That thought produce a mental image of Lord Barton, and the kiss that they had shared in the crypt under Dartworth Abbey. Her body heated at the very thought, and she stared blankly before her, writing forgotten, as she relived it in memory.
~~~~~
Mrs Westby went into the library, shutting the door behind her. The girl and her companion were off to Dartworth Abbey again for the morning, so this was the best time to clean and dust in the library. She glared at the escritoire where the pile of Lady Sybilla’s writings and associated notes sat, with a paperweight holding them down.
She wished that the girl would just finish the dratted book and be gone back to Meltonbrook Chase. Every day that she was here was a reminder and, as if that wasn’t enough, she and that uppity and nosy companion kept poking into history that was best left lie. And the way that she was going, with all of the time that Lady Sybilla spent over at the Abbey, with that young Lord Barton, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if the follies of the past had a way of repeating themselves.
Her expression was grim, as she went about the dusting.
Her thoughts went back to the message she’d had from John, just yesterday. He wanted to sell Gallowbridge House – to sell it! How had it come to this, that his business was doing so badly that the money was needed? Surely, there was another answer?
If they sold it, she’d have to clear everything out. The thought of that was like the thought of desecrating something holy. She’d never been able to bring herself to go through it, to look through her mother’s things, and her grandmother’s. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to see what was there, to find what might have been left. It would make it worse, to know how Stanford Barrington had truly felt about her grandmother.
Every day, for the last seventeen years, she had worked here, in a house owned by the Barringtons. At first, she was a housemaid, but she soon fell for Westby and married him, and came to live here at Greyscar, as Housekeeper.
They had been good years, there was no denying that, and the Barringtons were generous employers, but none of that changed the facts. If Stanford Barrington had not been so rash as to seduce her grandmother, when she was already a married woman, she, Isabel, would have been born a child of an aristocratic family somewhere, not the child of a merchant who had been kind enough to marry an illegitimate girl who was the result of a scandal.
It grated. For years, she had ignored her feelings on the subject, simply because the Barringtons had rarely visited, as the now Dowager Duchess of Melton had never liked Greyscar. But now, with Lady Sybilla here… it had all risen to the surface. And the girl hadn’t even been helpful enough to be scared by the ghost stories!
She’d rather enjoyed telling the chit all about every haunting story that she could remember, in the most chilling way possible. She’d hoped that the girl would get scared, like that silly maid of hers, and leave. But it hadn’t worked. Whilst Lady Sybilla had shivered a bit, and looked nervously around her, she’d shaken that reaction off, and simply said ‘that’s excellent material to help me write my novel’.
Mrs Westby sighed. If they sold Gallowbridge House, it would be like she had lost a part of herself, her last tie to a heritage of noble blood. She would pray that it wasn’t necessary, but if it was… well, then, she would cope. Over the years when she and Westby had needed help, John had always been there with money, when the business had been thriving, so if he needed help now, she really couldn’t say no. But it would hurt…
With a last flick of the duster, she glared at the pile of writing on the desk again, and left the room.
~~~~~
The frost was so thick that morning, that it seemed almost like snow. The air was clear, and for once, it was still. The only sound was that of the horses’ hooves crunching in the frost and the mournful calls of a few birds circling above. Their breath, and that of the horses, turned to mist in front of them. Yet it was so beautiful that Sybilla could only stare around her in wonder.
They had not stopped for long, anywhere, for the chill was fierce once one stopped moving. Instead, they kept moving steadily, talking as they went, at times.
“I am puzzled by something. Nothing that I can clearly explain, it’s just a feeling that I have.”
“Oh? About what?”
“Well… I didn’t think of this until yesterday afternoon, when I was sitting trying to write. But the two things put together… Some while ago, when Miss Millpost first asked Mrs Westby about Gallowbridge House, and the gravestone, Mrs Westby was very evasive – she apparently went quite pale, then turned the conversation to other things. Yesterday, when we pressed the vicar to help us find more information, he seemed very reluctant – he looked a little anxious, all the while we were there, almost as if there were things that he didn’t want us to find – things that he was hiding. It left me wondering what everyone is hiding from us – for I truly feel that they are. What is it about Gallowbridge House, and the things that happened there, that makes people unwilling to discuss it?”
“I don’t know. When you put it like that… yes, the vicar did not seem at all happy to discuss it. I wonder why. That makes me all the more intent on finding the merchant Titchworth, and asking about it. Tideswell is coming to see me this afternoon, I’ll ask him to dig further.”
They fell to silence again, the horses close by each other, side by side, happy in each other’s presence, yet neither feeling able to say how they felt. It was often that way, of late – moments where they drew close, where one would look at the other, go to speak, and then hold back. Bart felt drawn to those moments, to the sense of closeness with Lady Sybilla, even if he could not tell her how he felt. He kept reminding himself that wishful thinking was foolish – yet his mind went back to that kiss, in the crypt, and he wanted to kiss her again.
He wanted to touch her, to know, in a sense that she was real, this woman who had seen him shatter, and who had not condemned him. Still, it had only been once.
How would she respond if it happened again – when it happened again, for it surely would. He could not know. The horses walked, long relaxed strides, reins loose, and they each tended to guide them with one hand at times, tucking the other inside their warm coats for a while.
Every time she released her hand, he wanted to reach out and take it. He resisted, but they rode so close, he on her left, that his leg brushed hers – even that small touch heated his blood. It was bittersweet pleasure this, taunting himself with the tiniest touches of something that he could never have. Yet he was helpless to stop.
She turned to him, smiling, the mist of her breath drifting to him, and he remembered the feel of her lips. He did not know what to say, or do, but he found himself leaning towards her, as the horses faithfully carried them forward, at that steady walk. It seemed simple in that moment, and he acted, before thought could impede him. He leant just a little further, and brushed his lips across hers. She sighed, the mist of her breath tangling with his, and her lips returned the pressure, ever so slightly.
He drew back, unsure how she would react, and internally castigating himself for his foolishness. He should not risk his friendship with her, for a moment’s rashness. As always, she surprised him.
“Thank you.”
Her smile remained, and her eyes were alight. His heart did some extraordinarily strange thing in his chest.
She reached out a hand, and he took it, and they rode along in silence, in accord with one another, as Ghost and Templar were also. It would be, he thought, a much simpler world, if humans were as comfortable expressing their affection for one another, as animals were.
He was, in that moment, supremely glad that the groom was a wise man, and always stayed just on the edge of being able to see them, close enough to officially be a chaperone, but never so close as to invade their privacy. The man deserved to be paid more.
When they reached the narrowing of the path, she raised his hand, and pressed her lips to it, their warmth palpable through the thin leather, then
released it, and urged Ghost forward into the trees.
~~~~~
By the time they reached the stableyard, the frost had melted, and the horses’ hooves churned it to mud. The magic of the morning up on the ridge dissolved into everyday life. Sybilla sighed. For whole blocks of hours at a time, when in his company on a horse, she could forget – forget what a terrible person she was, forget what she had done, forget the accusations of her father’s ghost, most nights in her dreams, and simply be.
She even, foolishly, in those moments let herself dream – dream of what it would be like to have his company, always. To imagine a life where she had not done terrible things, where the past did not haunt her, where she could permit herself happiness.
She pushed aside the foolish thoughts as they picked their way through the mud to the house. In the library, Miss Millpost was making steady progress on achieving order. She had found nothing substantial in the way of family history, or anything about Gallowbridge House. It was almost as if someone had intentionally removed everything like that.
When they had scraped off enough mud to venture in, Bart called for tea, and they sat with Miss Millpost, discussing their progress.
“Oh – I have just realised – I have not shown you what I found. In the excitement of all that you discovered in Ella’s letters, I forgot all about this.”
Lord Barton went to his study, and brought back the framed family tree. They studied it, intrigued, seeing, on that parchment, the illustration of the shattering of Ella and Titus’ marriage – the stark fact that Genevieve, who had existed, was not shown. Lord Barton also told them of the painting of Titus, which graced the wall of the old study. Both Sybilla and Miss Millpost immediately wanted to see it, so they proceeded upstairs to do so.
Sybilla found the room as eerie as Lord Barton had, even now, in the early afternoon. The portrait of Titus glared down at them, as if resenting Sybilla for being a Barrington, and she shivered, disturbed. Lord Barton stood beside her, his closeness reassuring, but, so strong was the chill, that she found she had reached out, curling her fingers into his, seeking the warmth of touch in the face of long dead animosity.
His eyes came to hers, startled, then warmed with pleasure, and his hand tightened on hers.
Miss Millpost, observant as always, stood a little behind them and smiled, well pleased by what she saw. These young people both had need of something more in their life, and were well suited, but she had thought them, perhaps, too stubborn to see it.
To Sybilla, that return pressure on her hand changed everything for an instant. The air seemed warm, the malevolence of the dead seemed to pass from the room, and her heart beat faster.
And then she realised what she had done.
She released his hand, berating herself for a fool, and stepped a little away from him. What might be permissible in the magical suspension of real life, up on the ridge, was certainly not, here.
“Is there anything else of interest here, do you think?”
She heard the brittleness of her own voice, and forced herself to steady.
“Not that I saw – but then, I did come to look rather late…”
Miss Millpost bustled forward, and proceeded to methodically search the room, but found nothing of interest. The all repaired to the library, and called for more tea, as they considered what they knew.
“I think that the only possible next step, is for me to see if Tideswell can discover more. I am sure that we have dealt with a merchant by the name of Titchworth. I will send him a message shortly.”
“I hope that he can discover something, or I have no idea where to look next, as we can’t access Gallowbridge House.”
~~~~~
Once Lady Sybilla and Miss Millpost had left, Bart sat at his desk to write a note to Tideswell. Before he had touched pen to paper, Graves tapped at the door.
“A message, my Lord, from Mr Tideswell, I believe.”
He proffered the correspondence tray. Bart lifted the message, wondering if Tideswell had developed psychic awareness of some kind.
“Thank you, Graves.”
The note was short, but its impact was large.
My Lord, I have good news. I have finally contacted the owner of Gallowbridge House, one Mr John Titchworth, in person, and he is inclined to sell. He wishes to attend upon you at Dartworth Abbey, at a mutually agreeable time, to discuss the matter of price.
Yrs.
Tideswell
Chapter Eleven
Sybilla started awake, staring at the empty air at the foot of the bed. Shivering, she pulled the blankets tighter around her, listening to the almost ever-present wind whistle and moan outside the window.
It was just a dream. It had been her brother, this time, accusing her, moaning and wailing about how she had deprived him of the life he had been entitled to. Would they haunt her for the rest of her life? Probably, for she saw no way to expiate her guilt. Perhaps it would be better if she spent her life like this, isolated, where there were few people to see, and potentially argue with, where she could write, turning her morbid thoughts to some value, and not hurt those she most loved.
Those she loved. The thought brought an image of Lord Barton to her mind. She shied away from the implication, she could not allow herself the foolishness of love – that way lay pain, for once any man knew of her terrible guilt, he would most certainly turn away from her. She stifled a sob, wanting him, wanting the kindness in his eyes, and the touch of his lips.
But knowing that would never be possible.
She rose, pulled a warm wrap around her, lit a candle and left the room. She wandered the halls, almost like a ghost herself, she thought wryly, as the flickering light cast everything into dramatic relief. If the ghosts of the past walked here, she would wail with them, and it would achieve as little as they did.
The thought made her laugh, a laugh that sounded on the edge of hysteria, and echoed strangely through the house. Disturbed, despite herself, she sought the comfort of the kitchen, and a cup of tea.
~~~~~
Bart woke early, to the sound of the wind. Opening the shutters cautiously, her saw the world laid out in tones of silver, where the wind blew the light dusting of powdery snow against things. For a moment, he remembered the bitterness of war in France and Spain, the cold of winter and the subtle horror of the beauty of new snow hiding the rotting dead on the battlefield. He pushed the image away, reminding himself, as always, that he was home. No more battlefields.
There was nothing beneath the snow outside except clean earth and grass. The sky was clear, so a ride would be possible. His heart beat faster at the thought. His rides with Lady Sybilla had become the thing he lived for, if he were truly honest with himself. All else seemed less real than those moments, high on the ridge, with only themselves and the horses. He dreamed of her, more and more often, a delicious reprieve from dreams of death and destruction, yet still torture in its own way.
For they were no more real than the battlefields he found himself upon, when loud noises startled him. He could no more expect them to ever become real, than he could expect to prevent his reaction to loud noises.
But… the thought made him pause. He had, it was true, had less attacks of late. Admittedly, there had also been less unexpected loud noises, as the renovation works had moved on from major roof work and demolition of walls, and was now more about the placement of new materials, and the interior refinement. It would be some time before things were finished – the greatest time needed was in the final details.
Yes… there had still been some noises, and some attacks. They had been… somehow less. Less all encompassing. He had been, the last few times, almost immediately aware that what he felt and saw was not real. It had made it easier to come back to himself.
And each time, he had imagined her arms around him, as they had been when the tree limb falling at Gallowbridge House had triggered him so strongly. Her arms were worth coming back for.
He could not, now, imagine livi
ng without seeing her often. He knew that the time would come, when she would finish writing her book, and she would leave, would go back to the warm loving care of her family, at Meltonbrook Chase. If only it were possible, he would wish her to stay here for ever, in his warm loving care. He stopped again, staring unseeing out the window as the rising sun changed the ghostly light of dawn into a delicate splendour, painting what had been a silver landscape gold.
He stood, replaying his own thoughts.
‘In his warm loving care’- his thoughts had betrayed him, for as he replayed it, he knew it to be true.
He loved her.
Oh, the joy, and oh, the pain. He could not expect so wonderful a woman to live her whole life with a broken man, to be looked upon pityingly by the ton, to be held apart from social interaction by his inability to cope. The safest, by far the safest thing to do, would be simply not to see her, not to be tempted. But he could not face that, nor the hurt he knew it would inflict on her, if he suddenly stopped their rides, and other conversation.
He had no choice but to be strong. Pulling himself out of his tumultuous thoughts, he pulled the shutter to and shut the window, shivering a little as he finally noticed the cold that he had let into the room. Food first, and then the ride. They would have limited time today, for Titchworth was coming to discuss Gallowbridge House at twelve of the clock, so he needed to have returned and freshened up by then.
~~~~~
Sybilla looked at Gallowbridge House as they drove past, wondering what secrets it held inside it. It seemed forbidding, in the early light, with long shadows behind it. She shivered, the residue of the night’s dreams and upsets having left her out of sorts and sad.
That the landscape appeared overlaid with the ghosts of her ancestor’s hopeless love seemed bitterly appropriate.
Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 9