“Hm?” Sylvia cast me a quick glance, then looked back at the hallway in front of us.
The hall was dark, the candle doing little to illuminate the vast cor-ridor stretching before us. A chill settled between my shoulders. I was sud-denly grateful for Sylvia’s arm looped through mine. “What did you mean when you said, just now, ‘Mama was not counting on you’? Your mother did invite me, did she not? Henry told me she did. He was holding a letter from her, from London. She did invite me, Sylvia.”
My heart sick with dread, I watched her profile as she walked next to me, with the candlelight highlighting her golden hair. She looked very much like her mother. Tall, like all the Delafields. Golden hair that would 53
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turn ashy brown before it turned grey. And those cold blue eyes, like a frosted sky.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I only meant that she had not counted properly—she had not counted all of her guests. She didn’t count you. So when she made her plans for this party . . .” She waved a hand dismis-sively. “You will have to be in the west wing. That is all I meant.”
Unease joined the chill that had settled over me, but I tried to shake it off with the thought that Sylvia would not lie to me, nor would Henry.
If they said I was invited, I would accept their words as truth. I smiled a little. I was here, at Blackmoore. That was all that mattered. I had finally been invited. I had finally been included, and I would finally see where Henry would spend the rest of his life. I stopped my thoughts there, before they could add “with Miss Juliet St. Claire.” My smile grew broader as I thought that I was fortunate to stay in the old west wing, which Sylvia had always told me was haunted. This was perfect. This was exactly how I would have chosen to experience Blackmoore. We climbed two flights of stairs and turned right.
Sylvia shivered next to me. It was colder here, in this wing. I could feel the wind leaking through the stone walls. I could hear it, too—a high, fickle, moaning that came and went in sporadic gusts. A groan sounded from the wood floor where I stepped. Sylvia clutched my arm even more tightly and quickened her steps. I looked at her, smiling.
“Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of the west wing.”
“Nonsense. I am eighteen. Of course I am not afraid,” she scoffed.
Then she swerved abruptly, nearly knocking me over in her rush to reach a door to my right. “Here. Here is your room.”
The door was made of heavy, carved wood, and it creaked when she pushed it open. “I shall send a maid up right away to start a fire,” she said, moving into the room and lighting the candles left on the bedside table and the mantle. By the bed, she tugged on a rope, which would ring a bell downstairs to signal a servant to come.
She looked around nervously and shuddered. “I do hate the west 54
wing. I admit it. You will no doubt love it, though. You were always so fascinated by the hauntings of this place.”
Looking around the room, I decided that I did love it. It was dark and chilly and matched perfectly the mood of the house.
“This is perfect,” I said, sitting on the bed. After lighting the other candles, Sylvia set hers down on the bedside table. Now that we were here, I realized how much I had missed her these past four months while she had been in Town. “Now, tell me everything about London that you have not already told me in your letters.”
She dropped onto the bed and said with a tortured sigh, “It was exhausting. Every day. So exhausting.”
I snorted. “Adventures are wasted on you, Sylvia. You would rather curl up in front of a fire than go anywhere or see anything.”
She smiled good-naturedly. “It is true. In fact, from now on, suitors will have to come to me. London is too tiring to do again.”
“Speaking of suitors . . .” I raised my eyebrows. “Were there any promising men in Town?”
She sighed again, but this time a blissful smile slipped out, and stayed on her face, and her eyes took on a dreamy quality. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her gown, she drew out a small scrap of paper and handed it to me. In an elegant scrawl were the words, What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy, if Sylvia be not by?
She watched me with her eyes brimming with excitement. “Well?”
she asked, her voice rich with enthusiasm. “Isn’t he wonderfully poetic?”
“Shakespeare? Yes. He was.” I handed her the paper.
Her brows furrowed. “No. Not Shakespeare.” She leaned toward me, and even though the door was shut and no one was around to hear, she whispered, “Mr. Brandon gave me that. He wrote it. Just for me.”
“Oh.” I cleared my throat and, pointing to the paper, said, “But this is a line from Shakespeare, Sylvia.” I did not speak the thought that fol-lowed—that if she had studied half as much as she had played with my cat, she might have known that herself.
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Her crestfallen expression shot an arrow of regret through me.
She stroked the paper with one finger. “I thought he had composed it himself.”
“But it is very romantic of him,” I hurried to say. “He must admire you very much. And it is the thought that counts, after all, and not neces-sarily the originality of the thought.”
Her face brightened a little. “Yes. That is true. It is the thought that counts.”
I felt wicked for having crushed her hope. “So tell me more about this thoughtful and romantic Mr. Brandon.”
Her smile widened to a grin. “You will meet him for yourself. He is due to arrive tomorrow.”
“Then I am doubly happy to be here.”
“Yes. I am happy too, no matter what Mama may say—” She bit off her words with a look of consternation.
I looked at her pointedly. “No matter what Mama may say?”
Her cheeks turned pink, and she shook her head, as if advising me not to press the matter. But I did not let things go easily.
“What would your mother have to say about my visit? Did she truly not know I was coming?”
Sylvia looked down and traced lines in the quilt. After a long pause, she spoke hesitantly, carefully. “She is concerned that with you here, Henry might be . . . distracted. From his goal.”
My brows drew together in confusion. “What goal?”
She took a breath and let it out on a sigh. “He intends to make things . . . final. With Miss St. Claire.”
My heart pumped loudly. I fixed my gaze on her golden hair. “You mean he intends to propose to her.”
She lifted her gaze, an apology written all over her face. “You knew this was coming,” she whispered. “You’ve known it as long as we have.
You’ve had years to come to terms with this, Kitty. And so has Henry.
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And you saw him, tonight. Downstairs. You must have seen that he now welcomes this match.”
My pride bristled. I set my expression in a look of derision. “I have no issue with Henry’s match with Miss St. Claire. You needn’t look at me as if you pity me, Sylvia.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“And let us be clear. Did I not, for the past year and a half, make it very clear to everyone around me that I have no intention of marrying?” I glared at her until she nodded.
“Yes. You have made that very clear.”
“So if you believe me, then there is no need to look at me like that or to apologize or to feel sorry for me. In fact, you should be happy for me, because I have finally convinced Mama to let me go with my aunt Charlotte to India.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Have you really?”
“Indeed I have.” I lifted my chin. “I will leave straight from Blackmoore. It is quite an accomplishment, you know.”
“I know. I can hardly believe it. I thought she would never agree to your scheme.”
“She has. She has agreed to it. And soon I will be accomplishing my own goals and fulfilling my own dreams. So there is no need to worry about me, Sylvia. Indeed, I have never been happier.”