The Hummingbird Heart

  “Huh.” Julian held back a smirk. His mother had become something of a legend in their family for fabricating elaborate white lies at the drop of a hat. She never used the ability to whitewash anything important. It was just her way of poking fun when someone was taking life a bit too seriously.

  He waited for her to finish dabbing his head with witch hazel. Tensing at the sting, he leaned back enough that she could see his hands. Although she’d read lips since her childhood—at first refusing to learn sign language as she feared to give away her deafness to strangers—she’d long since accepted and embraced that side of herself, and was now proud of who she was. So, she and Father had learned to speak with their hands early in their marriage, passing the ability onto all three of their children as they grew old enough to talk.

  Julian often chose this system of communication when he wished to keep their conversation private. Your evasion might have been convincing, Mother. His fingers and hands formed the words in place of his mouth. Had Draba not been twenty-four-years-old, arthritic, and already put out to pasture. There’s no riding him.

  Intent on his gestures, she grinned before responding with her own hand motions. I was speaking of Draba the Second. Leander broke the colt a month before his wedding, remember? She exchanged a glance with Father and a silent moment passed between them—loving and sensual. He’d been watching the unspoken exchange attentively and either they were both remembering the prior night, or their own nuptials and honeymoon. Father’s neck flushed as he returned his attention to the squirrel, positioning it on its back to gently pinch its stomach as the rodent chattered angrily.

  Julian knew how rare such marriages were. Society accepted that most husbands kept mistresses to absorb their primitive needs, as wives were meant to be revered as motherly, frail, and inhibited. But his parents had never needed a third in their relationship. They were equals and helpmates in every way. Julian had grown up admiring their devotion, and would settle for nothing less for himself one day.

  Wrapping the screeching squirrel in a fresh linen cloth, Father cozied it into a box close enough to the fireplace to warm the creature without overheating. He stood. A concerned wrinkle stitched across his brow as he reached for his brass plated governor’s cane.

  Mother read his thoughts. “One teaspoon salt, three teaspoons sugar, one quart of warm water. I’ll prepare it and bring a dropper.”

  Father smiled. Gratitude tendered his eyes.

  Gathering the bowl filled with bloodied glass, Mother patted Julian’s shoulder. “I expect you to find Nick and send him in so I might see to his wounds, also.”

  Julian squirmed, his chair suddenly uncomfortable and lumpy. He hadn’t told her how he’d acquired the cuts, but she always knew. It broke his heart to envision her sweet face later this afternoon when she realized Nick wouldn’t be coming at all … when his father told her of his brother’s latest escapade and what it would cost the family as a whole.

  She cupped Julian’s chin, her grasp gentle. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Julian forced a smile. “Of course. Thanks to your healing touch.” He caught her hand and kissed a knuckle.

  Her eyes narrowed. Even though his father carried the Romani blood, she was as adept at reading facial expressions as any fortune teller. Thankfully, this once, she didn’t press the issue.

  After she left the room, Julian placed his spectacles atop his nose, pulled back his hair with a leather tie, and joined his father beside the hearth to regard their tiny house guest. It had managed to wriggle out of the cloth and its fur stuck up in feathery plumes as if it had been struck by lightning. “Bristly little thing, isn’t it?”

  Father nodded, grinning. “Be a fine sobriquet—Bristles. He seems to think he’s intimidating prospective enemies.”

  “So, you’re naming him. That means he’s going to live?”

  “He’s warm to the touch now. But the skin was slow to smooth from the pinch. He’s too young to have been fully weaned. I’d say he’s missed several feedings. The sugar water should help with that.” Father eased into a rusty-orange brocade tailcoat with black satin cuffs that had been hung on the divan next to the fireplace. The split-swallow tail fluttered into place behind him at the bends of his knees. Such long tails had gone out of fashion after the mid nineteenth century. But then, Father didn’t follow conventions any more than Mother did. “The little fellow has a chance,” he took up the conversation again. “Given a quiet place to rest. We’ll need to be diligent in keeping the cats away. And the next few hours will be crucial.”

  Julian considered their past experiences with nursing animals back to health. Squirrels—one of the most fragile and demanding as babies—weren’t even capable of eliminating their own waste in the beginning. They had to be taught to relieve themselves using strategically placed pressure with a handkerchief every four hours or so. It was akin to waking up with a newborn for changes and feedings. Julian regarded his father’s teal vest and black trousers. “You’re dressed for an outing. Why not let me look after Bristles until you return?”

  “Thank you.” His father appeared soothed by the suggestion. He placed a palm against the fireplace’s bricks as he propped his bad foot on the hearth and stirred the flames with an iron poker. “I plan to take your mother and Emilia to Worthington. They’re having a puppet show at the botanical gardens. I hoped an afternoon of drollery might soften the blow of Nick’s confession. I intend to tell them over lunch.” His jaw twitched as he set the glowing hot poker in its stand. “Of course, your mother already senses something. She asked me earlier why Desmond seemed so angry. I made up an excuse. It’s the first time in twenty years deception has darkened either of our hearts.” He sighed. “Nick told me everything. About his plan … about you being mistaken for him in all of this. I’m assuming that’s why you fought.”

  “We made our peace.” Julian tamped down the urge to tell his father the omitted detail … that his brother practically placed him in the sites of Desmond’s pistol. But on his way to the townhouse from the amusement park, Julian saw Nick speaking to Desmond outside the stables. Nick’s plan was in motion now; no need to bring anymore worry to his parents. “Nick wanted Emilia to have the squirrel for a pet. So she would have a birthday present in the absence of her conservatory.”

  His father’s shoulders slumped forward, an elbow resting on his knee. “I wanted so much more for that boy than a loveless pairing started out on the run. I blame myself. He knew your mother and I disapproved of his lifestyle … yet we didn’t physically reprimand him, or send him away.”

  Julian’s ear tips tingled. It infuriated him that his father would feel responsible. He had never laid a hand on any of his children due to the history of abuse in his family. Instead, he taught them right from wrong through gentle gestures and a shining example. No lectures or punishments could ever have matched up to that. “It has nothing to do with you, Father. Nick has justified his choices based on his own warped rules of conduct. Now he’ll have to live or die by them.”

  Father lifted his foot down, set aside the poker, and cast a glance over his shoulder, watching for Mother. Even though—as long as Julian and he stood with their backs to the door—everything they said would be unreadable to her, his father didn’t approve of isolating her in such a way. He’d always insisted no one disrespect her by ‘speaking behind her eyes’ when she was in the room. They were either to use sign language, or assure she was facing them with good lighting.

  “I saw Nick take out the brougham earlier,” Father finally said, assured she was still in the kitchen. “He and Lady Mina must be gone by now. I hope he’ll contact us soon. Keep us apprised of the baby’s welfare.” He locked his pensive gaze on Julian’s wounded head. “You said you made peace with him. But I’m sensing that’s not wholly true.”

  Julian frowned, wondering if the feelings of resentment were so plainly drawn upon his face. “Have you thought of what this could mean for the manor? I can possibly find new inves
tors, but what of patron attendance? Lord Desmond could ruin us with just a word.”

  His father’s calm expression didn’t change. “I don’t believe he can … or will. It would shame him every bit as much as us. Besides, I’m more worried for Nick at the moment.”

  “No need for that. He’s as pithy as always. He called Willow a circus urchin earlier without any regard to her feelings about her past.”

  Raking a hand through his beard, Father frowned. “There’s no excuse for such insensitivity.”

  “And I suspect he told her I had her sent away to finishing school the first time. She’ll never forgive me if she knows. I could lose my dearest friend over all this.”

  His father’s profile—glazed by flickering firelight—softened to a knowing smile. “Dearest friend, aye? That’s all there is to it?”

  Nick’s angel comment from earlier danced in Julian’s mind, taunting him with thoughts of Willow surrendering her halo. Was it possible, that her feelings were deeper than friendship? Would that not explain her attempts to be with him each and every moment … how she blushed beneath his gaze at times … how she trembled at an accidental graze of shoulders or thighs when they were working side by side on the park’s rides? Perhaps she’d been feeling every bit as confused as him about their standing of late.

  Julian lifted the poker to stir the flames again, though they needed no stoking. “We are so different from one another,” he considered aloud, not sure if he wanted his father’s input or just to hear himself reason it out. “I’m studious, she’s frivolous. I’m a planner, she’s impulsive. And she’s so private about some things … about her past.” The ash sifted and the wood crackled as if in protest. Julian put the tool away.

  “Ah yes, a woman who’s mysterious … she can captivate and hold you for all eternity.” Father’s eyes had that far-away glaze. He shook his head, as if to wake himself, then tickled the now sleeping squirrel curled up in the box’s corner. “Did you notice the resemblance in this little fellow?”

  Julian, relieved for the change of subject, assumed he referred to Bristle’s likenesses to Isaac the mouse. “Yes. Nick and I discussed that earlier.”

  Utilizing his cane, Father walked to the window and looked out at the trees. The silver highlights in his thick hair glistened as the sun stretched its spindly fingers across him. “Aunt Bitti has brought so many things to this manor throughout her nomadic sojourns; some that have changed our lives forever. For the better, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?” He didn’t turn. Simply let the silence stretch between them, waiting for his son to answer.

  His enigmatic reticence made Julian uneasy. “Are you speaking of Willow again? Of the way she came to us?”

  After a pause, Father raised his cane to tap the window. “I never would have thought those domesticated white squirrels would breed with the local wild grays.”

  “Oh.” Julian smiled and looked down at Bristle’s sleeping form. “The trained ones Aunt Bitti stole from the traveling carnival and loosed here last summer. I hadn’t made that connection to this little fellow.”

  Father turned, looped his cane over his elbow, and braced his hips against the window seat. Drawing out dress gloves from his pocket, he slapped them across his palm. “Bristles is white with a characteristic grey stripe. There must be interbreeding taking place. Who would’ve thought two such different orders could come together so beautifully?” A grin played at the corners of his lips. “I would venture, once we get to know Emilia’s new pet, that we’ll see their offspring hails the best of them both. The gray squirrel’s spunk and the white squirrel’s cunning.”

  Feeling a rush of heat in his neck, Julian drew back from the fire, annoyed he’d fallen into his father’s trap so easily. “Do we not have more important things to discuss than my and Willow’s relationship?”

  Slipping into his gloves, his father shrugged. “I just want you to be honest with yourself. Owen plans to send Willow back to Ridley’s within a week. He made peace with the head governess by offering the school a very generous donation. You mightn’t be seeing her again until December break. And if all goes as planned, she’ll graduate and be ready to come out on the marriage mart by the following Season. If you have something to tell her, now would be a good time.”

  Julian suppressed an anxious twinge behind his sternum at the thought of Willow being presented to perspective suitors. The fact that she was being sent back to finishing school could actually work to his advantage. He’d been concerned for Willow’s reaction when he went to the convention in St. Louis without her. If she was settled at Liverpool before he left, she needn’t even know he was going. He’d be home by mid-May, prior to her winter visit. Perhaps, while they were apart, he could work out how he truly felt about her. About everything.

  “No. Now is not the time,” he finally answered, tugging the envelope from his vest. He held it up to the sunlight to reveal the writing through the parchment. “This ticket belonged to Mina, but she no longer needs it. Before Nick left, he gave it to me. In five days, I’m boarding a transatlantic liner. I’m going to St. Louis to attend the World’s Fair in search of investors.”

  “You’re going to St. Louis?” Emilia’s question came out on a gasp.

  Julian turned his attention to the doorway where a trio of females stalled with gaping mouths.

  “To the World’s Fair …” Willow repeated, her hands clutched to both sides of the doorframe.

  Julian swallowed hard. Her hair was down and disheveled, face flushed as if she’d run the entire way from the castle, the curved top of one small bosom peeking out from the thwarted neckline of her dress—looking so improper and bewildered he lost all faculty of speech. His gaze held painfully, as if crucified to hers.

  “And whatever do you mean that Nick has left, too?” Emilia peered over Willow’s shoulder, rippling the tension with all the proficiency of a pebble in a quiet stream.

  Mother nudged between both girls, leading with the kettle of sugar water. Having seen enough words to piece together the gist of the conversation, she met Father’s guilt-ridden gaze. “What have you been keeping from me?” Her voice tightened, as if frost coated her vocal cords to make them rigid. “How long have you known our sons were leaving us?”

  Six

  Misero e brullo. The sun hid beneath a drapery of thick clouds—peering out sporadically to cast the world in a watery green haze. It was just the sort of sopping, stagnant weather Willow would have expected to underscore her portage back to Ridley’s: the realm of conduct and manners.

  Half-dressed and waiting for Aunt Enya to return and help her with her corset and stays—being as she was ‘expected to dress properly for once’—Willow watched the rain streak the windows in her attic room. Drizzling silhouettes crawled across the cheery cream-colored walls and the elegant but simple chandelier that hung above her bed from unpainted wooden rafters. The crystal tiers glistened and dulled with the storm, as though shadow and light were trapped within each prism, forced to fight for dominance.

  Other than the glass fixture, only the bed covering—a warm, muslin quilt boasting embroidered mauve roses and green ivy paired with a dust ruffle and pillow shams the color of soft summer sage—and the lace curtains added a touch of delicacy and color to the otherwise sparse attic room.

  Willow had chosen this room herself, for its privacy and isolated safety. When she first came to live at the manor, the long glass windows had already replaced the door that once led to the grounds. The adjoining outdoor stairway had been torn down, leaving the room high and unreachable, like a castle’s turret. Now the only exit led to Emilia’s turquoise room inside the townhouse, via a passage in the wall, the entrance of which was covered by a portrait of Master Thornton’s Romani mother, Gitana.

  Before Willow’s arrival, the attic room had belonged to Master Thornton’s Aunt Bitti and was windowless, cold, and smelled of rich spices and the scent of wolf. It was the way Bitti preferred it, being a nomad. In time, Master Thornton had convince
d his roving aunt to allow him to spruce up the surroundings, to make it more livable, perhaps in hopes to persuade her to stay for longer spells, though it never worked—luckily for Willow.

  Chilled by the overcast sky and the resulting shadows, Willow turned her attention to the trunk at the end of the bed. She ran a fingertip along the crackling white paint, nostalgic for the scent still ingrained in the lining no matter how many years passed: exotic perfumes, candle wax, and spiced candies. Not only had the wooden box been her transport into the Thorntons’ lives, she’d folded her body up and hidden inside throughout the years since, each time she felt overwhelmed by memories too violent and confusing to escape.

  Right now, she ached to crawl in once more; her muscles and joints twitched with the want of it. Escape. Since she’d learned of Julian’s betrayal, Willow had begun to rethink leaving the orphanage all those years ago. Where would she be had she stayed there? Was it so bad really, aside from the poverty … the confinement?

  She remembered the place vividly: the three-story farmhouse with caving walls and leaking roof, set on the outskirts of Manchester. Willow knew after hearing of Master Thornton’s childhood that there were worse fates for the innocent and defenseless. She couldn’t help but be grateful to the old farmer, his wife, and their in-laws for never once laying a hand on the children. But sometimes, a child wants to be patted or held. And as they were considered tantamount to the oxen and donkeys—brought into the fold to help lighten the workload—they received the essentials, nothing more. Having no sense of home anymore, her heart began to feel cold and numb. She envisioned it formed of crystal in the shape of an hourglass, with every emotion slipping through like sands—moment by moment. Once the bottom was filled and the top left empty, she knew she’d have no more feelings at all.

  In place of affection and companionship, Willow had sought intellectual fodder to occupy any spare time each day. Able to read only Italian words, she had searched inside the farmhouse for picture books of any kind. After she’d exhausted all of the illustrations and diagrams in the dusty medical, technical, and agricultural tomes strewn about, she developed a routine of secretly following the farmer and his brothers-in-law upon their ventures into the equipment outbuilding. She refined her English and learned the inner workings of motors by hiding like a bat in the loft’s rafters and watching the men tinker with plough engines and farm machinery.