Blackmoore(40)

“Will your father be joining us?” Sylvia asked.

“Of course! The more the merrier, I say.” There seemed to be no limit to Mr. Brandon’s enthusiasm for his plan. “What about it, Henry? Can you have your excellent kitchen staff put together a picnic for us?”

Henry pushed his plate away. “Of course I can, Mr. Brandon.” He looked at me, and his eyes were hard like flecks of granite, something like accusation in his expression. “If you all are eager to go along with this plan.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Why would we not be? It sounds like a fun adventure.”

He shrugged, shoved his chair back from the table, and stood. “Then we shall meet in the foyer at noon.” He nodded briefly to us before walking away without another word.

I watched his retreating back and wondered what he had against Mr.

Brandon’s plan. I tried to remember if Henry had ever mentioned a ruined abbey to me. He had spent hours telling me stories of Blackmoore.

Or rather, he had spent hours answering my questions about Blackmoore.

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But I could not remember ever hearing him tell of a ruined abbey. I wondered why.

L

The walk across the moors to the ruined abbey was fraught with awkwardness. Sylvia still had not spoken to me since our conversation the night before. She stayed apart the entire walk, placing herself close to the elder Mr. Brandon. Miss St. Claire had a very firm grip on Henry’s arm and seemed intent on never leaving his side. Henry did not smile or laugh—he did not look at all like he was enjoying himself, and he had not spoken to me either. The only person, in fact, who seemed at all inclined to talk to me was the younger Mr. Brandon, who was full of enthusiasm for everything about the day, the weather, the walk, the food we would be eating, the sky, the ocean, and anything else that caught his attention.

We walked in the middle of the group, with Henry and Miss St.

Claire at the front and Sylvia and the elder Mr. Brandon bringing up the rear. Servants led two ponies that carried the materials for our picnic.

The sun shone down on us in a clear blue sky, but the wind whipped at our bonnets and hats and skirts. We followed a rough trail through the heather and bracken, and it suddenly struck me that neither of my two best friends was speaking to me.

This was not the way this visit was supposed to go. We were supposed to be here together at Blackmoore, at last, and we were supposed to enjoy every moment, and there was not supposed to be any awkward silence or strangers coming between us. Anger and frustration rose up within me until I hated the sight of Henry’s back and Miss St. Claire’s arm tucked through his. I hated Sylvia’s silence.

We topped a rise in the moors, and I could see the ruined abbey stretched below us. I caught my breath and my feet slowed, then stopped, as I took in the sight. The scattered towers and crumbled walls and 117



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n arched, blackened window openings rose in a sea of green grass. It was so very lovely, in a wild and ruined way.

When I pulled my gaze away, I found Henry watching me, a look of expectation in his eyes.

“There it is!” Mr. Brandon called next to me. “The ruined abbey!

Come, Miss Worthington! Let us be the first to explore it!” He grabbed hold of my hand and pulled me along, grinning back at me with his wide smile. His hand felt strong and warm wrapped around mine. And I did not mind the feeling at all.

L

Rooks wheeled about in the sky, claiming the highest tower as their own. Their calls were harsh and vulnerable at the same time, their black shapes foreboding above me. The abbey was magnificent. The building it-self was magnificent, but its ruin was magnificent also. I was drawn to the crumbling stone, the roofless walls, and the blank, blackened windows.

After exploring for half an hour, we sat in the shade of one of the towers. Our picnic was placed before us on the blanket we sat on. The sun slipped behind a cloud, and the wind cast a chill over us. It was not just the wind that chilled the outing, though. It was Henry’s silence and his accusing looks whenever I met his gaze. I wanted nothing more than to pull him aside and ask him what he had to accuse me of. And then I wanted Henry my friend back so that I could ask him to grant me my wish and make it possible for me to go to India.

I nibbled on a cucumber sandwich while listening with only half my attention to Mr. Brandon’s exclamations about the glory of the ruins.

He had not left my side during the entire outing. Miss St. Claire had done the same with Henry. Now she sat beside him, and I watched how thoughtfully she treated him. I watched how she noticed the food on his plate and offered him more strawberries and poured his lemonade before the servant had a chance to wait on him. I watched her gaze settle 118



affectionately on his face when he spoke. I watched the elegance of her actions and heard the lilt of her laugh and noted that even the dirt did not seem to want to spoil her white gown.

She was too good. I wanted to hate her, yet to hate her would be a greater condemnation of my own faults than of hers.

I did not want to watch Miss St. Claire and Henry any longer.

Brushing off my hands, I sat up and said, “Henry, tell us about the smugglers here.”

He looked at me. “What about them?”

“Aha! You admit there are smugglers! I have finally caught you!”

He smiled at me. It was the first smile he had given me all day, and the force of it made me catch my breath. “You infer too much,” he said.