Blackmoore(83)

you will not leave soon. You will want to stay for any . . . momentous occasion that may be happening shortly among your friends. Will you not?”

I looked away so I would not be tempted to look at Henry. I did not want to see his reaction to Miss St. Claire’s thinly veiled hint about their upcoming nuptials. Even though Henry and I had occupied the same rooms for more than three hours this evening, I had done a remarkably good job of avoiding him. I had done so well, in fact, that I had not so much as looked at his face once—not during the long dinner, nor after-ward, in the drawing room. He had not spoken a word to me. He had not come near me, either. But when I thought of what he had heard me say the night before—those words about preferring Mr. Cooper to him—I did not wonder at his distance. But not wondering about it and not feeling the pain of it, the guilt, and the fresh stab of loss—that was a different thing entirely.

I nearly jumped out of my seat when the clock finally struck ten o’clock. I glanced over at Sylvia, who sat by the fire with her Mr. Brandon.

If things continued the way they looked right now, she would probably be engaged by the end of the year. I was glad to see her happy. Maria had at-tached herself to the younger Mr. Brandon’s side. Mama flitted from one man to another like a bee to flowers. Mrs. Delafield gripped her teacup with whitened knuckles and looked as if she would like to throw it at Mama. I looked at all of this, and then I stood and turned to the door.

“Goodnight, Mama,” I said. “I am tired. I’m going to retire early tonight.”

She darted a dark glance my way, warning me with a look that she would speak with me later. I had expected as much. “Good night, then, Kitty.”

When I reached the door, the temptation to look back was too strong to resist. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Henry watching me steadfastly.

My heart hitched in my chest, then began to race at the look in his granite eyes. Fumbling for the door handle, I pulled my gaze from his and hur-ried from the room.

253



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

“Is everything ready, miss?” Alice asked.

I knelt in front of my trunk, looking at my gowns and bonnets and gloves. All of them could be replaced. I picked up the ivory-inlaid box, took my aunt’s letter from it, and held the box out to Alice. “Here—take this. Not as payment, but because I want you to have it.”

Alice hesitated, then reluctantly accepted the box. “I will keep it for you, miss. You may have it back when you return.”

I pressed my lips together, unwilling to reveal my secret: that I would never return. Alice set the box on the mantel next to the letters I had just sealed and set there. She knew what to do with them.

“The other bedroom is ready?” I asked.

Alice nodded. It had been her idea to ready another bedroom in the west wing so that Mama and Maria would not notice my absence until the morning. “I’ll tell them you’ve come down with an illness, and you’re not to be disturbed.”

“Good.”

My aunt’s letter and the music from Herr Spohr were tucked inside my traveling cloak, along with Oliver’s shells, tied up in a handkerchief inside a pocket. I looked around the room. It was such a beautiful room— as beautiful as the moors had become to me. I would miss it. But it was nearly half past ten, and if I lingered any longer, I ran the risk of encountering Mama or Maria on their way up to bed.

“Yes. I am ready.” I handed Alice my gloves, my bonnet, and my cloak. “I will meet you downstairs.”

L

At half past ten precisely I eased open the door to the bird room and slipped inside, then closed it softly behind me. The drapes were open, 254



allowing the light of the full moon to bathe the room with its silver sheen.

I moved carefully through the room until I approached the bird cage and knelt in front of it. With a soft creak of metal, I pried open the cage door. I assumed the bird’s limp body would be discovered by a maid and disposed of. But I would leave it with its door open, because it’s what I would have wanted.

I heard a sound behind me, a soft step. And then Henry’s voice.

“You’re leaving.”

My heart jumped. I stood and whirled around to face him, my pulse racing with nervousness.

The door was still closed. He must have been waiting in this room.

Waiting for me.

“How did you know?” I asked.

He stood far away from me, on the other side of the room in front of the Icarus painting. The moonlight illuminated only his outline. But I heard the accusation in his voice when he said, “It was written all over your face tonight.”

I drew a shaky breath. “You’re right. I am leaving.”

He stepped toward me. “Because you would rather marry that repulsive Mr. Cooper than be forced to marry me?”

The hard, hurt, accusing tone of his voice struck me like a physical blow. I reeled back from the force of it. My voice came out trembling and quiet. “No.”

“Then why?” His voice broke on the last word, and something broke inside me. Something that was keeping me steady in my course broke at the sound of that why. I looked down at the birdcage, feeling my heart racing in my chest, feeling my hands trembling. And I spoke the greatest truth I could.

“Because if I don’t escape my cage now, I never will.”