Blackmoore(64)

He held a hand to his ear. “I have been listening for your birds, Miss Worthington. But I’m afraid I need someone to help me identify them. I do not know enough about them myself.”

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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n I thought of what Henry had said to me—about a man not need-ing encouragement to lose his heart. I certainly didn’t imagine that Mr.

Brandon had lost his heart to me, but he was being very particular in his attentions. And it was time for me to do him a kindness.

“I would enjoy that, Mr. Brandon, but I am afraid I am leaving very soon.”

Both eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Where will you go?”

“To India. With my aunt.”

His face fell. “I was under the impression that was a distant plan.

From what Miss Delafield told me, I thought things were not quite certain in that regard.”

I clutched the golden flowers. “They are quite certain. I will leave very soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”

He stepped toward me, a look of determination on his face. “Then I am happy to have this opportunity to speak with you alone. I have to tell you, Miss Worthington, what must have been already obvious to you.

I find you fascinating. And beautiful. And kind. I rarely find a young lady who fascinates me, you know. More often than not, they bore me.”

He flashed me his infectious grin. “I would like very much to know you better. To have a chance to win your heart. So I would ask you to please— please postpone your trip, and give me a chance.”

My heart fell. I had no idea he felt so strongly. I had assumed he was merely at my side every day because I was a convenient companion.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “I should have said something sooner, I suppose. I—I have no intention of marrying. Ever.

Please forgive me if I unknowingly encouraged you to feel something for me that I cannot feel in return.”

His infectious smile was gone, and disappointment tightened his eyes.

“No intention of marrying? You do not have to go that far to refuse me.

You could just tell me you are not interested in knowing me better.”

“No! It’s true.” I reached out and grabbed his arm as he backed away 194



from me. “I am not being unkind. You can ask Sylvia. Or Mrs. Delafield.

Or Henry. They know. I have been telling them so these past two years.”

He pulled away from me. “Well, none of them saw fit to warn me, I am afraid.” He bowed his head to me. “Please excuse me, Miss Worthington.”

As he walked away, a sharp pain pierced my hand. I looked down and uncurled my fingers. The limp, thorny flowers I held were mixed with my blood.

L

I lingered outside the open door, chewing on my lip uncertainly. I had come this far. I had my pockets full of seashells and flowers I had picked on the moors. I had watched the routine of the servants and waited long enough to make sure the maid on duty was fully engaged in her afternoon nap by the fire. I could see Henry’s grandfather sitting in his chair by the window.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and with soft steps I walked inside. He didn’t turn his head when I approached, careful to not come up directly behind him. I did not want to startle him. The maid snored softly in front of the fire. The chair next to Grandfather’s was empty. Waiting. I touched the back of it, and tilted my head to look at Grandfather. His gaze was vacant, his face turned toward the window. His hands rested idly in his lap, covered by a blanket.

“Hello,” I said softly.

He stirred, moving his shoulders, shifting his legs. But he didn’t look toward me. I edged around the chair and slid onto its cushioned seat, careful not to bump his chair or the low table in front of him in the process.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked, watching his face carefully. His eyes moved, shifting in little jerks back and forth, but still looking out the window.

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J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n I waited a moment, but he made no further movement. Reaching into one pocket, I grasped a handful of shells and drew them forth. I leaned forward and carefully set them out on the low table, one at a time, some curved down, some up, with their translucent bellies showing. I did not look up until I was finished with my task.

When I did, his eyes had moved from the window to the table.

“I know you like shells, so I found these on the beach and brought them to you.” I reached into my pocket again and pulled out the remain-ing shell. “This one is different than all the others.” I showed him the strange, bullet-shaped, dark shell I had found. It did not look like a shell, but it clearly belonged on the beach. “I wondered if you knew what it was.”

He pulled a hand out from under the blanket that covered his lap and held it, trembling, toward me. I set the shell in his hand, and he twisted it between his heavy-knuckled fingers. “It’s a—” his voice came out as a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “It’s a fossil. A very old fossil.”

I bit back the smile that threatened to burst through my careful con-trol. He had spoken to me.

I slipped my hand into my other pocket, pulling out the golden flowers I had gathered on the moors. I laid them on the table next to the shells. I had pried loose a sprig of dark, purple-brown heather, and a few blades of the hardy, laurel-green grass that grew on the moors. These too I set down, then sat back and waited.