Blackmoore(65)

He picked up the yellow flowers, and I reached to warn him, to re-mind him of the thorn, but before I could, I saw him wince, then look with surprise at the drop of blood on his thumb. He turned his gaze to me for the first time. His eyes were a familiar grey. His eyebrows were thick and white and wiry. His face was sunken in. But the eyes were clear, and I suddenly realized why they looked familiar. They were Henry’s eyes. Or, rather, Henry’s eyes were from his grandfather.

“Who are you?” he asked, just as he had asked Henry the other day.

196



“I am Kate. Kate Worthington.”

His craggy eyebrows lifted. “Henry’s Kate?”

My heart stuttered. I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Henry’s Kate? I am his friend. We grew up together.” He was still waiting. “Um . . . I suppose . . .

I am.”

“You finally came, then.” His eyes were clear, his gaze direct. He was seeing me. His thoughts were organized. I had heard before, from Henry, that he had occasional moments like these. But I was surprised to have stumbled upon such a happy incident on my first try.

“Yes.” My smile felt wide enough to split my cheeks. “Yes, I finally came.”

His gaze touched my face, and he sat back with a pleased smile lifting his features. “You are lovely. So very lovely. Just as he said.”

I clenched my hands together in my lap, hardly daring to breathe, my face on fire. “Just as Henry said?”

But his gaze had drifted to the window, and a softness replaced the sharp clarity I had seen in his eyes a moment before. His fingers twitched in his lap, restlessly, as if they were missing something. I leaned toward him and gently placed a shell in his hands. His fingers turned the shell over and over, tracing its grooves and curves.

I watched him expectantly but knowing all the while that he had slipped away again.

Taking a cue from Henry’s visit, I asked, “Shall I read to you?”

He nodded, with his gaze out the window, and as I reached for the stack of books, he said something softly. So softly I could not hear him clearly. I leaned toward him.

“What did you say?”

“The Woodlark,” he murmured, turning his shell over and over.

I looked from his face to the window he was gazing at. But I could see no sign of a bird within its frame.

“Pardon me?”

“The Woodlark. Henry’s woodlark. The Woodlark.” He pointed a 197



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n trembling finger at the table. I picked up the first book on the stack in front of me, showing it to him with raised eyebrows. He pointed again.

“The Woodlark.” I lifted another book, and another, and then I found a piece of paper wedged between two books. It was a poem, it seemed.

Handwritten. And at the top of the page were the words “The Woodlark by Robert Burns.”

I picked it up and showed it to him. “This? You would like me to read this to you?”

He sat back, a look of contentment on his face, and nodded.

He had called this Henry’s woodlark. I cleared my throat, and with a quickened heart I read,

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that wad touch her heart Wha’ kills me wi’ disdaining.

Thou tells o’ never-ending care; O’ speechless grief, and dark despair: For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair!

Or my poor heart is broken.

I held the paper gently after I had finished reading. “That is so beautiful,” I murmured.

“His heart is broken,” Grandfather said, looking out the window.

“That is why he loves the woodlark.”

I stared at him. “Who? Whose heart is broken?” I asked in a whisper.

He turned his face to me, and I saw the clarity in his grey eyes. He was present. He was sure of what he was saying. He opened his mouth to speak.

198



“What are you doing here?”

I jumped at the sound and whirled around to face the door. Mrs.

Delafield came stalking into the room, ready for battle.

I stood quickly and edged away from the chair I had occupied. She looked from me to her father. I saw her gaze take in the seashells and the flowers.

“I was just . . . reading to him,” I said, knowing it was not an adequate excuse. I knew I was not supposed to be here. The sleeping guard attested to that fact.

She gestured for me to come to her, which I did with a pounding heart and dread pouring through my veins. She backed into the hall and closed the door soundly before facing me. I stepped back a pace.

“What did you say to my father? Did you talk about his will?”

My mouth fell open. “No!”

“It can’t be changed, Kitty. I don’t care what he said to you or what you said to him. The will can’t be changed. So if that was your design in visiting him—”

“No!” I was appalled. “I never said a word about his will!” I stared at her as realization dawned on me. She knew that I knew about the will.

My heart pounded. I thought back to that evening eighteen months before, at the Delafield ball. I thought back to that dark room, and the drapes that I thought hid me from view, as I listened to a conversation I had not been invited to. “Why would you think that?” I asked, my voice quiet. Scared. The smell of peonies was so strong in my mind I looked around to see if they were nearby. “Why would you suspect me of talking to him about his will?”