Hunter considered, looking to Charles who nodded.
“There is no reason to keep it, within the plan for all of your estates. If you wish to give it away, there is nothing to stop you.”
“Then yes, Sybilla, I think that would be a reasonable thing to do. I do feel uncomfortable with the fact that Isabel has worked for us for seventeen years, when but for an accident of timing, she might have been part of our direct family. There is nothing we can do about the bare fact of her descent, but this would provide some closure to the whole sad story.”
Hunter smiled, pleased to see Sybilla happy with his words. This last two years she had been far too reserved.
“I feel rather foolish, in a way,” Charles shook his head at his own unthinking behaviour, “For I should have asked myself – ‘why would the journal have been locked in the box with that one property deed?’. But I did not. It seems obvious now, that Stanford hoped that we might, someday, find his daughter, and complete what he had set in motion. And so we shall.”
That decision made, they turned to talk of other matters, having exhausted discussing what Sybilla had been doing for the past months at Greyscar Keep – or at least exhausted discussion of what she was willing to tell them. They had all been impressed at her progress on her novel (she suspected that they had rather expected her to give up, and never finish it – she would not give up!), and a little disconcerted when she stated that she was going back to Greyscar Keep, once Twelfth Night was past, to finish the last of it. Had she really seemed so devoid of persistence to her siblings, in all that she had done before, that they would expect her to fail at this?
What she had not mentioned was her interactions with Lord Barton, beyond ‘we went riding at times’ and ‘he helped with investigating Ella and Genevieve, when I became intrigued’. She had told Hunter of Lord Barton’s pleasure in being away from his family, and a little of his plans for horse breeding, but she had intentionally not mentioned, at all, how close they had become. For to do so would open the door to conversations that she could not ever face. If she was not brave enough to bear Lord Barton’s probable reaction to the terrible truth about her, she was even less likely to allow her siblings to discover it – for how could they not revile her if they did? Yet she hated keeping secrets from them. She suspected that she would feel dirty and dishonest for the rest of her life, as well as guilty.
But no matter what choices she had made, Sybilla missed Lord Barton, every day. She missed their rides in the clean cold wind, she missed the gift of his silent acceptance, she missed his quiet courage and kindness. Her heart ached more, each day that they were apart. She tried to put the feeling aside, to be joyous for the Christmas season, here amongst her family and friends, but she feared that she failed, most of the time.
Her dreams were still haunted, her father and brother still accused her most nights, yet, occasionally, those dreams would fade, to be replaced by dreams of Lord Barton – dreams in which they kissed, as they had in the stables at Gallowbridge House. And then she would wake, to the cold harshness of the reality that she would always be alone.
At least, on Twelfth Night, she would see him again – he would be here, as would all of the Hounds for a few days. How she would go about talking to him here, amidst her family, she did not know – they knew her too well, and would see things that she did not wish them to see. But she would weather it, simply to be in his presence.
~~~~~
Ghost whickered as he led Templar from the stable, stretching her neck over the stall door – looking for Lady Sybilla. Once again, he wished that people could be as honest with their feelings as animals. He missed her too. Every day. There was an aching void in his life, where her brightness had been. He was not certain how he had come to love her so utterly, but he had. Her absence had proven that to him, thoroughly.
He still rode each day, but it was not the same.
The ridge was not the same, for she was not there to share the wind and the silence. Still, he rode there, taking the same path, stopping at the top to stare out across the valley to Greyscar Keep, wishing.
As Christmas approached, he steeled himself for the few days that he would spend at Hawkford Park, with his family, before escaping them to go to Meltonbrook Chase – to those whom he considered more family than family – the Hounds. And to Lady Sybilla. He was not sure how he would cope with seeing her, surrounded by a family that she loved, who accepted her for herself, when he so desperately wanted to be a part of her family – in the most intimate way possible.
The thought gave him pause, and he considered it. He knew how much he loved her, but he had not really thought past that until now. He had been too caught up in his own self-pity, too sure that he could never offer any woman himself, a broken and damaged man.
But the thought was there – were the path open for it, he would wish to marry her. Could it be possible? He did not know, but part of him was no longer so utterly certain that it could not.
The idea refused to leave him be, and over the week before he departed for Hawkford Park, he drove himself mad with thinking of it. He was beginning to think that, whatever she had hoped to forestall, when she had stopped him from speaking in the stables at Gallowbridge House, he needed to speak regardless. He had reached the stage where he needed to know, absolutely. To hear her rejection of him, in her own words, or to know that there was hope. And there was but one way to make that happen – to tell her, in the plainest language possible, how he felt about her, and accept her response, whatever it may be.
The thought of doing so was terrifying, yet freeing – doing so would release him from this eternal limbo, where hope was possible, but certainty unavailable. He went to Hawkford Park lighter of heart for having made the decision to speak to her, either at Meltonbrook Chase, or after, when, he hoped, she would return to Greyscar Keep to finish writing her novel.
Two things surprised him, at Hawkford Park – firstly, his family were more welcoming, and less overwhelming, than he had expected. And, secondly, when he stepped into the chaos that was his family, all in the same place at the same time, surrounded by sudden movement and sound, he found himself calm and steady, not on the verge of an attack. He realised, with a start, that he had not had an attack for many weeks – and the last few had been minor, compared to many in the past. Was it possible that they could continue to get better? He did not know, but he prayed most fervently that it was.
He actually enjoyed the time with his family, in the end – knowing that he now had a home of his own to retreat to changed things dramatically. But as the day came closer when he would depart for Meltonbrook Chase, he found himself filled with nervous anticipation, such as he had never felt before.
Chapter Fourteen
Twelfth Night was two days away – guests would begin to arrive tomorrow. Sybilla’s heart sang at the thought of seeing Lord Barton again, but she was deeply conflicted. In an attempt to clear her head, and prepare herself for the following day, she took Windwish out for a long ride. The day was crisp, after a light snowfall overnight. The woods of Meltonbrook Chase were beautiful, but they were manicured, tamed. They were not a high ridge in the wild wind. She added another layer of guilt to her load – guilt for being disloyal to her home, for wishing herself elsewhere. For wishing herself with someone else…
Tomorrow, he would be here. What was she going to do? Would she pretend that all was ordinary between them? Could she manage that? And did she want to? This few weeks away from him had made her acutely aware of how strongly her feelings were engaged. It had come to her, deep in the night, as she lay awake, after another dream in which her father’s ghost had screamed at her, that she was being very foolish.
She was so afraid of how Lord Barton might react, if she told him the terrible truth about her, that she had never once considered the possibility that he might not reject her. It seemed a slim possibility, truthfully, yet… it existed. What if, by never telling him, by never letting him know how she felt about him,
and doing him the honour of letting him choose how to react, she was depriving herself of the one thing that she most wanted in the world?
Looked at that way, she would be the biggest fool known to man if she did not gather up her courage and tell him. If he rejected her, as she expected, she would at least know the truth, and could begin to heal, instead of living in a perpetual twilight of uncertainty. If he did not reject her…
Reviewing the idea now, in the light of day, with only the snowy landscape for company, it still seemed clear. She had no choice but to find the courage, somehow, to tell him – everything.
~~~~~
A chaos of carriages filled the space in front of the imposing portico of Meltonbrook Chase. Somehow, the footmen, grooms and coachmen sorted it all out, getting the arrivals into the warmth of the house, their luggage to their allocated guest suites, and their horses and carriages to the stables with commendable speed. Inside, it was a continual round of greetings and introductions, as old friends met new wives or betrothed and their families, and finally settled to conversation in the warmth of the large parlour.
Sybilla and Alyse found themselves in a quieter corner of the room, discussing horses with Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford. Gerry, also one of the Hounds, was one of those whom Lord Barton hoped might invest in his horse breeding business.
Sybilla was a little surprised that Alyse was there – for, although she could converse quite intelligently on the subject of horses, it was not the passion for her that it had always been for Sybilla. Still, she was grateful for her presence, for her mind was in turmoil, waiting Lord Barton’s arrival, and her conversation consequentially rather less engaging than usual.
They had become involved in a debate over the best thoroughbred bloodlines – something at least interesting enough to engage Sybilla’s attention – when she became aware of someone standing at her side.
She looked up, expecting to find a footman, offering refreshments, and faltered mid-sentence. Lord Barton stood there. His eyes locked with hers and all else faded away.
For a moment, they might as well have been alone. He, as if with great effort, looked away first, releasing her from the sudden paralysis. She floundered, having lost all track of what she was saying.
Alyse, bless her, rescued her, by choosing to finish her sentence. Her sister’s eyes were curious, and Sybilla knew that later, Alyse would be asking questions.
“Lady Sybilla, Lady Alyse.” Lord Barton bowed, and drew up a chair. “And Gerry, good day to you all – do I detect a conversation on my favourite topic?”
“Bart – good to see you! You do indeed. These two lovely ladies and I were just debating the merits of the various thoroughbred bloodlines – a topic on which I am quite certain you have an opinion, given your plans for a breeding establishment.”
“I do, most definitely have an opinion. But I hesitate to deliver it, for fear that I become a boor, who lectures his companions.”
Sybilla felt his voice in her bones. Her eyes wanted to stray to him, continuously, to drink him in. He seemed so at ease, so sure of himself, whilst she was in turmoil. How did he manage it? Or… was he not affected at all by their proximity? Was she wrong in thinking that he cared for her? Sternly, she told herself not to be foolish – here he was, not five minutes in her company, and she was trying to determine his feelings! But the thought that he might not care terrified her anew – and fixed her intent to talk to him privately, as soon as possible – she could not live with this torture!
She forced herself to re-join the conversation, and to think of nothing else, until later. Finally, what felt like an eternity later, dinner was called, and she found herself led into the dining room on his arm. When she placed her hand upon him, she felt a quiver run through him, and knew, then, that he was not so unaffected as he appeared. Such a simple thing, to fill her with so much joy.
As dinner progressed, every moment of accidental touch – a brushing of an elbow, an adjustment of one’s position on the seat, which, in the crowded room, was not an uncommon occurrence – was sweet torture.
Conversation flowed, and, as the meal wore on, Lord Barton turned to her, smiling, and spoke in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper.
“Tomorrow morning, if there is a horse that I might borrow, will you join me to ride? I have missed our mornings ahorse. Once one becomes accustomed to sharing such moments, they do not have the same savour alone.”
Her breath caught, and she swallowed, working hard to make sure that her voice was calm, and even.
“I agree with that sentiment. I have missed our mornings too. I am sure that Hunter will be happy for you to ride one of his horses, perhaps even Nuage. You would know the horse, from your time in Spain?”
“Indeed I do – one of the best horses I have ever known.”
“Then I suggest that you ask Hunter, over port.”
“I will do so. I look forward to it.”
They did not speak of what time, or how, or where – it was something that they knew. They both rose early, and would see each other in the breakfast room, likely far before anyone else arose, given how likely very late conversation was this evening.
~~~~~
The snow was pristine, hiding the detail of the land, the early sun gilding the edges of things in the otherwise silvery landscape, as they rode away from the stables, a groom following at a distance.
The two dappled grey horses went along together, well acquainted and relaxed, blending into the landscape to any observer.
To Bart, everything seemed in sharp focus, crisp and new, as if the last few weeks without her had been blurred, and her presence had resolved that, bringing the world back to him. The silence was welcoming, open, a space into which words might fall, or not, with neither being a preference. This was his chance – he would find a place where they might stop, and dismount, to sit for a while, and he would speak.
The fear was still there, but his determination overrode it, and the sense of freedom that had been with him, ever since he had decided to tell her, to lay out his heart for her to take, or to trample as she wished, filled him, pushing the fear down. After some time, riding through the perfectly maintained parkland, they entered a wooded area, then emerged where the corner of an older fence still stood, in isolation, with a view across the river towards Viscount Chester’s lands.
“Shall we stop for a while, here, where there is a fence to perch upon?”
“Why not – the view is pleasant, and the old fence is likely to be the driest seat available.”
They dismounted, and tethered the horses.
They had no way of knowing, for Hunter had never mentioned it to his siblings, but they were now settling themselves upon the very piece of fence where Hunter had first come upon Nerissa in the woods, on just such a winter’s day as this.
Once seated, they looked at each other, and there was a moment of almost uncomfortable silence, so different from their usual companionable quiet.
“Lady Sybilla, I…” Bart cleared his throat, lost for words for a moment, “I have missed you, these past weeks. Missed you – not just our rides, but you. For I have… come to… to… to love you. I have felt that way for some time, but I have been afraid. Afraid to speak – for what could I offer you? I am, as you know, a broken man, damaged by the war in ways that are deep and long lasting. In addition, I am a second son – I have no peerage, or likelihood of one, for my father and older brother are hale and hearty. I have nothing to recommend me to a woman. But these last weeks without you have led me to realise that I needed to be honest, to tell you of my feelings, to hear your reaction. I cannot live with veiled hope and uncertainty any longer.”
Sybilla gasped, her hand going to her mouth, as if to hold the sound in. Her storm dark eyes met his, and filled with tears. There was an agony of sadness, and something more, in their depths. He took her hand, waiting.
“Lady Sybilla, will…”
Her voice cut him off, ragged, and raw.
“Please, say nothing more. I must tell you something too. I also have been afraid to speak, but I have realised that I must. This is… difficult…”
“As you wish.”
His fingers tightened around hers as she took in a shaky breath, before speaking again.
“Lord Barton, I also have strong feelings for you. But, before you say anything more about your feelings for me, there is something that I must tell you, something about me, something terrible. You must hear it, for, upon knowing it, you may change your feelings for me – indeed, it would be most reasonable and expected should you do so. I have been selfish, and have not spoken of this, although so many times I was tempted, but, in the end, I stopped myself, each time, for I did not wish to lose your company.”
As she spoke, tears trickled down her cheeks.
She ignored them, obviously forcing herself to go on.
He wanted to sweep her into his arms, to kiss the tears away, but he understood, instinctively, that he could not do so, yet.
She took a deep breath, and went on.
“I… am a terrible person. I… I caused my father and brother’s deaths.” The tears flowed faster, but she ignored them, the pain in her words so deep that he could hear it, as if she dragged them from her flesh. “The day that they died, Father, Mother and Richard were going to a Ball, some distance away. Alyse and I were deemed too young to attend, Charles was at one of our other estates, and Hunter was still in Spain. I was annoyed with everything that day. I wanted to go to the Ball – I was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and I didn’t see why I couldn’t. Added to that, I had asked, earlier in the day, if I might ride a new horse that Richard had bought. He had refused. I was so angry! I was, even then, a far better rider than him.”
She paused, staring away from him, deep in memory.
“I argued with Richard about it, accusing him of being a terrible rider, of being a bad brother, of spending unwisely, of being cruel to me – a whole litany of complaint. Perhaps some of it was justified, perhaps some wasn’t – I do not know, but from the perspective of now, the one thing that I am certain of, is that I was behaving like a petulant child, not a grown woman – which just proved that it was reasonable that I not attend the Ball. Of course, at the time, I did not see that. Richard lost his temper with me, completely. He had such a temper – I should have expected it, but for some reason, I was too stubborn to see. By the time that they had to leave for the Ball, he was completely overset, and stormed off to the carriage – they were taking the lighter carriage, because the large one was being repaired, and Richard had, earlier, decided to drive, for he enjoyed doing so. There was snow, and the roads were bad.”
Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 12