Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6)

by Arietta Richmond

  “A good thought. What were they?”

  “They were not really books at all, but one of those boxes cunningly crafted to look like a set of books. But, because I had, of necessity, climbed up on a chair to reach them, when I moved them, I could see that there was something behind them. If I’d been a bit taller, and been able to reach them from the floor, I would never have known that there was anything else there. I reached back and pulled it out, and it was this – the letters wrapped in a sheet of oilskin.”

  She handed them to Sybilla. Sybilla passed her the book.

  “This is what I found. Ella gave it to Stanford. She inscribed it to him, at the front.”

  Miss Millpost looked, and smiled.

  “I think that we have some reading to do, Lady Sybilla”

  “Most definitely, Miss Millpost.”

  Chapter Nine

  The letters spanned a period of nearly five years, from 1750 to 1755, and were like a window into Ella’s life. Sybilla wished that they also had Stanford’s letters to Ella, for the one-sided view left many questions unanswered.

  What was clear, however, was that Ella had already been married to Titus Kentworthy at 18, and in 1749, had born him an heir, George, within the year after their marriage. Late in 1750, she had met Stanford, apparently when he had attended a dinner party at Dartworth Abbey, and there had been an instant attraction.

  The tone of her letters ranged from adoring love to anguished despair, as time passed. In early 1751, it seemed that she had taken the remarkable step of removing herself from Dartworth Abbey, to live alone at Gallowbridge House, with none but maids and a Housekeeper for company. George, she had left at Dartworth Abbey, in care of a dedicated Nursery maid. In 1753, she bore a daughter, Genevieve, to Stanford.

  Much of this they worked out from what was said in the letters, but the details were often not clear. Stanford had, apparently, spent months away from Greyscar Keep, presumably dealing with the affairs of the rest of the Melton estates. The last few letters were particularly poignant, for they spoke of Ella losing Stanford, as he, now Duke, fulfilled his obligations, and married, to get an heir.

  He could not marry Ella, for she was already married, and he was not willing to continue their association once he married. Sybilla was left wondering if he loved Ella, and was as anguished by this choice as Ella was, or if his association with her had been a passing fancy, that had burned itself out naturally, leaving him ready to move on. That part of her which loved the melodrama of the novels she read, and which she was trying to emulate in her own writing, hoped that he was anguished, that his love for Ella was true, and that the choice was a terrible one to have to make. Once they had read through the letters, Sybilla found herself wanting to know more. If Ella’s letters to Stanford had survived, here, was it possible that Stanford’s letters to Ella had also survived, and might be found somewhere in Gallowbridge House? And what had happened to Genevieve?

  The letters told her nothing, beyond the fact that Genevieve was still alive and healthy at two years old, when the last of the letters was written. At breakfast the next morning, Sybilla was still thinking about it.

  “Miss Millpost, given that Stanford’s name was put on her headstone, do you suppose that Genevieve’s birth was recorded in the parish registers, even though she was a scandalous illegitimate child? For I have the impression that the entire district knew of the situation.”

  “It’s certainly possible. And given how obsessed with history the vicar is, I’d imagine that he’ll have all of the old parish registers neatly stored in easy reach. If you can get him to come out of that Templar crypt, for longer than to just give the Sunday sermon, you could ask him.”

  “A good thought. After my ride this morning, I will attempt to convince him to help us investigate.”

  ~~~~~

  They had been riding a little later each day, as winter wrapped its cold grip ever more firmly around the land, and the frost steamed itself to mist more slowly, in the weak winter sunshine – on the days when there was any sunshine. They had not discussed it – both simply knew that they would ride regardless, for the peaceful time together in the crisp air of morning had become something that they treasured.

  As the wind lifted her hair, and the early sun made Greyscar Keep sparkle like a pâtissière’s sugar confection in the distance, as it lit the frost which coated its stone, Lady Sybilla told him about the letters, and the story of doomed love that they told. He found himself anguished for the long dead lovers, the thought of loving someone that you could never truly have woke an echo in him. It reminded him, yet again, that the price of his survival, the brokenness of his mind, would keep any woman from ever choosing to tie herself to him. He might love, but he would never be able to hold the one he loved.

  The story gripped him, and he found himself wanting to know more, as she did.

  “Do you think that we could persuade the vicar to come away from the crypt long enough to show us the parish registers?”

  “I am sure that we could. I suspect that, if he is hesitant, the moment that I imply that his continued access to the crypt might be contingent upon us seeing the parish registers, he will become remarkably helpful.”

  She laughed, bright and unaffected, her eyes sparkling. It took his breath away to watch her, so relaxed by his side, her beautiful face limned by the morning sun.

  “Then let us hurry back, and disrupt the vicar’s plans for the day.”

  Eyes full of mischief, she grinned at him, then urged Ghost forward, taking the path down through the trees at a reckless pace, sure in the saddle, and utterly in tune with the horse. Even as he followed, taking care with where Templar placed his feet, he watched her, torn between fear that she might allow Ghost to misstep, and admiration for everything about her.

  At the stream, they slowed, by mutual accord, and went the rest of the way somewhat more sedately – it would never do to encourage the horses to always race home, and, in the cold winter air, bringing them in too hot would only mean that the grooms would need to walk them for longer. It was another thing that he appreciated about her – she understood what was needed, to treat good horseflesh as it deserved, without him ever needing to speak of it.

  They went straight from the stable to the crypt. The narrow stairs were now well lit, and more light was visible below.

  The crypt had been transformed. Most of the drifts of dust had been removed, the marble of the tombs cleaned, and the stacks of boxes and other items were being sorted. One side of the huge space was all clean and tidied, the other still contained the items that they were working on. Bart had allocated two rooms in the house for the discovered items to be stored in, above, as they were progressively catalogued and identified. The most difficult decision with many items was whether they had been intended to stay in the crypt, or were an item temporarily stored there.

  The vicar had deduced that many items had been stored to prevent them being found, when the Templars were arrested. It appeared that they had placed everything they wished to hide in the crypt, bricked up the entry, and plastered over it, probably some weeks before the end came. They had done well, for the crypt had stayed concealed all these centuries since. Bart found it amusing that the stories of Templar treasure were, in this case, true. Although whether it was of the sort of value that the stories suggested, they would not know for some time.

  Mr Godfrey was leaning on a tomb, writing on a sheet of paper, noting down the items which were contained in a box which sat open beside him. He seemed utterly absorbed, and jumped, almost overturning his inkpot, when Bart spoke.

  “Good day, Mr Godfrey. I trust that things are progressing well?”

  The vicar took some moments to focus on them, after absently catching the inkpot and righting it.

  “Lord Barton? Err… yes, quite well. There are so many items….”

  “Yes, I can quite see that there is rather more here than anyone might have expected. But your progress seems impressive to me, as I can n
ow see at least half of the floor in here.”

  The crypt no longer seemed so eerie – the sense of the ghosts of the past hovering had dissipated, brushed away with the dust, although there was always a chill about the place.

  “How can I assist you, Lord Barton?”

  “We would like to take you away from this work for a short while, if we may.” The vicar looked unhappy at the prospect, but did not say so. “We would like to see the parish registers, from the 1750’s.”

  “That long ago? Is there some particular reason?”

  “Yes. Recently, Lady Sybilla and I went past Gallowbridge House whilst out riding, and noticed the graveyard there. We are interested in the history and families of the persons named on the headstones.”

  The vicar took in a sharp breath, his face blanching in the flickering candlelight. Bart almost thought that he would refuse their request, as a flicker of emotion passed across his face. Then he looked around him, taking in the crypt, and its historic treasures, and seemed to make a decision. Bart was pleased – he had not wanted to resort to implying that he would limit access to the crypt if the vicar was not helpful. He was also puzzled, for the vicar’s hesitation had seemed something more than just a reluctance to leave his work here.

  “I can certainly bring those registers out of storage for you. When…?”

  “Might we go now? Lady Sybilla has other commitments this afternoon.”

  The vicar need not know that those ‘commitments’ were writing a gothic novel…

  “As you wish, Lord Barton, one moment.”

  Mr Godfrey capped his inkpot, and tidied things away, before leading them out of the crypt.

  ~~~~~

  In the back of the church, opening off the vestry, was a small storage room, containing, among other things, a large cupboard, full of all the old church records. With much muttering, Mr Godfrey had pulled out book after book, looked at a few pages, and thrust them back, until he found the right one.

  Now, it lay before them on the table, lit by the angled early afternoon sunlight streaming in from the high window. And there, clearly written in brown/black oak gall ink, was the record of Genevieve’s birth.

  ‘To Ella Kentworthy, Marchioness of Dartworth, on this day, the 17 of July, 1753, a girl, Genevieve Ella. Father – Lord Stanford Barrington.’

  They stared at it, amazed. For Stanford to have been recorded as the father was remarkable – a complete flouting of social expectations. Sybilla felt as if her family had suddenly become alien to her, with this wholly unexpected insight into their past.

  “And Genevieve? Did she marry, or have children? Are there records to tell us?”

  Sybilla’s voice was soft, as if she were imagining what they might find, imagining the existence of those who bore her family’s blood, who had existed, all unknown to the current generation. The vicar looked uncomfortable, for some reason, and he hesitated, as if reluctant to answer. Sybilla simply waited, looking at him hopefully.

  “Ummm… it will take some time to look… I am not sure…”

  “Then please do look, I wish to know, if at all possible.”

  Sybilla sat on the simple hard chair, staring at the book in front of her, whilst the vicar went back to his records and, muttering, dug through the old books again. She traced her finger over the old ink on the page, as if by touching it, she could touch these long-gone people, whose story had so touched her. When she looked up, Lord Barton was watching her, the beam of sunlight drawing the highlights from his rich brown toned hair, and making her aware, all over again, of how well made a man he was. The lean, almost gauntness that comes from the privations of war had been replaced by the sculpted strength that spending most of one’s days riding horses could produce.

  He said nothing, simply met her eyes, as they waited in a silence broken only by the vicar’s mutterings. She licked her lips, suddenly nervous under his gaze, wondering what he was thinking, as he watched her so steadily.

  His eyes followed her movement, warming, but still he said nothing. It was as if time had slowed, and there was no one in the world but them, caught in the beam of sunlight, like the dust motes turned gold that floated around them.

  “Achoooo!”

  The vicar’s sneeze broke them out of their trancelike state. He emerged from the store room, with three large volumes in his grasp, and deposited them on the table. Another puff of dust floated up from them, causing more sneezes.

  “These, I think, are the ones that we want. 1770 to 1790. For if she was born in 1753, it is unlikely that she married before 1770, and unlikely that she had children after 1790, if she had married. Of course, if she married in another parish, we will find no record here. But you may look.”

  Sybilla reached out and took hold of the first volume that she could reach. The vicar half reached out a hand, as if to hold it back, then stopped, and let her draw it towards her. Odd. But no matter. She turned her attention to the register before her, and began to read through the names. Lord Barton and the vicar each took a volume, and began to do the same. For some time, the sunlit silence reigned again, broken by nothing but the sound of turning pages.

  “Ah! She did marry! I have the entry here.” Sybilla’s voice was excited, as she pointed at the page before her.

  ‘Married this day, the 20 of April 1780, Genevieve Ella, daughter of Ella Kentworthy, to Paul Titchworth, merchant.’

  “I see that Genevieve is given no family name in the records. Perhaps because they did not know which to call her?”

  “I do not know, Lady Sybilla.”

  The vicar looked pale, and almost worried.

  Perhaps he was simply fretting to get back to his exploration of the crypt. Lord Barton looked up, a look of surprise on his face.

  “Titchworth? I am sure that I’ve heard Tideswell mention that name. I will need to ask him”

  “We must keep looking. For if she married, she may well have had children.”

  Sybilla went back to turning the pages, with all the more enthusiasm for having found at least one piece of information.

  Soon after, Sybilla again exclaimed, pointing at the page. There was the record of the birth of a child, to Genevieve – a boy, born in 1781 and named John. Excited, they kept looking, but nothing further was recorded.

  “Perhaps they moved away from this parish? Or perhaps they had no more children?”

  “Either is possible, Lady Sybilla, for the parish registers only record the births deaths and marriages which happen in this parish. If people move elsewhere, then whatever happens from that point will be recorded in another parish.”

  The vicar looked at her, apologetic, but also seeming, in some slight way, relieved.

  “But surely vicar, this being so close to here, and you being such an expert on local history, you have some hint of what happened next? You have been here, the local residents have told me, for twenty years – can you not remember the gossip from when you first arrived, or whether Genevieve and Paul Titchworth were still in the parish?”

  The vicar looked away a moment.

  “I… let me think…” Silence fell again, and they waited, as the vicar stared into the distance, looking most uncertain. “I do believe that I faintly remember them. But they moved to Inkpen, or further away, in that first two years that I was here. Now that you make me think about it, I remember there being some grumbling that, although they moved, they did not sell, or let out, Gallowbridge House. If the son John still lives, then it is likely that he still owns Gallowbridge House, for it’s been empty all the years that I have been here.”

  “Thank you, vicar – that at least gives us somewhere to start, for if the father was a merchant, it’s probable that the son is a merchant – and surely, there cannot be too many merchants by the name of Titchworth in the towns hereabouts.”

  As Sybilla finished speaking, Lord Barton’s voice cut across hers.

  “That’s where I’ve heard the name! Tideswell was speaking of a merchant we’ve been dealing with,
a few towns away, to obtain some of the replacement furniture and other items for Dartworth Abbey! I will ask him tomorrow what more he knows of the man.”

  The vicar looked inexplicably distressed by this pronouncement and smiled weakly.

  “Excellent, my Lord, I wish you, and Lady Sybilla, well with your investigations. Although, Lady Sybilla, I am surprised that you wish to know. Generally, I have found that those of the nobility prefer to let previous generations peccadilloes be forgotten, rather than to bring them into the light of day.”

  Sybilla laughed, but blushed a little.

  “Mr Godfrey, you have the right of the way that most would see it. I suspect that my mother would be included in those of that opinion. But it is a mystery, and I am too caught up in it to care what others may think – if they even know – for if I know of it, that does not mean that I will feel the need to tell all and sundry.”

  Chapter Ten

  That afternoon, as Sybilla sat at the escritoire in the library of Greyscar Keep, she was distracted from her writing. The day’s discoveries had left her feeling odd, and the silence of the library seemed filled with ghosts of the past, as if Stanford’s actions, all those years ago, had left echoes in the stone, right down to today. He, and Ella, and Genevieve had become so real in her mind, that she half expected to see him walk into the room.

  Her mind replayed the early afternoon conversation with the vicar, as they had looked through the registers. The vicar had seemed most unhappy that they wished to pursue their investigations – which was strange in a man obsessed with history. It was almost as if there was something that he did not wish them to find. As if he were hiding something from them.

  What was it, about Gallowbridge House, that made people respond that way? For had not Mrs Westby also been most uncomfortable, and unforthcoming about the topic, when Miss Millpost had asked her?

  The thought worried her – she felt that she was missing something important, but she simply couldn’t see it. She pushed the whole thing aside, and went back to writing. In this chapter, she had trapped her poor heroine in a lightless crypt, with no way to escape. Now she had to write just the correct gothic atmosphere, as the poor girl waited for the hero to discover her.