Blackmoore(4)

“Then what is it?” Henry asked, his grey eyes more serious than I usually saw them. He watched me as if my answer meant something important.

“It is adventure,” I stated, and the word tasted like freedom. “I have never even left the county I was born in. I’ve never seen the ocean or the moors.

And every summer, you two leave me for this great house perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean with the moors at its back. And you tease me—” I gave Henry a pointed look, and he grinned back unapologetically. “You tease me with rumors of ghosts on the moors and secret passageways and smugglers and refuse to tell me if any of it is actually true.” I sighed and muttered, “I would give anything to go to Blackmoore.”

“Anything?” Henry asked with a doubtful look. “I think you are

exaggerating.”

“I am not exaggerating, Henry! I swear to you that I would give anything to go!”

“Such as . . . ?”

I tried to think of a suitable example, so they would understand the force 10



of my feelings. I looked down. Not my fingers. One needed all one’s fingers to excel at the pianoforte. A toe? Perhaps a little one?

“I would give a little toe to see Blackmoore,” I declared.

Sylvia blanched. Henry’s eyes lit up with interest.

“A little toe?” he asked. “Not a large one?”

I chewed on my lower lip. “No, I think large toes are crucial for balance.

A little toe. Perhaps my smallest one.”

Henry leaned forward, mischief lighting up his eyes. “And how would you

go about severing a little toe?”

“Henry!” Sylvia interjected.

He held up a hand, quieting her, and challenged me with a look.

I swallowed. “I would . . . I would ask Cook to cut it off.”

Sylvia looked horrified. “Blood? In the kitchen? No, Kitty. It would not do.”

I tried to think bravely of the idea. “It would not be so bad. Surely there is an occasional bit of blood in the kitchen, now and then, from raw meat or . . .”

Sylvia cupped her hands over both ears, shaking her head. “Say no more,

I beg of you.”

Henry could hardly keep his grin in check, although he appeared to be

trying. “And what would you do with that little toe, Kitty? Hm? Is there some market for toes in exchange for trips to Blackmoore?”

My frustration quickly boiled over into anger. I picked up the pillow at my side and threw it at him. He batted it away with infuriating ease. “I do not know if there is such a market, Henry Delafield. Perhaps you could tell me, since you will one day own Blackmoore. Hm?” I imitated his maddening half-smile. “Is there a market for little toes?” I bent over and started to unlace my boot. “Because I will cut it off right now, and pay you for my trip there, and I don’t care if your cook does object to blood in the kitchen.”

My trembling fingers could do nothing with the laces that had somehow

become knots. I tugged at them without success, my face hot, my eyes clouded with the threat of tears. I blinked hard, squinting at the tangle of laces, when 11



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

suddenly Henry was climbing over Sylvia, pushing her aside, and sitting beside me. He grabbed my hands, pulling them away from my boots.

“Kitty,” he said in a low voice. “Stop. Stop.” I fought his grip but only halfheartedly. “I am sorry,” he whispered, leaning his head close to mine. “I should not have teased you about Blackmoore. I know how you feel about it.”

His words had the same effect on me as water thrown on a fire. I pulled

my hands away from his grip and covered my face with them, breathing in

deeply. I had over-reacted again. It was a great weakness of mine. It was a great weakness of all Worthington women. And now, pulled from the heat of my anger, I was embarrassed. But no less sad. No less bereft. No less frustrated.

For a moment, I felt Henry rest a hand on the back of my bent head, lightly.

“Come, Kitty. Let us have no blood today,” he said, his tone light and

cajoling. “Instead, let us plan what you are going to do while we’re away. You should plan some great adventure so that you will have something exciting to share with us upon our return.”

I dropped my hands and glared at him. “You know as well as I do that

there is no adventure to be had here. If there was, we would have already found it! At any rate, it is no fun to have an adventure by oneself.” I crossed my arms over my chest, sullen and resentful. “But my question is, Why? Why has your mother never allowed me to go?”

Henry and Sylvia stayed silent, even though I looked at them, pointedly

waiting for an answer. An ugly suspicion crept into my mind with the heavy, weighted steps of jealousy. It whispered to my mind—a question so abhorrent that my mouth turned down, as if I had bitten into something sour.

“Is Miss St. Claire going to be at Blackmoore again?”

The reluctance in Henry’s expression answered my question. Sylvia shot

me a look full of pity.

My suspicion—my jealousy—laughed with glee and wriggled itself into a

more comfortable position, as if it planned to stay for a very long visit. My lip curled as I imagined Henry and Sylvia spending a month at Blackmoore with Miss St. Claire, of all people.