“Tell everyone the truth,” Sybill urged. Taking a sip of the cider, she smiled. “This is wonderful after the cold breeze from the sea.”
Despite their differences, the women talked easily. Sybill was struck immediately by their uncompromising love for this land. As wild and unpredictable as the marsh, the Beckwiths reflected the strength of this land.
A strange sound teased Sybill’s ears. It was a peeping noise barely audible above the women’s voices and the crackling of the flames on the hearth. “What is that?”
“Look over there!” Nancy ordered with a grin.
“Puppies!”
Nancy’s smile widened. “Aye, she had a litter over two fortnights ago.”
“May I?” asked Sybill, unable to hide her excitement.
Mrs. Beckwith seemed shocked anyone could be so thrilled over a mere batch of mutts, but nodded. “Of course, Miss Hampton.”
Crossing the room, Sybill squatted by the wooden box. Her full skirts ballooned around her as she saw a mass of rolling, crying puppies. Gingerly she put her hand out to them. The softness of their golden fur was wonderful against her fingers. Never had she seen such small creatures.
One pup, more agile than its siblings, crawled over the others to sniff her fingers. The tip of its startlingly pink, velvet tongue stroked her finger. Sybill’s smile widened as she picked it up and held it close to her face. It smelled of the wood chips which lined the box. As if its birdlike bones were fluid, it wiggled in her hands. She petted its narrow head and felt the warmth of its tongue against her again. A giggle bubbled from her lips as she gazed into its blind face.
“You are so sweet,” she murmured. A breath of cool air flowed into the room. She could see that the men were returning. “Look, Trevor!”
His reply was lost amid shouts of warning. As a gold blur exploded toward her, Sybill had no time to place the puppy in its box. She screamed and clutched it to her chest as she cowered against the floor. Confused images of bared, yellow teeth and glowing eyes flashed through her mind as she sought to protect her and the whining pup. A snarl was loud in her ear, and she heard her dress rip.
The pain of the dog’s teeth biting into her never came. She did not move as she heard shouts over the sound of growls and scratching nails on the wooden floor. The slamming door did not convince her to move. She felt gentle fingers on her shoulders as a soft command urged her to sit up straight.
“Trevor!” she gasped and stared into his concerned eyes. She leaned her face on his chest as she cuddled the golden ball of fur close to her. Shivers erupted across her with the rhythm of the wave against the shore.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. Hearing the puppy’s cheeps of distress, she placed it carefully into the box. Her trembling hands clenched in her lap. Softly she whispered, “Is it gone?”
“Mac is putting the dog back outside.” With his hand under her elbow, he aided her to her feet. She swayed, and he drew her close again. “Sit down.”
“Thank you,” she whispered as he helped her to a bench. A mug was pressed into her hands. She gulped heated cider gratefully. The heavy taste of ale cut through its sweetness, but she did not hesitate as she drank. Only when Mrs. Beckwith handed her a damp cloth did she realize her shaking hands had caused her to spill some on her skirt. Inwardly she moaned. She would return to Foxbridge Cloister with her riding habit torn and reeking of ale.
Mac rushed to her side to apologize for letting the dog in the house. “She is protective of her pups, Miss Hampton. She don’t mean you any harm.”
“I know,” she mumbled. “No,” she added, as Nancy was about to refill her tankard. “I must ride back to the Cloister. If I drink that, I will not be able to stay upright in the saddle.”
“Nonsense!”
“Excuse me?” she asked Trevor. He had not moved from her side. She had been aware of his eyes appraising the damage to her gown.
He patted her shoulder. “You wait here. I don’t want you riding after your scare. I will go and get the wagon.”
“Nonsense!” she retorted in exactly the same tone. “I can ride perfectly fine. I’m not hurt, and there’s no reason to treat me as if I have been injured gravely.”
Ignoring the Beckwiths, he stated, “Sybill, you must listen to reason.”
“You’re not my boss, Trevor Breton!” She stood and handed the chipped, wooden mug to Mrs. Beckwith. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’m sorry to cause such a ruckus. If you will excuse me, I am going home before it is dark.”
She walked to the door, then paused. When she was about to reach for the latch, she thought of the wolf-creature waiting on the other side. If she went out of the house, she was afraid she would be attacked.
“All right,” came a voice just above her ear. She turned to see the grim expression on Trevor’s face. “Let’s go home. Just promise me you will let me know if—”
“I am fine.” She put her hand on his arm to emphasize her words.
Unprepared for either his or her own reaction to her simple motion, she stared up into his face. It slowly altered from worry to another expression she knew matched the one on her face. She could not understand the strong sensations overwhelming her. “Trevor?”
Her soft voice brought him to his senses, and he recalled their audience. Thanking the Beckwiths and telling Mac he would get back to him with an answer soon, he took Sybill by the shoulders and steered her out of the cabin.
He kept the pace slow on their homeward trip. At the stable, he left both horses with the groom and insisted on helping her into the house. Only when they reached the stairs in the front hall did he speak to her. “Can you manage?”
“Of course. I told you, Trevor, I am fine.”
He nodded. “Aye, that you are, Sybill Hampton. That you are.”
Sybill watched openmouthed as he walked away along the hallway. She was tempted to run after him to ask him what he had meant, but she heard Kate’s shrill voice calling her. With a sigh, she raced up the stairs, prepared for her reprimand for ruining her gown.
Kate’s sharp tongue was one thing that had not changed, although too much else had today.
Chapter Four
Sybill spent the morning with Marshall, discussing the arrangements for the workmen to place the stained glass window into its special location on the landing of the main staircase. She did not want the house disrupted any more than necessary. Excitement could be felt throughout the Cloister. All winter long, the window had sat in its container in one of the cells of the old Cloister. Although it had been ordered from Italy more than a year before, war fever sweeping England created months of delay.
“Yes, Miss Sybill. It will be no problem to have the main rooms shut off.” Marshall smiled. “The maids will be grateful that they don’t have to worry about dust from the masons’ chisels sifting onto the furniture.”
“I want to make this easy for all …” When the front door opened, she glanced over her shoulder. Her words vanished as she began to smile brightly.
The butler looked from her to the man entering the hall. It did not surprise him to see an answering grin on Trevor’s face. Marshall had sensed the strong attraction between them from the beginning. That their sharp words had been transformed into such smiles, in the butler’s opinion, had been inevitable.
“Good morning, Trevor,” she called gaily. “How is the planting going?” She noted he held his hands behind his back. “What do you have hidden?”
He only chuckled and ordered, “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes. I have a surprise for you.”
Eagerly she obeyed. She laughed in delight as she held out her hands as he commanded. When a moist tongue licked her face, her eyes popped open.
“A puppy!” she cried. Trevor smiled as she took the small ball of wiggling fur and panting breath from him. The golden fur was a thick covering for the delicate body beneath it. When she held it up to her face, she chuckled as it
lapped her once more. “Trevor, she is so cute!”
“She is a he, Sybill.” He laughed at her delight. “I was riding from Foxbridge, and Mac Beckwith stopped me. He said the puppies were weaned and asked me if you wanted one.”
She was examining the puppy carefully and saw the white fur on its narrow chest. “This is the one I held when we visited there. I can’t believe Mac remembered.”
“It would be difficult for any of us to forget how charmed you were.” He winked at the butler who had a smile as bright as the sunshine swirling through the doorway. “What will you name him?”
Without hesitation, she answered, “Goldenrod.”
“That’s a fancy name for such a creature.”
“It’s a perfect name!” she retorted.
Placing the puppy on the floor, she clapped her hands as Goldenrod’s wobbly feet slipped out from beneath him as he raced about exploring everything. When the puppy began to run toward the back of the foyer, Sybill chased him. She paused for a moment and came back to the two men.
It was hard to know who was the most shocked when Sybill stood on tiptoe and kissed Trevor on the cheek. “Thank you. Thank you, and thank Mac for me.” With a wave, she went to prevent the dog from finding its way into trouble.
Marshall closed the door before turning to Trevor. His friend’s dark eyes were following the young woman as she played with her new pet. In the weeks since the two had stopped snapping at each other, they had not been able to hide their strong, mutual attraction. Throughout the servants’ quarters, whispered bets were being taken that Miss Sybill would choose the estate manager over the lord. Silently the butler considered placing his money on Trevor. He had never seen the young woman this happy.
“Mac must be taken with Miss Sybill,” he said to fill the silence. “That good-for-nothing family never does anything for anyone unless there’s a copper in it for them.”
Trevor nodded. Only reluctantly did he drag his gaze from Sybill. It shocked him that she would thank him in such a manner, although he could not help smiling at the thought of her slim fingers on his arm as she pressed her sweet lips to his cheek. “’Twas my thought also. Then I remembered how the family welcomed her as if she was a long lost Beckwith. From the moment she met Mac, he became another man.”
“She seems to have that effect on every man.” Marshall lowered his voice. “Does Miss Sybill know?”
“Of Lord Foxbridge’s infatuation with her?” He could not pretend not to understand. All the Cloister must know, for little was hidden from the household. Only Sybill, who had not known Lord Foxbridge well before her arrival, would be unable to see the changes.
Yet she was aware of approaching trouble. The Beckwiths were not the only ones who considered Sybill the successor to the title of Lady Foxbridge. Just a week ago, she had asked him to inform the tenants that she had been invited solely because her father had been Lord Foxbridge’s friend.
When he saw Marshall waiting for an answer, Trevor said, “She knows, but thinks she can deal with it. I hope she’s right. In many ways, she is yet a child.”
Marshall’s graying head turned at the sound of light laughter, but Sybill was out of earshot. “A beautiful one. I wish she had somewhere else to go.” His face paled as he realized what he had said to the lord’s closest companion. “Trevor, I did not mean—”
“I know what you mean, and I agree with you.” He sighed. “It’s wrong for her to be here, but she has no place other than Foxbridge Cloister to call home.” His lips tilted in a wry grin. “She tells me she had many offers.”
“I’m sure.”
Trevor laughed at the butler’s dry response. Since his arrival at the Cloister, Marshall had made him feel welcome. Of the many here, he knew he could trust this man. “Excuse me, Marshall. Lord Foxbridge expects me in the library. I am late as it is, but I wanted to stop at the Beckwiths’.”
The butler nodded, but unease roiled in his stomach. Perhaps this was far more serious than the settling of wagers among the staff. Trevor’s interest in pretty Miss Sybill conflicted with his employer’s. This could cause problems in the Cloister. Sternly he told himself not to be so fanciful. Nothing had been said to suggest there would be complications. If everyone ignored the still uncertain triangle, surely it would work itself out satisfactorily. Once he conceived that assertion, he spent an hour trying to convince himself of its veracity.
Time passed slowly for Trevor as he worked with Lord Foxbridge. Not that the lord complained about his performance. That happened so seldom it was always a shock when Lord Foxbridge found fault. Simply he wished he could seek out Sybill and watch her play with the puppy.
“Is this everything, Trevor?”
He picked up the last page of the correspondence the lord had signed. “Yes, m’lord. I will see it’s sent to London as soon as possible.”
Owen took a sip of the wine he had poured before sitting down to the long session of paperwork. “Good. I want to be sure the money from the shares in Drake’s voyages is properly reinvested. Shipping remains profitable, but I dread what might happen to the sea lanes if the Spanish attack.” He shook his head to dislodge the dreary thoughts which bothered every English citizen in the spring of 1588. In a brighter voice, he asked, “What do you think of plans to colonize the New World?”
“If they can find fools willing to attempt it, I’m sure they will try.” He was concentrating on rearranging the pages in proper order and paid little attention to the course of the conversation.
“How about you, Trevor? You are a young man. Would you risk the wilds of that new continent to establish a home for you and your family far from the political struggles between Gloriana and the king of Spain?”
He chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. I have no need for a home, for I have no family to share it with. Nor do I have the yearning to shorten the number of years granted me. I shall leave the New World to the rich men who have money to waste on these ventures.”
“What do you think of Sybill?”
“M’lord?” He was not sure how he should answer. He doubted if this was a continuation of the discussion about him marrying and striking out for the New World.
“It’s a simple enough question. What do you think of her? You have been working with her for some time. I know you two are good friends, for she delights in your conversation at the dinner table.” He paused significantly, but when Trevor did not respond, he went on. “She doesn’t have the airs I would have expected from Alfred’s daughter. I wonder if she will be cooperative about what I brought her to Foxbridge Cloister to do.”
“And what is that?”
Reaching for the bottle, Owen refilled his goblet. “I’m surprised you haven’t guessed. It’s you who berates me so often about Christopher’s activities. I know you don’t approve of the life my son has chosen.”
“Does that have something to do with Sybill?” He nearly choked as he asked, “Do you plan to marry her to your son?” It was a wonderful solution for the impoverished daughter of a friend and a roguish son, and a twist he had not considered. Only with the utmost strength, Trevor kept his face blank.
“No, not for Christopher. I was thinking of her for another.” He lifted his cup in a silent tribute to the absent woman. “I can’t keep the title from Christopher, but the Cloister can go to whom I please. If I had someone else with the Wythe name, it would be so much easier to disinherit my useless son.”
Into Trevor’s mind came the vision of lovely Sybill thanking him for his gift. He had been correct. She was very much a child. An innocent child. If she was forced to become Lady Foxbridge, she would be miserable. The fire within her would be wasted on Owen Wythe. “Have you discussed this with Sybill?” he asked cautiously, although he knew the answer. If Lord Foxbridge had been this blunt with her, she would have been unable to hide her horror. “Does she know you wish to marry her?”
Something in his voice must have expressed his disquiet, but the lord translated it incorrectly. Anger contorte
d his features as he demanded, “You think I can’t convince that woman to marry me? She is Alfred Hampton’s daughter! There must be much of her father in her. If I explain to her what she will possess when I die, she will do anything I ask her.”
Wondering if he would say something to set the lord to rights over the disparity between Hampton and his daughter, Trevor began to answer, but was interrupted by a knock. When Lord Foxbridge bid the caller to enter, the door swung open to reveal Sybill.
Trevor’s dark eyes widened as he saw the sumptuous gown she was wearing. He had seen the bills from the seamstress and knew what this bejeweled dress decorated with silk and gold cost Lord Foxbridge: Not that the sight of Sybill dressed so was not worth every penny spent. He had not known the gowns were to be delivered today. He did not like to think of Sybill’s affections being bought. She did not deserve the reputation of her father.
When she came into the room, she was smiling at both men rising to their feet. Owen’s desire was bare on his face. Trevor knew Sybill saw it, for she hesitated slightly. Her smile dimmed. He recognized her renewed smile as the false one she had used so often in her first days at the Cloister.
His misgivings grew when the lord flashed him a victorious grin. Lord Foxbridge put his arms around the slender form accented by the bell shape of the dark purple skirt over its small farthingales. He wondered how her guardian could not see her distress as he touched her so intimately.
“Thank you, Owen, for this lovely dress. I have never had one so fine.” Her motion seemed almost natural as she stepped back from the arms, which released her reluctantly. Spinning about, she set the heavy material to swirling around her ankles. “What do you think?”
“It’s nearly as lovely as you, my dear.”
Sybill did not seem to notice the difference in how Lord Foxbridge addressed her. Until the last few days, she had been “my dear child.” Owen Wythe did not want to consider her his special child any longer. Because he was watching his employer, Trevor saw the narrowing of the man’s eyes as the young woman turned toward his assistant. Her face glowed with a happiness which had nothing to do with her new dress.
Sybill Page 6