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

  She looked up at the ridge in the distance, anticipating.

  Their rides had become the most important part of her day – a time when she could, at least a little, pretend that her guilt did not exist, and that nothing mattered but the two of them, and their comfortable companionship. If anyone had asked her, six months earlier, if she could find a gentleman, who was not one of her brothers, good company, she would most likely have laughed, saying that most she had met were definitely not able to be described so.

  Now, her opinion was different. This man, she found good company, always.

  They stopped in front of Dartworth Abbey, and alighted, careful on the slippery ground, where the light snow was frozen on the steps. The wind whipped her hair into tendrils, tugging at her pins, as if pulling her away towards the ridge. In the house, Miss Millpost shed her coat and hat, and hurried to stand by the fire in the parlour.

  “Why you want to ride, in weather like this, I really don’t know. I’m beginning to think that this whole district inspires madness in people. What with your ancestor’s complete folly for love, and the vicar and Mrs Westby obviously keeping secrets, and hidden crypts, and who knows what else! Perhaps its infectious and you’ve caught it.”

  Sybilla laughed, shaking her head.

  “Perhaps, or perhaps a good ride in the clean fresh air simply clears my head so that I can think to write.”

  “If that’s the case, then we had best be off to clear your head, for I’ve a need to be back earlier than usual today.”

  She turned, her face lit with a smile.

  He paused, his eyes warming as he looked at her, and she blushed, which was quite, quite unlike her.

  “Good morning, Lord Barton. I trust that you slept well?”

  “Well enough that a ride will clear my head of any lingering sleepiness. Shall we?”

  She took his arm, and they walked out to the stables, the wind blowing them across the stableyard as if in a hurry to run with them, along the ridge. Ghost whickered a greeting as she entered the stables, and the homely scent of horses and hay wrapped around her. Not long after, they were mounted, and climbing up towards the ridge, through a magical forest where snow crystals sparkled on branches, and tiny icicles dripped pure clear water as the day warmed. With him beside her, it was always magical, in some way.

  They rode, each thinking their own thoughts. She saw again, her brother, as he had been in her dream, and mourned the loss of her father and brother all over again. If she could go back, and change things… but she could not. The weight of her guilt was heavy on her shoulders. She was tempted, oh so tempted, to speak of it, for his silence allowed and invited confidences, but she could not. Fear froze her. She could not bear to lose this, for it was all she could ever expect to have of him.

  She watched him, sidelong, under her lashes, wondering about his thoughts. He looked sombre, as if his thoughts were no more pleasant than hers. She did not know what pain plagued him, but she ached to ease it. She said nothing, and they spent the entirety of the ride in silence, drifting with the wind, watching the light snow melt around them. There was comfort, even in his silence. As they turned down the hill to return to the Abbey, a single bird flew overhead, with a mournful cry, as if giving a voice to her heart.

  In the stableyard, as always, the reality of the world came back into sharp detail. She shook off her mournfulness, and could almost see Lord Barton doing the same. Once in the house, he apologised, leaving her with Miss Millpost, as he went to prepare for his meeting. She had not asked about it, and he had offered no information. She supposed it was to do with the renovations. The library door stood open, and, once Miss Millpost had shown her the state of her progress organising, they settled in some chairs by the fire, and called for tea, hoping that Lord Barton would be finished soon, so that they might politely take their leave of him, before going back to Greyscar Keep.

  As they sipped their tea, Sybilla heard a door open, and voices approach along the corridor, to stop not far from the door. Obviously, it was a last piece of conversation, before the man departed. She could not help but overhear.

  “We’re agreed then. As I’ve said, my sister is none too pleased about selling it, but its time she stopped seeing it as a monument to our mother and grandmother. You’d think that, working for the Barringtons all these years, she’d have got past worrying at the unfairness of things that happened two generations before her.”

  “I would hope so, Mr Titchworth.”

  “Never fear, my Lord, I’ll settle my sister’s concerns. Gallowbridge House is yours, as soon as the contracts are drawn up and payment made.”

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Titchworth. Let Tideswell know when you have the papers ready, if you would.”

  “I will, good day to you, my Lord.”

  Footsteps moved away, and the sound of the front door closing followed soon after.

  Sybilla sat motionless, her mind whirling. Titchworth… so that must be John, Genevieve’s son. But… a sister? The girl must have been born in another parish. They had been talking about Gallowbridge House – if she had heard aright, the man had just agreed to sell it to Lord Barton. She was glad, he would be pleased to have the place he had wanted, for his horse breeding plans.

  Something else about the conversation niggled at her – what had Titchworth said about his sister? ‘You’d think that, working for the Barringtons all these years, she’d have got past worrying at the unfairness of things that happened two generations before her.’ But… the only woman old enough to be his sister, who worked for them at Greyscar Keep was… Mrs Westby! Sybilla had never thought about any such possibility – and why would she, they had not even known that there was a sister.

  But… why had Mrs Westby not told her, when she had asked questions about Gallowbridge House, and the gravestone?

  If this was what she was hiding from them, it just didn’t make sense! Miss Millpost watched her, thinking hard herself.

  Footsteps approached.

  “I’m glad you’re still here. I have excellent news – I have just closed the agreement to purchase Gallowbridge House.”

  Sybilla flushed – really, she did that far too often around this man!

  “I… I must admit to shamelessly eavesdropping, as you spoke in the hallway. That was, I assume from what I heard, Mr John Titchworth?”

  “Yes, Genevieve’s son, from what I can tell. He’s about the right age, and how else would he be the owner of Gallowbridge House, with that name?”

  “He… he mentioned a sister. A sister who ‘worked for the Barringtons’. I have a strong suspicion about exactly who that is. And I am most unhappy about it. I believe that his sister is our Housekeeper at Greyscar Keep!”

  Miss Millpost made a remarkably unladylike snorting sound.

  “Indeed, and I will be giving the deceiving baggage a piece of my mind! Fancy her telling me that she knew very little about Gallowbridge House, or about that gravestone! I wonder what she thought to gain, by deceiving us like that?”

  “I have no idea Miss Millpost, but I intend to find out.”

  Lord Barton looked between them, smiling, and laughed.

  “I would not be your Housekeeper for anything, at this point, with your combined fury descending upon her. I will be most interested to hear what you discover, when you talk to her.”

  “I will be delighted to tell you.”

  “Lady Sybilla, I believe that we should set out immediately.”

  “Miss Millpost – I agree.”

  Lord Barton bowed and stepped aside as they moved towards the door.

  “Perhaps Ladies, you would prefer to wait inside, until I have your carriage brought around.”

  Sybilla laughed, suddenly seeing how it must look – the two of them positively champing at the bit, ready to go and demand answers from Mrs Westby.

  “Yes, perhaps that might be wise, my Lord!”

  ~~~~~

  By the time they reached Greyscar Keep, Sybi
lla was beginning to feel nervous about confronting Mrs Westby, but Miss Millpost was still full of righteous anger. She did not like being lied to. Sybilla went straight to her room, and changed out of her riding habit and her still mud tainted boots. Once dressed in a respectable day dress, with her hair repressed into its pins again, she felt more prepared for what was likely to be a difficult conversation. She went down to join Miss Millpost in the parlour, and they rang for Mrs Westby.

  “Yes, my Lady?”

  Mrs Westby had looked a little taken aback, as she entered the room to find Sybilla and Miss Millpost looking stern and serious. Sybilla decided to be blunt – very unladylike, but, in this case, by far the simplest approach.

  “Mrs Westby, I believe that you have lied to us.

  “My Lady… I” She floundered, her face flushing, and her eyes shifting about as if she wished nothing more than to disappear in that instant.

  “When we asked what you knew of the history of the district, and particularly of Gallowbridge House, you claimed to know very little – just the ghost stories that you told me, and a few minor things. It has come to my attention that you are in a position to have considerable knowledge of Gallowbridge House. So, I must ask – why did you lie to me? You have been employed by my family for many years, and have, to my knowledge, always behaved in an exemplary manner. So, I do not know why you would spoil that record, and lie to me now.”

  Mrs Westby wrung her hands together, looking distraught.

  “Come Mrs Westby, do not prevaricate – we know that you are the daughter of the Genevieve mentioned on the headstone in the graveyard at Gallowbridge House, and that your brother is the owner of Gallowbridge House. We know this, because he has just confirmed that he will sell it to Lord Barton Seddon. We were present at Dartworth Abbey when they came to an agreement on the matter.”

  At Miss Millpost’s words, Mrs Westby gave a gasp, and burst into tears. She stood there, wringing her hands in her skirt, the tears running down her face, and simply looked desolate. Sybilla abandoned her hard approach, and went to the woman.

  “Come, Mrs Westby, sit here on the couch, and settle yourself. Please tell me what this is all about.”

  Mrs Westby sat, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. After a few minutes, she started to speak, her words hesitant at first then stronger, full of emotion.

  “I wanted to keep the place. We’ve never really needed much, and John’s business was good, until now… so we kept it. After my grandmother died, my mother lived there, by herself, until she married. It’s been empty ever since. When I was little, my mother would tell us stories about it, about her mother too. Always sad, always about hopeless love. It made me quite sure that I wanted to have a happy marriage. But Gallowbridge House was a symbol of everything that my mother had faced, and was all that I have ever had of my grandmother. For after my grandfather left her for the last time, he never contacted her again. My mother never saw her father again, not after she was two years old.”

  Sybilla nodded, and simply sat, waiting for her to go on.

  “My mother never cleared her mother’s things out, nor much of her own things that she didn’t want to take with her, when she married. For her, Gallowbridge House was almost a shrine to her mother, a giant memory box. I came here to work when I was seventeen, and that was when it all became real to me. I’d go past Gallowbridge House every day, and I’d think about what my mother had said.”

  She wiped her eyes again and paused, staring blankly. Sybilla thought that she was remembering, revisiting things from years ago, trying to explain. Then her eyes snapped back to Sybilla’s and she continued.

  “My father was gone by then, and my mother followed him within that first year that I was here, taken by the consumption. And Gallowbridge House passed to John. But he always said it was ours, not just his. When he asked me what I wanted to do with it, I said leave it, like mother had – let it hold the memories. Once I married Westby, and came to live here, I’d go there sometimes, just to sit. It was strange – I felt like their ghosts were there with me, like I could feel them. It never felt right to go through their things, with them watching, like. So, I didn’t. I was young, and it all gave me the shivers. I never have gone through it. Suppose I’ll have to now. I’m sorry I lied to you, Lady Sybilla, Miss Millpost, but it was as if you were prying into my private life, into the only things I have of my grandmother and mother. I know that, in a way, you have as much right to see what’s there as I do, what with Stanford Barrington being your great grandfather but, I’m ashamed to admit, I resented you, and all of your family.”

  “Why, Mrs Westby? I don’t understand.”

  “Simple, my Lady. You have a title, and all that goes with it. If Stanford Barrington had not seen fit to disgrace my grandmother, then my mother would have been born a legitimate child of a noble house, would most likely have married a man of the nobility, and I would have been born into that too. Instead, here I am, working for the family that caused it all, as a Housekeeper. I’m silly, I suppose, for I’m happy with Westby, and the years here have been good – but somehow it still rankles.”

  “Oh! When you put it that way, I can see why you would feel badly about us. But I’m not so sure about it all being Stanford’s fault. I think that they truly did love each other – they just met when it was too late, when Ella was already married. I feel sorry for both of them.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Lady Sybilla, but how can we know?”

  “Well, we know a little bit, for Miss Millpost found a packet of letters – Ella’s letters to Stanford – would you like to read them?” Mrs Westby’s eyes had gone round when Sybilla mentioned the letters, and she nodded, gasping a little at the thought. “I’ll just get them.”

  Miss Millpost and Mrs Westby sat in silence, waiting until Sybilla returned. The wind howled around the house, as if crying for Ella, and Genevieve, and even for Mrs Westby.

  “Here you are. I’ve put them in date order.”

  Mrs Westby took the bundle of letters, handling them reverently.

  “I’ll read them a little later, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to get my head around the idea of selling Gallowbridge House. I know John is only doing it because he really needs to – his business has not done so well since the end of the war changed what happens with trade. I knew that it might come to this – he warned me, and I don’t resent him for it – he’s helped us often enough over the years. But still… it will be hard.”

  “Do you think, Mrs Westby, that amongst Ella’s and Genevieve’s things at Gallowbridge House, we might find Stanford’s letters to Ella? For it is obvious in Ella’s letters that he wrote to her, that this was an ongoing correspondence.”

  Mrs Westby gasped at the idea, and looked up smiling.

  “I do hope so, Lady Sybilla. Indeed, the hope of that gives me courage for going through her things.”

  “Might I help you do so, Mrs Westby?”

  “Why yes, I think, now, that I would like that.”

  ~~~~~

  Two days later, they stood on the doorstep of Gallowbridge House, and Mrs Westby – Isabel, as they now knew her to be called, produced a key, and ceremoniously opened the door. It was like stepping back in time. Nothing had been changed in the thirty-seven years since Genevieve had left the house.

  Sybilla could see why Mrs Westby had felt as if Ella and Genevieve’s ghosts haunted the house. It was eerie, everything as it had been, with just a little dust on it all, as if the occupants might walk through a door at any moment.

  She pushed those thoughts aside – they were here to sort through things, to see what more they could learn of Ella and Stanford’s relationship, and to help Mrs Westby choose what things she wished to keep, and what she wished to dispose of, one way or another.

  Still, she found herself whispering, and intentionally walking carefully, almost as if any noise would disturb someone sleeping. As the day wore on, she became more relaxed, and they delighted in the discoveries – hats
and dresses many years out of fashion, beautiful jewellery, ribbons and lace, which had lain untouched all these years, a small library full of books – of poetry, novels, and tales of adventure – and hidden amongst them, journals and sketchbooks.

  The sketchbooks were a delight – beautiful renderings of local scenes, of pictures of the house as it was then, with the trees smaller, and the garden full of lowers, and of detailed drawings of birds, horses, flowers. It seemed that Ella had been a talented artist. By late in the day, they had not, however, found any sign of Stanford’s letters.

  They sat in the kitchen of Gallowbridge House, nibbling at the remains of the picnic basket of food that they had brought with them, and trying to think of places where Ella may have hidden Stanford’s letters away. They concluded that, if there were a hidden compartment somewhere, they had failed to find it, yet that seemed the only remaining possibility, for they had looked everywhere that could be reached, including the dust filled attic.

  All that remained was to select those items that Mrs Westby wished to keep, and set them aside, ready to be loaded into the carriage and taken back to Greyscar Keep with them. Checking each room again, they collected things – jewellery, a painting here and there, some small items of furniture, a vase or two.

  In Ella’s bedroom, Mrs Westby stood for a long time, considering the two paintings on the wall. One was rather conventional for a woman’s bedroom – a garden, with a riot of colourful flowers. The other was one that they suspected Ella herself had painted – a view up the valley to Greyscar Keep, seen from a location which must have been close to Gallowbridge House.

  Mrs Westby reached for the latter, gently lifting it down. The wires on the back of it caught on the hook, and she tugged a moment to release it. Once it was down, and lain carefully on the bed, she looked at the wall, worried that the hook might have pulled out and left damage. The hook was still in place, although a little crooked, but the wallpaper looked odd – apart from the darker patch where the painting had prevented it from fading, there was an unevenness in the pattern. Not much, but enough to notice when one looked closely.