Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  “Christopher?”

  “There.” He pointed to a painting. His voice was bitter as he stated, “My only surviving child. Both of his siblings died young. Christopher is my sole heir.”

  She could see he resembled his father. Christopher had the same blond hair his father had had and his blue eyes. Although it was difficult to tell by looking only at a portrait, she guessed he was taller than his father, but less muscular than Owen must have been in his younger years. “He isn’t at Foxbridge?”

  “No, he prefers to spend his time in your native city. The entertainments he enjoys are not available so readily in the country.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course,” she responded to his sharp demand. “One need not live in London long to know what appeals to those with more money than sense.” Suddenly she realized she was criticizing her host’s son. “Oh, excuse me, Owen. That was not an appropriate thing to say.”

  He laughed humorlessly. “But true. Christopher isn’t a son I can rely on, but you are different. I know you will help me in the special ways only a lovely young lady can.”

  “I will try.” She was unsure what else to say. Because she and her father had shared a closeness she missed so much, she could not imagine hating her father.

  “I know you will.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You are a treasure, Sybill.”

  The sound of a throat clearing startled her. Her eyes rose to see the stiff face of Trevor regarding them like an avenging god. His recriminations were as loud as if he had shouted them, but he said only, “My lord, you requested to see me about the assignment of fields for the tenants. You are busy. I can return when you are done …”

  As his words faded off, Sybill felt as if what he had viewed was an unspeakable crime. She clenched her teeth to contain the anger hot within her. Owen was her friend. Her only friend, if the lack of other offers was a gauge.

  “Come in, Trevor,” urged Owen jovially. “Sybill and I have been discussing some business. We are done.”

  Trevor did not speak as he sat down on the edge of a chair next to hers. His offended sensibilities were liberally displayed across his face. From his black eyes hurled his rage as he stared at Sybill. Refusing to be intimidated, she returned his glare as viciously. If Mr. Breton was reading more into her friendship with Owen than existed, then that was his problem. She had done nothing wrong, and she would not allow him to make her feel guilty.

  “Yes,” she said icily. “I have agreed to help by supervising the household.”

  “My lord, do you think that is a good idea?” Trevor blurted. Quickly he sought words to cover his hasty question. “I mean, the staff barely knows Miss Hampton.”

  Owen shrugged. The concerns of the staff were not his worry. Trevor must overcome his prejudices against Sybill. The best way to insure that was to have them work side by side. “I have asked Sybill, and she has agreed. That is all that needs to be said. Except that you will help her learn the ways we do things here.”

  “Of course.” It was a begrudging response, but it satisfied his employer. Trevor risked a surreptitious glance at the young woman. The expression on her face astounded him. Unguarded for the moment, it showed her distress.

  Trevor leaned back in his chair as he listened to Lord Foxbridge and watched Sybill carefully. He would have guessed she was delighted to achieve such power within the Cloister, but that did not show on her slender features. As much as he, she was uneasy with her sudden ascendancy to the role of the lady of Foxbridge Cloister.

  Sybill turned to catch the dark-haired man regarding her with a questioning look. A tremor passed through her, but what emotion it heralded she could not guess. She did not lower her eyes, for she did not want to mark herself as guilty of any crime.

  While Owen continued to speak, they stared at one another. Whether it was a second or an hour they remained so, she would never know. A message she could not comprehend flashed from his ebony eyes to her confused ones. When Trevor turned to his employer, she was unsure what had taken place, but she knew it marked a change. Whether for the better or for something dreadful, she did not know. That scared her more than she had ever been.

  Chapter Three

  The ride with Lord Foxbridge’s assistant started as poorly as Sybill had anticipated. Although he had set the schedule, Trevor was delayed in coming to the stable. His snide comments about having to work for an honest living were meant to offend, but she refused to lose her temper.

  By the time he arrived, the stableman had selected a horse for her. It was a lovely bay with a mane as black as Trevor’s eyes. When she made that comparison, she became irate at herself. She did not want to think of that boor, who wore his working clothes. It was strange to see a man in long pantaloons in a home this grand. Only the poorest peasants could not afford the latest style of breeches.

  Turning her back on his discourteous explanations, she allowed the groom to aid her onto her mount. There were many reasons she did not want Trevor’s help, but she concentrated on how much he irritated her. It kept other, dangerous thoughts from her head.

  His horse was waiting, so, within seconds, Trevor signaled to follow. As they rode out of the barn, he did not race away as she half-expected. Instead he held his horse to a walk to let her acquaint herself with her unfamiliar mount.

  Trevor watched as she guided the horse along the road to the gate. She had been modest when she said she could manage a horse. The ease with which she sat in the sidesaddle showed she would do well during their ride. He could not help admiring how the sunshine glinted off her curls. Her riding habit was as well made and costly as the gown she had worn on her arrival. Alfred Hampton had dressed his daughter to resemble the beautiful plaything he intended her to be.

  He noted the somber color of the outfit and wondered if she had owned it before she assumed mourning. Soon she would put aside her sorrowful clothes, whether she wished it or not. Lord Foxbridge had confirmed that this morning. The lord already was speaking of hiring a seamstress and urging Sybill to choose a color which suited her better than black.

  Turning his thoughts to the ride, he mapped out the route which would rid him of her as quickly as possible. Sure she would not be unseated, he urged his horse to a faster pace. He led her toward the west, where the greatest danger awaited the unwary. It did not take them long to reach the cliffs overlooking the ocean. Far below their feet, the foaming waves crashed against the broken wall of stone. Sybill reined in her horse and stared at the great turquoise expanse jeweled by the sun.

  “How lovely!” she breathed.

  “It is, but it can be very unforgiving. If you are wise, you will not come here alone during your visit.”

  Her attention was drawn from the waves beating themselves into oblivion on the cliffs to the equally unswayable features of Trevor Breton. Softly she said, “I’m not here for a visit. This is now my home, no matter how much it displeases you.” And me, she added silently. She did not want to voice that, for she should not be ungrateful for what Owen had done for her.

  “Your home? How possessive you have become!”

  “The facts are as they are. I am here. This is my home. Before you say what you are thinking, I will tell you that you are correct. I have no place else to go.” She smiled coolly. “It would seem you are going to have to endure my company.”

  He looked at the ocean and continued, “Don’t come near the cliffs unless you have someone with you who knows the ways to the beach.”

  “I will remember that.”

  “I trust you will, Miss Hampton. To forget could mean your death. The Atlantic does not play games at the edges of Foxbridge Cloister.”

  She pulled on the reins to bring her horse around, next to Trevor’s. “You have made your warning very clear. You need not repeat it over and over as if I were a child. Shall we go on?”

  “Certainly. I wouldn’t want to delay the royal progress of the newest lady of F
oxbridge Cloister.”

  Sybill paused. Indigo fire blazed in her eyes as she snapped, “Why don’t you just come out and say what you mean?”

  He smiled ingratiatingly, but the expression did not cover his true emotions. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “You don’t? This morning at breakfast, Owen told me—”

  “Owen, is it?” he demanded harshly. “You’re wasting no time inveigling your way into Foxbridge Cloister.”

  “Trevor, what is wrong? Why do you hate me so much?”

  The rigidity of his stance on his horse bespoke his fury. “Miss Hampton, I think you are mistaken.”

  Putting her hand on his arm, she did not pull it away when he glared at her. “You hate that Owen is kind to me. I can tell you consider him a fool to allow me into his house. You have hinted more than once I am far from a lady. I have done nothing to hurt you. Tell me the truth.”

  “You want the truth?” He brushed off her hand. “I’m surprised you wish to hear the truth, Miss Hampton.”

  “It might be easier for you to call me Sybill.”

  “Easier for whom, Miss Hampton?”

  She recoiled from his rage. Seeking back through her memories, she tried to think of how she had offended him. She knew it was nothing she had said or done, for he hated her before she arrived. “Very well, Mr. Breton. I’m waiting to hear what you want to say.”

  “All I have to say is that we have no need for Alfred Hampton’s daughter at Foxbridge Cloister.” When she looked at him, puzzled by his words, he smiled humorlessly. “Do you need it spelled out for you? Very well. I do not want to see you do to Owen Wythe what your father did to the many ladies of his acquaintance. If you want to practice your trade, there must be many brothels in London willing to accept a pretty woman like you.”

  The sound of her hand impacting on his face was loud on the winter-quiet marsh. He took her arm and twisted her to face him. He was startled to see tears glistening in her eyes. “What’s the problem, Miss Hampton? You wanted to hear the truth, didn’t you?”

  “I would listen if you would have the decency to speak it. Instead you take the opportunity of proffered friendship to continue to insult me and the memory of my father.” Her lips quivered as her hair blew about her face in the brisk breeze. “I’m sorry we can’t be friends, but you, Mr. Breton, are insufferable. Good day, sir.”

  He watched as she turned her horse and urged it to a fast pace back toward the Cloister. Breathing an oath, he did not follow. There was no use in continuing this confrontation. It was sure to recommence the next time they were alone. With Lord Foxbridge’s foolish gesture of making her his housekeeper, they would be thrown together far more than either of them wished.

  If Sybill had had her way, that ride would have been the end of her interaction with the estate manager. But her duties made it necessary for her to speak with him daily. She depended on the other servants to introduce her to the Cloister, yet there were some things only Trevor knew. It galled her to ask for his aid.

  Sybill was not late for the tour of the Cloister he arranged to give her during the second week after her arrival. They managed to get through the uncomfortable hour of checking the storerooms without another confrontation. She guarded each word she spoke and wondered if she would ever be able to escape from his overbearing presence.

  Owen’s interest in their stagnant relationship confused her. Continually he urged her to give his assistant one more chance to prove he was not the lout she considered him. If Trevor had not taken every meal with them, she would have hinted broadly to Owen that he must watch the eager ambition of his aide. She had seen the unscrupulous in London scratch their way to their goal. This dark-haired man possessed the same unswerving dedication to success they did. She did not trust him.

  No one else appeared to share her feelings. The servants acted as if they enjoyed working for him, and she was sure they did. He ruled the household with a gentle, but firm hand. Working with Marshall, he dealt out the chores fairly and arranged for recompense that was surprisingly generous.

  Kate was humming a light tune when Sybill entered her rooms after the tour. Although she longed to ask how anyone could be so contented at the Cloister, she refrained. She could have been happy here also, except for Trevor. Kicking off her slippers, she slumped in a chair. Her wide skirts belled around her as she stared sightlessly at the wall. If her maid spoke, she did not hear. She was lost in misery.

  Why did she have to think of Trevor Breton all the time? Perhaps if she admitted that she admired his flashing, black eyes and the smile she saw too seldom, she could convince herself to erase him from her mind. When she sparred with him, she was awash with a mixture of feelings. She abhorred his officious manner, but she longed to think of a way to see him smile at her as he did at the others in the Cloister.

  Her thoughts of Trevor were far too complicated. She imagined him being anxious to see her instead of loathing her. When his fingers brushed hers, she experienced a pulse of some unknown sensation which inflamed her. In her fury, she could ignore it. In her rooms, her reaction demanded to be acknowledged.

  Erupting from the chair, she stormed about the room. She could not sit when so many unhappy, conflicting emotions ruled her. A knock halted her fierce pacing. “Who is it?” she called.

  The muffled sound from the far side of the door brought a sigh of resignation. She did not want to see anyone. Kate had vanished as she did far too often lately. She opened the door and gasped, “Trevor! What are you doing here?”

  “This is my home also,” he replied with the reasonable attitude she was discovering hid his strongest anger.

  “I know that. What I meant is what are you doing here?”

  “I forgot to tell you earlier that Lord Foxbridge has told me I must complete your introduction to the estate.” He did not have to add that only Owen Wythe’s insistence made him agree to escort her again.

  “When?”

  “Whenever it is convenient for you, Miss Hampton.”

  Biting her lip, she thought for a moment. “I have to meet with Marshall in an hour. Perhaps in the early part of the afternoon.”

  “Yes, miss. That will be fine.”

  When he turned to go, he was shocked to feel her hand on his sleeve. He brushed it off, but she said, “Trevor, wait a minute.”

  He spun to face her. His copy of a court obeisance would have been comical if the situation had been less serious. It was simply insulting. “Excuse me, Miss Hampton. Do I need your permission to leave the royal presence?”

  “If you want to trade insults, we can,” she replied quietly. “However, the circumstances being as they are, I thought it might be better to call a truce. We are going to be spending time together. I don’t think we need to be clawing at each other’s throats all the time.”

  Silently he regarded her, and she knew her rational request would be ignored. This hatred Trevor had for her blinded him. Obstinately, she refused to lower her eyes and glared back at him. She had done all she could. More than once in the past fortnight, she had made overtures to end this disagreement so they could live in harmony.

  “Very well,” she said finally. They could not stand there all day and fire sparks at each other with their eyes. She hated to be the one to speak first, but she was tired of arguing. “You have made your opinion of me obvious, sir. However, it is Owen’s request that you take me riding today.”

  “And because it is Lord Foxbridge’s request, I will honor it, Miss Hampton.”

  “Thank you,” she said coolly. “I will see you after midday at the stable. Good morning, sir.”

  Automatically he replied, “Good morning, Miss Hampton.” As she closed the door, his scowl deepened to cause his mustache to droop like frost-withered cornstalks. If nothing else, he had to respect her persistence in wooing him into believing her sham.

  Damn Lord Foxbridge’s stubborn nature! If he would stop trying to convince them to like each other, they could live wi
th only the inevitable interruption her presence would create. Owen Wythe was not prepared to let that happen. He wanted to be sure they were friends.

  Sybill stood with her back against the door and fumed. Never in her life had kind words been thrown back into her face so viciously. When a knock against the wood vibrated in her back, she turned and ripped the door open.

  “What do you want now—Oh!”

  The maid in the corridor took a step backward to protect herself from the rage on Miss Sybill’s face. When she heard the lady’s apology, she nodded quickly. Whatever disturbed Miss Sybill, it was not her. Clara was pleased, for she did not think she would like to face that wrath.

  With a bobbing curtsy, she said, “M’Lord Foxbridge asked me to remind you of an appointment with him this morning.”

  “This morning?” She sighed. “I forgot. Please tell him I will be down immediately. Never mind,” she added hastily. “I will go down now.”

  Sybill was surprised to see Owen waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His kind smile was not dimmed by her tardy arrival. He took her hand from the railing and drew her down the last few steps. “I am so sorry, Owen. I was busy with Trevor, and I—”

  “Nonsense,” he said with a laugh. An odd expression crossed his face as he asked, “How does he treat you?”

  She dampened her lips before she replied. Until she was sure of her accusation, she could not speak it. She had asked subtle questions and found no sign of mismanagement. Although it irritated her that Trevor appeared to be as honestly interested in Owen’s welfare as he acted, she could not let her feelings convince her to speak foolishly. “He respects my knowledge of managing a household. I think we shall find it fairly comfortable to work together.” She smiled, trying to convince herself the words were not lies.

  Owen placed her hand on his velvet sleeve as he walked toward the door. “I’m glad to hear that, my dear Sybill. Trevor has been with me several years, and I have come to depend on his common sense. I hope he’ll be with me for many years, as you will be.”