Claire?” I asked.

She turned on her heel. “This way.”

I dragged Sylvia up from her chair and urged her on, linking my arm through hers. She groaned. “My legs are already tired, Kitty. You can ex-plore the house yourself, on your own, you know.”

“Don’t worry. I will act on that offer as soon as I can,” I murmured.

My opportunity came several rooms later. Miss St. Claire had shown me the dining room, the drawing room, the library, the music room, and the long gallery, and was about to turn around to take me upstairs via the great entry hall again. But I noticed, at the end of a hall, tucked into an 75



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alcove, a door. It looked forgotten. And, as a sympathizer of forgotten things, I asked, “Where does that door lead?”

Miss St. Claire waved a hand in dismissal. “That is just a small, second music room.”

I walked toward the door, ignoring Sylvia’s protests about her aching feet. The door was intricately carved, unlike the other interior doors I had seen. I ran my hand over its surface, finding vines and leaves and a scattering of small birds carved into the wood. I turned the handle and swung open the heavy door, walking into a room held in darkness by heavy drapes. But something stirred in there, and a matching something stirred in my heart. With quickened steps, I crossed the room and threw open the drapes across three tall windows that rose from floor to ceiling.

Sunlight poured in, and I turned. It was a small room with a high ceiling.

My gaze darted around the room, skimming over the pianoforte in the center, the stuffed armchairs, the tapestries covering the walls, the paintings, looking for that thing I had sensed—that stirring thing. And then my eyes landed on an ornate, gilded birdcage tucked into a corner, nearly hidden by the drapes.

And then I understood why I had thought something stirred in this room. A dark bird fluttered wildly around the cage, its feathers hitting against the iron bars. But besides the sounds of its wings, the bird made no noise. I held my breath as I watched it and felt a connection with this dark, wild bird that I could not explain.

“I told you this was a waste of time,” Sylvia said from behind me.

Miss St. Claire stood on the threshold, a look of distaste wrinkling her perfect nose. “I hate the smell of birds,” she declared, eyeing it with distrust. “This will be the first room to be changed when I—”

She stopped herself just shy of finishing her statement, but it was clear to me what she had left off: when she became the mistress of this house.

Resentment and a burning dislike rose within me, swift and fierce, and I had an overwhelming urge to push her from this room—to lock the 76



door behind her and to stand guard over this space, protecting it from her destroying touch.

This is my room.

The thought appeared in my mind without any planning on my part.

It was simply a recognition of truth. This was my room. I felt it deep in my bones. This room should never cease to exist. These tapestries, these paintings, these tall windows and especially—oh, especially—this dark bird, should be preserved, should be treasured, should be esteemed.

“I hope this room never changes,” I said, looking at her directly. “I love it. I hope it stays this way always.”

Her smile was nothing but soft and innocent. “Everything will change, Miss Worthington. That is what happens when a house passes on to new owners.”

I stood there and felt helpless and furious all at once.

“Are you ready to finish the tour?” she asked, gesturing at the door.

“No.” The word was torn from me. I could not abide her company for one more moment. “No. I want to stay here. I’ll continue on my own in a little while.”

Sylvia looked from me to Miss St. Claire, as if trying to choose between us. But only an instant passed before she made her choice. She took Miss St. Claire’s arm, saying, “Let us go sit by the fire in the drawing room. We can watch out the window for the guests.”