Blackmoore(5)

12



“So your mother has no objection to inviting guests. She simply objects to me.”

“It is nothing personal, Kitty. You know she intends Miss St. Claire for Henry—”

“Sylvia!” Henry shot his sister a look of warning.

Sylvia’s mouth fell open. “What? That is no secret! We have all known that for ages.”

Nothing more was said for a long, awkward moment. I looked at the

yellow fabric of the settee, thinking only of how much I resented this Miss St.

Claire, whom I had never even met.

Henry turned to me, so suddenly that I started and looked at him with

surprise. His grey eyes looked like steel, and in a flash I saw something in him I had never noticed before—an indomitable will. “One day I will take you to Blackmoore, Kitty. I promise.” He grasped my hand again, squeezing it hard.

“I give you my word.”

I clamped my lips shut, keeping back my doubting words. Mrs. Delafield

always had her way. Always. If she did not want me there, I would never go.

But finally, because he would not stop squeezing my hand and because it was starting to hurt, I squeezed his hand in return. “Very well,” I whispered, giving up the fight and smiling a little for his sake.

The next month passed so slowly I thought I would go mad. During that

long summer month, lazy with idleness, with sameness, with incessant nothingness, whenever I thought of the Delafields at Blackmoore with Miss St.

Claire, I gritted my teeth and cursed under my breath.

Finally, at long last, on a day just like any other, I heard from a servant that the Delafields had returned. I ran down the stairs, grabbing the banister to round the corner at the first floor, and jumped the final three steps before I noticed that the front door stood open.

Jameson, our butler, was bending over and blocking my view of the door.

When I stopped still in surprise, a voice called out, “If that is you, Kitty, cover your eyes!”

13



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

My heart raced at the sound of Henry’s voice. I bent down, trying to see around Jameson’s back.

“I mean it! Cover your eyes, or I will turn around and go home right now, and you shall never see your surprise!”

I sighed and clapped a hand over my eyes. “Very well. They are covered.”

I had to wait much too long while a shuffling sound passed me into the

drawing room. Only my belief in Henry’s threat made me keep my eyes cov-

ered, for I was not a patient person. “Can I look now?” I begged.

In reply, a hand grabbed mine. “No, keep them closed,” Henry said, his

voice close to my ear. My heart pumped with excitement. “Come this way.” He pulled me along by my hand. I bumped into a wall, then a doorjamb, and

then collided knee first with a piece of furniture.

“Ow. Can you not lead me more carefully?”

“Hush. No complaining allowed.”

Henry released my hand and stood behind me, squaring my shoulders and

then saying, “Now. You may look now.”

I opened my eyes as quickly as I could and stared uncomprehendingly at

the table before me. Henry had led me into the dining room, and on the table was what looked like a model of a house.

I turned my head to give Henry a questioning glance and saw him for the

first time. Only a month had passed, but he had changed. His hair was longer and darker instead of lighter. He always came home from Blackmoore with

light hair that had been brightened by the sun. But this year it was darker—a dark, golden color that almost begged to be called brown. His freckles had faded across the tops of his cheeks. His grey eyes were the same, though, with their ring of charcoal along the outer edge. And at this moment, his grin was so broad I felt stunned by the sight of it.

He stepped around me, gestured grandly at the model, and said, “I present to you, Miss Katherine Worthington, Blackmoore.”

My heart beat so hard it hurt. I looked from him to the model and back,

and when he nodded, grinning, I dropped to my knees, bringing the house to 14



my eye level. The windows, the wood painted to look like stone, the front doors, the chimneys. It was all here. “Where did you come by this?” I asked in awe.

“I built it.”

I looked up at him uncomprehendingly. “You built this.”

He said in an offhand voice, “My grandfather helped with the design.

And Sylvia helped at the end with the painting. But most of the handiwork was mine.”

I continued to stare at him. “This must have taken you every daylight

hour of your holiday.”

He lifted one shoulder, but I could tell by the half-suppressed smile he wore that I was right. And that explained his appearance. I knew the cost of this project. I knew that Henry lived for being outdoors at Blackmoore. I knew that he spent all day on the moors and on the beach, and I knew that he loved to go birding with the gardener, and I knew that only the greatest of incentives would have kept him inside all month long.

I was overwhelmed and found it suddenly difficult to speak. I cleared my throat. “You must not have had much time to spend with Miss St. Claire.”

He knelt beside me and pressed down a smile, a line creasing his cheek.