Blackmoore(33)

J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n everything about the cage, and everything about the cage of my own life. I rattled the bars, without thinking, my rage rising within me. The bird, in response, flew madly, its wings a blur, and it beat against the bars. I reared back, startled, my heart racing. Feathers fell to the bottom of the cage.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the frantic little thing. I leaned my fore-head against the bars as tears rained down my face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.”

L

The floor was hard and cold under my knees, but I did not leave my vigil in front of the birdcage. It was both a tomb and a shrine to me—a symbol of what my life had become as well as an altar at which I prayed for deliverance. And I did not know how to leave this spot until I had regained some hope for my future.

I did not turn when I heard the door creak open. I did not turn when I heard my name, with a question in the voice. I did not turn as the footsteps came soft and measured and stopped right next to me. I kept my gaze trained on the bird, who had settled back onto its perch, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Henry lower himself to sit on the floor next to me.

“What did Sylvia tell you?” My voice was rough, my nose still stuffy from all the crying I had done.

“Sylvia? Nothing.”

I glanced at him then. “Then why are you here?”

I should not have looked at him. His gaze was too gentle—too wor-ried. It made my eyes well up with fresh tears. I could hardly breathe as it was. More tears would suffocate me.

“I overheard what Mr. Pritchard said to you. When you left and didn’t return, I thought he might have upset you. So I looked for you.” He glanced at the bird in its cage. “I should have known you would be here. I don’t know why I didn’t think to come here first.”

96



I traced a gilded iron bar, from bottom to top, watching the dark bird inside as it solemnly watched me. “It doesn’t sing,” I said, almost to myself.

“I know.” I heard the sadness—the compassion—in Henry’s voice.

“That’s why I suggested my grandfather keep it in here, where it could at least hear music, even if it could make none of its own.”

My gaze moved to his face. He was watching me, not the bird. His eyes were dark in the dim light, and his gaze held pain and worry and something else—some pull or temptation or battle that I could not name.

“He should not have spoken to you like that,” he said in a voice threaded with anger. “I don’t agree with your dream of going to India, but nobody should ever treat you with such derision, such . . . dismissal.”

My face burned in remembered embarrassment.

“Should I call him out?” he asked.

I chuckled and blinked at unshed tears.

“I am in earnest.” He rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes. “We’ll have a duel in the morning on the moors. Plenty of fog. It will be quite dramatic, I daresay. And I will shoot him to avenge your honor.”

I laughed again and a little half-smile twisted his lips.

“No?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No. But thank you.” I drew in a rattled breath. “Besides, it was not Mr. Pritchard who upset me. Not really.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then who?”

I immediately wished I could recall my last sentence. I was not pre-pared to admit to Henry my own shameful realization of what I had become. Nor was I willing to share with him the humiliation of my conver-sation with Sylvia. I wished he had never discovered me here. My nose ran, and I wiped it on my sleeve, for lack of a handkerchief.

Good heavens! I was behaving exactly like Maria! I was sitting in a strange place, crying, and letting my nose run and tears stream down my face. I shook my head, disgusted with myself. How had I sunk this low in just a few short days?

97



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n Pushing my hair back from my face, I said, “It was nobody. It was nothing.”

“Kate, I have never seen you cry like this. Surely it was not nothing. ”

I shook my head. “I can’t . . . I can’t tell you, Henry.” I watched the little dark bird, but all I was aware of was the weight of Henry’s focused gaze on my face.

After a long moment of silence, he said, still in that low, quiet voice, “Do you remember that day in the woods? The day my father died?”

My gaze flew to his face. I caught my breath. I could not believe he was bringing that up, after all of these years of silence on the subject. We had never mentioned it since that day—not to each other. I had not spoken of it to anyone else, either, and I seriously doubted Henry had. And now, after all of this time . . .

“Of course,” I whispered.

His gaze caught mine, and something built between us—some charge of emotion that made the distance between us measurable in movements: a shift, a leaning, an outstretched arm, a bent head. But we sat perfectly still, with only this memory connecting us.

Until he leaned forward and reached out a hand and touched my wrist. His hand moved up my arm, gently, until it rounded the curve of my shoulder. And only when he had anchored me there did he say, “I could never find the words to tell you what that meant to me.” His voice was so soft and husky, like a caress. Something shivered within me. “Even now, after all of these years, I am at a loss. But on that day I promised myself that if I ever found you drowning—if I ever found you in need of saving—that I would do anything in my power to help you.”