Blackmoore(87)

And the letters to your mother and sister and Miss Delafield, as well. It will all be taken care of, just as we planned.” She smiled reassuringly, and her brother helped me up onto the pony. I set my face to the north and the road to Whitby.

I traveled the moors with a full moon lighting the way, and I could not stop looking behind me to catch one more glimpse of Blackmoore on the cliff by the sea. My heart tore at me, begging me to go back, but I was free for the first time in my life, and my hope was stronger than ever. And finally, when the pony carried me over the rise of a hill, and Blackmoore 264



disappeared for good, my heart gave way to grief and threatened to drag me back. But I could not go back to that cage of a life. So I left my heart behind with Blackmoore and Henry, and I traveled with only hope as a companion. The birds in the night sang of the sea and distant lands and a freedom I had never known. I cried and smiled at the same time, and the farther we traveled from my mother, the lighter I felt, until I stretched my arms out as if I would fly and felt my soul expand within me. For the first time in my life I felt that I was powerful.

It was late the next night when I arrived in London and knocked on my aunt’s door. When I found her in the drawing room, she sat up straight, a hand to her chest in a startled movement.

“Katherine? What on earth are you doing here? At this hour? How did you come here?”

“I ran away. I took the stage from Blackmoore. I am ready to go to India with you.”

She stood and walked to me with open arms and a smile. “I am so proud of you, my dear.”

I fell into her arms, sobbing.

She patted my back. “My dear child, what are these tears? You should be happy. You are taking charge of your life.”

I nodded. She was right. “I am happy. I am.” But I could not stop crying, and finally I said the one word I had not been able to banish from my thoughts. “Henry.”

She clucked her tongue. “Oh, no. You cannot tell me these tears are for a man?”

I nodded.

“My dear Katherine. No man is worth this magnitude of tears.”

I would have said the same thing myself a month ago. I would have said it to Maria, and I would have known it to be true. But it was not true in this case. For if there was ever a man in the world worth grieving over, it was Henry Delafield.

265







Chapter 39


one year later


I hope you enjoy the little tokens I have sent you. I know they are not much—bird feathers and shells and the sketches I made on my journey. But each little token is sent to you with the hope that you will not forget the sister who has always loved you. Is Cook taking care of your atrocious nails? Are you still watching out for Cora?

I have not seen many cats here, but there are many other strange animals, like monkeys and tigers and birds of every color. Aunt Charlotte and I have moved to a hill station along with many other British subjects to try to find some relief from the summer heat. You have never known heat like this, Ollie.

I feel it in my bones. Surprisingly, I find I do not mind it, although I sometimes do think longingly of the cool ocean breeze at Blackmoore.

Do you ever hear news of Sylvia? Or Henry? Do be good for Mama and Papa, and I will write to you again soon. Perhaps someone can help you write back to me. I do long to hear of home. I miss you.

Love,

Kate

266



It was my fifth letter to Oliver. I had not heard back from him yet.

But that was not wholly surprising. With the time it took a letter to travel by ship to England and then for an answer to travel back, it was not a surprise that I had yet to receive a letter from England. It did not stop me from watching eagerly, though, every time a ship came to port and mail was delivered.

“Are you ready to go yet, Katherine?” Aunt Charlotte walked toward me, swinging her bonnet by its ribbon, a wide grin on her face. India had been good for her. She had always been an optimistic soul, but here she was utterly, lavishly happy.

“Yes. One moment.” I sealed the letter, addressed it, and grabbed my bonnet as I hurried out the door.

L

Aunt Charlotte leaned close to whisper, “There. In the branch of the third tree to the right.”

I focused on the tree she pointed out. We had become quite adept at our little pastime. Aunt Charlotte had keen eyes, but I had better ears for their songs.

“I don’t see it,” I said, after looking for several moments. “What color?”

“Black. Glossy, iridescent black, with almost a hint of blue. A forked tail. Oh, how lovely.”

My eyes caught on a movement—a stirring in the tree—and my heart suddenly leapt within me. It pounded furiously as I kept my gaze trained on the dark bird perched on the branch.

“I know this bird,” I whispered. “I saw it at—”

A call suddenly interrupted my words. Low, high high, low low. The bird’s tail twitched, and it sang again. Low and high and low again, sweet and clear. I closed my eyes and tried to think of what this bird sounded like, but all I could think of was the music room in Blackmoore and Henry reaching into the cage and watching the bird fly as high as it could.

267



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

It sounded like freedom and flight, and at the same time it sounded like death—like bruised feathers and a limp body at the bottom of a cage. It sounded like Blackmoore to me—low and high and high and low again.