Moon Rising by Ann Victoria Roberts Page A

would be leaving early the next morning, and wanted to say goodbye while we had this chance to be alone. A rush of innocent delight brought a blush to my cheeks, and I was glad of the darkness. But then the full import of his words reached me and suddenly I was tongue-tied; my smile became an anxious frown as I struggled for a reply.
    â€˜I’ll miss you,’ he said earnestly; and: ‘I’ll miss you, too,’ I whispered at last, aware that the words were true. Suddenly, I had to remind myself of all my firm intentions in order not to give way to foolishness.
    Unaware of my conflict, he went on: ‘I just wanted to say, if you want to borrow any of my books while I’m gone – the novels, I mean – then it’s all right. I know you like to read. I’ll mention it to my mother.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ I managed, while my throat felt close to choking.
    â€˜Take whichever ones you want...’
    I promised I would, all the time wanting to hold him, not his books. But then, leaning closer, he whispered: ‘I hope you’re still here when I come back...’ He was only a little taller than I, and, for one panic-stricken moment, as his eyes caught the lamplight, I thought he was about to kiss me. Instead he reached for my hand, and the lightness of his touch travelled through me like a shock.
    â€˜I expect it’ll be near Christmas,’ he added gently, but at the time we were barely into March and that reminder was all I needed to bring me to my senses. ‘Well, then,’ I responded breathlessly, jerking my hand free, ‘I’ll pray for good weather and a safe return. Now, we’d better go indoors, before your mother wonders what we’re up to out here.’
    I ran upstairs after that, to stand rigidly by the window until I heard Cook’s footsteps, when I slipped into bed and turned my face to the wall. Early next morning, watching Jonathan leave, I was acutely aware that I’d have given anything to be going with him, to be climbing into the boat, crossing that open stretch of water and boarding the brigantine waiting for the tide...
    If Mrs Markway seemed remarkably cool after that, I tried not to feel that her ill-temper was directed solely at me. It lasted for several weeks, until the day she surprised me leaving Jonathan’s room with one of his books in my hand. I’d returned
Gulliver’s Travels
and was borrowing
Tristram Shandy,
but beside my bed was another volume, an anthology of verse that I’d been reading for some time.
    Mrs Markway took one look and accused me of stealing the books. My protests only made things worse. According to her I was wicked, a liar and a thief; nothing I could say would deflect her. Indeed, at every mention of Jonathan’s name she became more incensed and, when Cook spoke up for me, Mrs Markway flew into a rage and threatened to sack her too. With her jowls quivering, she told me to pack my things at once and leave – she would not have me in the house a moment longer. She even examined every single one of my own books, to be sure, she said, that none of them had been stolen from her son and secreted away.
    The injustice left me open-mouthed with shock. Like someone blind, when she’d gone, I felt for my other possessions and placed them in my box, while Dick hovered in embarrassment on the landing, ready to help me carry it down.
    Fortunately the month was April and the weather was good, and although I might have lacked many things I was not without relatives. Even so, by the time I arrived in Robin Hood’s Bay it was early evening, and Old Uncle was on his way to a public meeting, long white hair and beard gleaming in the dusk.
    He was not pleased to see me, and had no time to talk, so I had to go to the house and wait until he returned. His housekeeper took me through to the kitchen, where she gave me something to eat, but I felt very much like the condemned man abandoned to