She reached out a finger to touch the uneven spot.
It moved beneath her fingers, and she gave a little squeak of startlement, drawing Sybilla to her side.
“What is it?”
“This spot on the wall, it moved.”
Sybilla leaned in to look, and poked at it with her fingers. There was a click, and a square of wall, which had been covered by the painting, popped out on one side. It was hinged. Sybilla caught at the edge with her fingertips, and eased it open. A cavity in the wall was revealed. Inside was a box – carved and gem encrusted, the sort of thing that a Lady might use to store jewellery, or keepsakes.
Sybilla lifted it out, and set it on the dresser. Mrs Westby stared at it.
“You open it, Mrs Westby.”
Mrs Westby reached out, and lifted the lid. Inside lay a bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon, and a necklace. The whole smelled of spices, for there were cloves scattered under the letters.
As Mrs Westby lifted the letters out, her eyes alight, Sybilla gasped. The necklace now fully revealed was beautiful – three large Indian Sapphires, surrounded by varying sizes of diamonds, which trailed off into narrow bands that formed the ‘chain’ that supported it. Sybilla had seen it before. Well, not it, exactly, but a representation of it. In Meltonbrook Chase, in the gallery, there was a painting of her great-great-great grandmother, wearing this exact necklace.
Stanford must have given it to Ella. Which explained why no-one in the Barrington family knew what had happened to it.
Sybilla was pleased, for that was another mystery solved. And it was a most appropriate keepsake for Mrs Westby to have. The Barringtons would not suffer for not having it – after all, it had been missing for nearly seventy years – but Mrs Westby would benefit greatly from it.
Of one accord, they settled onto the bed, and began to read the letters.
Chapter Twelve
The afternoon at Gallowbridge House changed many things – for everyone. Isabel Westby let go of her resentment of the Barringtons, for, having now read both Stanford and Ella’s letters, she could not deny that they had genuinely loved each other, and simply been destroyed by the circumstance of having met each other too late, when Ella was already married.
Sybilla, however, added another layer of guilt to that which she was already carrying. She could not help feel guilty, as a Barrington, about the fact that her great grandfather’s actions had left Genevieve fatherless and her children therefore not supported in any way. She resolved to do what she could to improve their circumstances.
The contracts had been drawn up, and soon, Lord Barton would be the owner of Gallowbridge House – which meant that he had much work ahead of him, to manage the restoration of the stables at Gallowbridge House, and then the refurbishment of the house itself.
And Miss Millpost now had another library to put in order.
It was November, and Christmas was approaching at a rapid rate. Sybilla found that she did not wish that to be so. Her morning rides with Lord Barton continued, for both of them were loath to lose the magic of those moments, even though the increasingly cold weather sometimes held them indoors.
Sometimes they talked as they rode, sometimes they spent the time in companionable silence – silence which was filled with the things they did not say – the things which Sybilla, at least, was still afraid to say. For her father and brother still haunted her dreams, although perhaps a little less since Isabel Westby had stopped telling her ghost stories of the district! And, whilst she had almost spoken of her guilt many times, somehow, she could not, in the end, raise the courage to lay her terrible guilt before Lord Barton. She judged herself, and found herself wanting – her courage far less than his.
Almost anything else, she could talk to him about – but still, she could not risk his regard by admitting her failings. But nor could she tell him how strong that regard was. For it had grown, despite her attempting to repress it. She had to admit to herself that she had come to love him. It was the height of foolishness, to love a man as good as he, when she hid such dark and terrible secrets – yet she had come to that. He had, somehow, just by being himself, wound himself about her heart. Perhaps there would be a time when she could talk of her guilt, and of her love. But that time had not yet arrived.
~~~~~
For four days, it had been fine, with little wind and soft winter sun. Everywhere dripped as snow melted.
Somehow, in that clear light, nothing about the valley seemed as laden with the ghosts of the past. When Lady Sybilla arrived at Dartworth Abbey, she was smiling, seeming lighter of heart than she had been for some time. Bart was glad – for he wished her happiness far more than his own.
“Good morning, my Lady. Shall we ride over to Gallowbridge House this morning? I would like to show you the progress they’ve made on my stables – I can be certain, now, that all should be ready for the Marquess’ return, even if that is closer to Christmas than mid-January. I had not realised how heavily the possibility of needing to return to Hawkford Park was weighing upon me, until I knew that I would not have to.”
“Good Morning, Lord Barton. That sounds like an excellent idea. I like the sense of positive change that you have already made – Gallowbridge House no longer looks so ominous or mournful when we drive past it.”
He offered her his arm, and, abandoning Miss Millpost to the library, they went straight to the stables. The horses were dancing with energy, keen to be out in the better weather, so they let them run a little, cantering fast across the fields towards Gallowbridge House. As always, everything seemed better from the back of a horse. If he could never have more of her than this time together riding, he would treasure every moment of it. For at these times, there was little chance of him being triggered into an attack – he was as close to whole as he could be.
At Gallowbridge House, the stables were almost complete – the roof restored, the stalls cleaned, painted, the hayloft dry and ready to store what hay they could find, at this time of year, and the feed room and tack rooms almost finished.
That morning, whilst there was no wind, the workmen were up on the roof of Gallowbridge House itself, ensuring that there were no chinks or cracks that might let rain or snow into the attics. They were alone in the stables, having left the horses with the groom outside.
“It will be beautiful, once it smells of hay and horses, as it should do.”
He smiled at her words, imagining it so.
“That will be soon. For once the house is made habitable, I will move myself here, with my horses, in preparation for Oliver’s return. And so that I can be, for the first time in my life, in a place that is of my own choosing.”
Lady Sybilla looked at him, those storm dark eyes troubled, but she said nothing, merely nodded. He wondered what thoughts were behind her expression. Eventually, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.
“A place of one’s own choosing… you have made me realise that I have never, really, had that. The closest that I have come, is Greyscar Keep, these last months – for I chose to come here to write. But that is not quite the same.”
“Ah… How is your writing progressing? Have you woven the crypt, and the eeriness of all of these old houses, into your gothic adventures?”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound, somewhat self-deprecating, not entirely happy.
“Not so well as I had hoped, although, yes, I have woven all of the character of these places into it, for the better, I think. There is still more to do, but I cannot complain too much.”
“And when it is done…? What will you do?”
She looked at him, and her eyes glittered, as if filled with unshed tears, then she looked away. Her voice, when she spoke, was steady, yet lacking in emotion, as if she held it that way by force.
“I will, I suppose, return to Meltonbrook Chase. I must be there, anyway, over the Christmas Season. If I have not finished writing before I go, then I will likely come back here after Twelfth Night, to write the rest. Although I am qu
ite certain that my mother will try to dissuade me. And then, once it is finally done… my mother will insist on me going to Town with them, and will drag me around to all of the Balls and soirees, with Alyse, desperately hoping to marry me off.”
The words were like a knife to his chest. However much he might tell himself that he could not ask any woman to take a broken man, the thought of her married to another was beyond painful. He must have made some sound, for she turned back to him, her expression concerned. He suspected that his face clearly revealed his feelings, in that instant when the pain of her words had left him unguarded.
She reached for him, and he for her, with no conscious thought of doing so. His arms went around her, and his lips found hers. All of his love for her rose up in him, demanding expression, and he deepened the kiss, unable to stop himself. She did not push him away, she did not hesitate, she met him, passion for passion. Time slowed, measured only by the beat of her heart, where she pressed against him. When their lips finally drew apart, she looked at him, a kind of despair in her eyes, then laid her head against his shoulder while he held her.
“I…”
She raised her head, and met his eyes, then lifted her hand and laid her finger across his lips, silencing him.
“Do not speak. Do not say words you may regret. There are so many things you do not know of me, things that I cannot bring myself to speak of. Better that neither of us put words to things, for words cannot be unsaid. There is comfort in touch, and in silence, even if this is the most that we have.”
He nodded, his heart torn in two. He could not imagine what she meant, except perhaps his worst fear – she would not allow him to declare his feelings, knowing that she would then have to hurt him by rejecting him. That must be it – for he could not imagine that there was anything terrible about her, which could not be spoken. She was being kind – but in a way which destroyed his dreams.
Still, he held her, could not bring himself to remove his arms, any more than she seemed able to remove hers from where they curled around him. Minutes passed, and he treasured them, imprinting upon his mind the feel of her in his arms, lest he never have the chance to hold her again. A sound from outside brought them back to themselves, and they moved apart, suddenly awkward, unsure.
He drew himself up, wrapping around himself the pride and determination that had carried him through this last year, through the doubt of his own sanity, and the judgement of his family, and offered her his arm. They walked back into the winter sun, as if nothing had changed. Perhaps nothing had, on the outside, but inside, his worst fears seemed to have been realised.
They mounted, and turned to the path up to the ridge, not needing words between them for that decision. Up there, the air was clear and crisp, the view clear into the distance, and everything sparkled, where the sun found the ice, and the melting water pooling on every surface.
It did not matter, he discovered. Whether she rejected him or not, she held his heart. He would honour her request, and not say the words, but he would not stop loving her. And he would take whatever time she would give him, be it riding or elsewhere.
He would hope – hope that, one day, she would be able to speak of it – that he might hear the rejection from her lips, and whatever else she held close, and too painful to speak of now. She was right – the words had power – but so did their lack. Until they were spoken, nothing was absolute.
As so often before, they rode side by side, so close that their knees brushed. She reached for his hand, and he took hers. Nothing was spoken. It was as if, in that moment, she did care. He did not understand. He chose to simply accept.
As always, as they approached the path down through the trees, they needed to split apart. Then, as she slid her fingers from his, she did turn to him, her eyes full of deep sorrow. He could not let it pass, even if it was the height of foolishness to ask.
“Tell me.”
“Perhaps, one day. That day is not today.”
The unshed tears glittered in her eyes again, and she turned away, riding down through the trees, back into the harsh reality of daily life. A bird spiralled through the clear sky above them, leaving only its mournful cry.
~~~~~
Sybilla swallowed her tears, forcing herself to accept reality. Whatever he might have said in the stables, had she let him speak, it did not matter. For she could not allow anything between them, if she could not be honest with him. And, if she were to be honest with him, he would turn away in horror. But she wanted it. She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life.
He had courage, and dignity, no matter what challenges he faced. He had been honest and open with her, about his own challenges in life – why could she not be as brave? Because she was flawed, it was that simple. But still, she was fool enough to treasure these moments, and want them, even though it only extended the pain.
It was not possible, she had discovered, to choose not to love, once one’s heart had committed itself.
Chapter Thirteen
“And that’s what we discovered – we have second cousins, born on the wrong side of the blanket, that we never knew existed – one of whom has been working for our family for years!” Hunter, Charles and Alyse gaped at Sybilla, shocked.
“It’s like something out of a novel – not the sort of thing you expect to discover in real life.” Alyse was obviously taken with the ‘romantic tragedy’ aspect of the whole story. Charles was thoughtful, saying nothing – but he had that expression which Sybilla recognised – the one that meant he was trying to remember something significant. Hunter looked a little sad.
“I am rather disappointed in our great grandfather – to have simply left his lover and their child, to marry and carry on the family line… I can understand his need for an heir, but to simply leave them, with nothing, and never see his daughter again… I cannot imagine how a man could do such a thing.”
“I have wondered, from the point where we had both Stanford and Ella’s letters, what really did happen after Stanford married. We have no information – no other letters, nothing to tell us if he ever thought of them, or tried to do anything to help. It seems that at least Titus Kentworthy had the decency to provide his estranged wife an allowance to live on – but not a large one, by everything that we have seen. Do you suppose that there might be anything of Stanford’s still here, at Meltonbrook Chase, which might give us some insight?”
Hunter shook his head.
“I’ve not found anything amongst our father’s papers from Stanford’s time. If it was there, then father either disposed of it, or stored it away somewhere – which means that we might never find it, even if such a thing exists.”
Charles leapt from his chair.
“I may actually have something, I knew that I’d seen something related to Stanford, and I just remembered where. I’ll get it from my office.”
They sat in silence, impatient, wondering what Charles had remembered. Charles could generally answer any question about Hunter’s estates, for he managed everything to do with them, and had for some years now, but Sybilla did not see how that might have presented an opportunity to find private letters of something else of Stanford’s – for surely Stanford would have left all of the estate things to an estate manager or a man of business?
After a few minutes, Charles returned. He was carrying an old looking leather-bound chest. He set it on the table before them, and opened it.
The key was on his keyring with all of the others – it was small, and rusted, its age obvious. Inside the box were some papers, and a small journal.
“It took me so long to remember, because I never read the whole journal. I just opened it, saw that it had been Stanford Barrington’s, from after he had inherited the title, and put it aside – for what impact could a personal journal written forty or fifty years ago have on estate management today? The papers are the deeds to the smallest of our estates – one Feltonbury Manor, which is not a great distance from Greyscar Keep. I don’t think
that anyone in the family except me has been there for many decades – there are two tenant farmers who keep the land productive. I check on them every so often, but they are good and honest men. The wife of one of them sees that the houses stay clean – there are two – the main manor and another, which may once have been a Dower House, and they put some time to caring for the gardens too.”
Sybilla reached out and picked up the journal.
“But why would the journal be in a box with those deeds? I hope that reading it will tell us.”
All eyes were on her as she read. Alyse fidgeted, then came to stand behind her, and read over her shoulder. Eventually she looked up.
“Oh, how sad! Once great grandmother died, Stanford went looking for what had happened to Ella, and Genevieve, for his wife could no longer be hurt by knowing of their existence. But Ella was dead, and Genevieve had married, and left the parish. The villagers and the vicar of the time closed ranks against him, and refused to tell him where she had gone.”
“So, they all blamed him? Even after thirty years or more?” Alyse seemed incredulous at the concept that a whole district would be united in that kind of attitude.
“It would seem so. But here is the interesting part. He bought Feltonbury Manor with the intention of giving it to Genevieve, an apology, thirty years too late, for not having been there. It would seem that he regretted completely cutting off contact.”
“Which would explain why no-one in the family has used the place – it was never bought with us in mind. I always thought it an odd property for us to own, with no particular purpose to recommend it.” Charles looked thoughtful again, and a little chagrined, now, that he had never read the journal. Sybilla looked at Hunter.
“Could we… could we give it to John and Isabel? Could we fulfil Stanford’s wishes, in the next generation? It is yours now, Hunter, so it is your decision.”
Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 11