“Tell me, Sybill, what is bothering you.”
With a faked smile, she said, “Forgive me. There is no problem.” That was the truth. There was no problem she could discuss with him. Perhaps sitting for the portrait would give her time to think through this increasingly confusing life. It could not obligate her more than she already was.
“Good. He will be here within the week. I have ordered a new gown for you to wear.”
“Another?” His generosity frightened her. This was not the treatment a penniless ward should receive. Any women in her destitute situation should expect nothing more than a garret room and hard labor to repay her guardian for the crumbs he granted her.
Owen stood. Placing his hand on her head, he tilted it back so she was forced to meet his eyes so far above hers. “It pleases me to see you lovely.”
“But it is so expensive.”
“It is my wealth.” His voice grew as cold as a wintry morning as he added, “It’s better I spend it instead of Christopher. You deserve this small gift more than he deserves the generous allowance he spends too quickly in London.”
The mention of his son gave her hope. Rising, she said, excitedly, “Recall Christopher to Foxbridge Cloister. Have the painter do a portrait of him, Owen.”
Shaking his head, he put his hands on her shoulders. “No, I don’t want Christopher here. He is a disruptive influence at best. I have learned it is wiser to leave him in the city where he can get into trouble that does not impact on the harvest.”
“But, Owen—” she began.
“Not another word, my dear. I must ride into Foxbridge to tend to a matter which Trevor feels I should investigate. Have a pleasant day.”
“Thank you,” she said automatically.
Sybill stared after him as he left. The open hatred for his son startled her. She had known Owen was unhappy with his heir’s lifestyle, but had guessed only dissenting opinions kept them apart. Every day she was discovering Owen Wythe differed from the man she thought him to be.
She went to the desk and unstopped the ink bottle. Picking up a quill and a piece of paper, she penned a quick note. She closed it with the heavy seal Trevor used for all correspondence leaving the Cloister. Any break in it would be instantly obvious. In the hallway, she reached for the bellpull. She paused as she saw Clara Pekins emerging from the drawing room with a dusting cloth in her hands.
“Yes, miss?” the maid asked with a quick curtsy.
“This message is for Mr. Breton. Do you know where he is?”
“Aye, miss.”
“Good. Deliver it to him at once.” Sybill’s voice softened to her normal tones as she added, “Thank you, Clara.”
“Aye, miss.” Her lively eyes followed the lady as she went to the front door. Something was bothering Miss Sybill this morning. Clara shrugged. She could not imagine what could be wrong for the young woman. Everything seemed to be working out perfectly. All the staff whispered among themselves that soon Lord Foxbridge would ask her to forsake her position as his housekeeper to become his wife.
That was not what they had expected several months ago. Then many had guessed she and Trevor would be the ones the fates had brought together. As Lord Foxbridge was making it more and more clear he wanted Miss Sybill himself, all agreed Trevor was wise to step aside. There would be other women, but never again would he be lucky enough to rise so quickly to his prestigious position.
Shoving aside her thoughts, Clara went to seek the estate manager. Miss Sybill had been emphatic she wanted this delivered right away. Whatever it contained must be very important. The dark-haired lady was not given to exaggerating her need for an errand to be done quickly.
Sybill called to Goldenrod as she went down the steep stairs at the main entrance. Her unhappiness disappeared as she saw the dog bounding across the driveway. Bending down, she buried her face in his thick fur. In the two months since Trevor had brought him from the Beckwiths’, he had grown from a handful to his present height where his head nearly reached her waist.
“Do you want to go for a walk, boy?” she asked. She laughed as he recognized the word and began to race along the road to the gate. When she did not move immediately, four large paws skidded to a stop and loped back to her with puppyish awkwardness.
Realizing she had forgotten her bonnet, she hesitated. Then she shook her head. The note asked Trevor to meet her within an hour. She would not become too burnished by the sun in that amount of time. Not hurrying, she wandered through the grass by the road. It was difficult for her to believe that it had been months since she first drove through the gates she could see through the early summer haze. Her life in London seemed to belong to another, so separated was she from ones she once had counted as friends.
She had new friends and new interests. Spinning on her toes, she walked backward as she viewed the magnificent elevation of Foxbridge Cloister. The sun glinted off the windows, turning them gold. If it was not for this wonderful building, she would not have found the joy she hid so deeply in her heart.
Foxbridge Cloister was Trevor’s. His handiwork could be seen on every bit of it. In all but name, he ruled as lord of this estate. She enjoyed seeing him coming home from a long day’s labor with the tenant farmers in the fields. Although his clothes were stained with sweat and his face blackened from the many times he had wiped it with dirt-coated hands, she could tell he was ecstatic to be a part of yet another growing season at the Cloister. On one of their infrequent rides, Trevor had shown her a newly planted plot. As he explained how they sowed the seeds and would watch over the burgeoning plants, she saw his joy with the land. This emotion was something Owen could not share, for he accepted the estate as his due, not as a precious treasure.
With a sigh, she dropped to a hummock. As her fingers ruffled the thick grass, she stared at the house. Every time she thought of Owen, she was forced to face her future. She had Trevor’s promise that he would see she did not marry against her will, but she wondered what he could do. Owen owned both of them, her more than Trevor. Although she did not want to think of it, she knew Trevor could find employment elsewhere. He was not the prisoner she was. If she fled, her only choice would be the life she had turned her back upon when she came here. She did not want to open her bed to any man who could aid her pay her rent.
She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered despite the warmth of the summer morning. The thought of feeling any lips but Trevor’s on hers made her stomach heave with disgust. Somehow she had to find a way to live at the Cloister and be with the man who brightened her days and filled her dreams.
“Miss Sybill, good morning!”
In surprise, she looked up as she heard a bright voice. She scrambled to her feet. “Good morning, Nancy. How are you?”
“As fine as this day.” The redhead laughed with the simple joy of living. She tilted the basket over her arm. “I am bringing some extra eggs to Mrs. Dailey.”
“Good. I will walk with you.” Sybill brushed off her gown. “I have to talk to Mrs. Dailey about meals for next week.”
Nancy giggled lightly as Goldenrod leapt from the small hill to the road. His tail wagged so hard, it was nearly invisible. “This must be the puppy Mac sent over. My, how he has grown! What did you name him?”
“Goldenrod.” She patted the dog’s head and was rewarded with the eager lick of its tongue across her fingers.
“Goldenrod? What a fine name! I’ll have to tell Ma and Mac.”
As they walked along the dusty road, Nancy continued with her easy patter. She had news from the surrounding countryside. Already Sybill had learned that the lives of the ones within the Cloister and those on the tenant farms were tangled together like a handful of colored threads.
The sudden sound of hoofbeats warned them to look over their shoulders, but the rider was invisible beyond the bend. With a cry, Sybill shoved her friend to the side. The sharp sound of the eggs cracking against the ground was swallowed by the thunderous pounding of the horse bearing down on th
em. Sybill barely had time to leap aside before the horse reached where they had been standing. Tripping on the long hem of her skirt, she dropped to the ground at the edge of the road.
“What in the name of all that is holy are you doing?” came the sharp demand in a voice she recognized all too easily. “You girls must watch where you are going! If you are going to come on the estate, you—Oh, no! Sybill!”
She raised herself on one elbow to look into Owen’s frightened face. Before she could move farther, he had leapt from the horse and was kneeling beside her. His face was a strange shade of gray.
“Sybill, Sybill, my dear. Are you harmed? If I hurt you, I shall never forgive myself.”
Putting a comforting hand on his sleeve, she murmured, “I’m not hurt. Let me sit, please.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to risk yourself. You are so delicate.”
“I’m fine,” she repeated with a laugh. “Just dirty. Nancy, are you all right?” Although Owen had no interest in the other woman, she wanted to be certain her friend had not been more than scared.
Nancy looked ruefully at the scattered remains of the eggs which stained her dark skirt. “I’m fine, but Ma’ll be angry.”
“Don’t worry. You will be paid for the eggs,” she reassured the young woman quickly. “Thank you,” she added as Owen put his arm around her shoulders and aided her to her feet. She groaned as she saw the rent across her favorite petticoats. Even when it was repaired, the tear would be visible. “It’s ruined!”
Owen tilted her chin so he could see her face. “Don’t be concerned about the damned dress! What are you doing out here walking along this road?”
Startled, she snapped, “I wasn’t aware I wasn’t to leave the house without your permission, Owen!”
“Of course. Forgive me,” he apologized hastily. “It’s just so upsetting that I could have caused you harm. Seeing you lying there reminded me of the day Edith was hurt.”
“Edith was hurt?”
He seemed astonished. “I thought you knew. She was thrown from her horse. For the next five years, she was bedridden. That is the main reason Christopher is our only surviving child. She could give me no more children after the accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nonsense. That was years ago. The one I am worried about now is you.”
Smiling, she patted his arm with the exact affection she used with Goldenrod. “Rest assured, I’m fine. I’m going to talk with Mrs. Dailey. I will see you at dinner, Owen.”
Although he started to remonstrate with her, she already had turned. Calling to her dog, she continued along the road. The Beckwith girl tagged along like a second pet. He gave a sigh of relief. If Sybill had been injured by his foolish, blind anger at the inadequacies of the farmers who rented land from him, all would be lost. He watched closely as she walked away. She appeared fine, but he would check with Kate later. He did not want her hurt. He wanted her to be able to play a part in the future he had designed for her.
He remounted. Setting the lathered horse to a more sedate pace, he waved at the two young women as he passed them on his way to the stable. As he saw Sybill’s friendly smile, he was sure what he wanted would be his soon.
Sybill hurried through her business with the cook. As she ran up the back stairs, she knew she was late for her meeting with Trevor. Already she had checked with Clara. The maid had delivered the note, so Trevor would be waiting.
Language which was considered inappropriate for a young lady of her social standing lingered on her lips when she discovered Kate was not in the suite. Today when she was in a hurry, she desperately wanted her maid to help her dress. She struggled with the many hooks and finally managed to redress in a clean gown. In her rush, she kicked aside the tattered clothes. Later she would listen to Kate’s chiding about taking better care of things given to her so generously by her guardian. She smiled as she thought of how Kate’s superior attitude would disappear when she told her maid exactly how the petticoats had been ripped.
Knowing she could not let anyone guess her destination, she walked sedately down the stairs. As she heard the sounds of furniture being moved in the drawing room, a wrenching pain twisted her middle. They were preparing for the nameless portraitist who would be painting her on Owen’s commission.
That thought gave speed to her feet as she turned down a seldom used corridor. Rumors held that the ancient parts of the Cloister were haunted by the spirits of the monks turned out by the edicts of King Henry VIII. That fear, which kept the household staff far from the dank corridors, served her well. She slipped through the door separating the monastery from the new sections. As she closed the thick door, she had entered a world which had vanished half a century before.
The hush would affect even a nonbeliever. As she moved silently along the dusty hallway, she easily imagined the brothers going about their daily devotions under the close watch of their abbot. She peered into the empty cells. Each one was a copy of its neighbor. Stone platforms had served as beds for the inmates. If there had been other furnishings in the rooms, they had disappeared along with the brothers evicted by a king desperate for a divorce and a son.
When she saw someone moving toward her, she had to bank her superstitious reaction that, indeed, the souls of the homeless monks did not rest easily. She laughed silently at her own foolishness as Trevor’s face came into view in a shaft of light slipping through one of the window slits.
“You wanted to talk to me, Sybill?”
“Yes.”
“All right, but not here in the sunlight.” He drew her into the shadows of the lonesome corridor. If they were discovered among the ancient cells, there would be trouble.
Opening one of the rough doors, he led her inside a cell which like the others contained only a stone bench. “Sit down. Then you can tell me why we are meeting here.” When she started to speak, he interrupted, “No, first tell me about the accident I heard you had.”
“It was nothing. Owen was riding very fast. He didn’t see Nancy Beckwith and me until he was upon us.”
He frowned. “He must be more cautious. Sometimes he acts as if he is the only one on this estate.”
“But who will tell him?” she asked reasonably.
“Aye, that is the problem.” His hand stroked her soft hair. “Talk to him, Sybill. He will listen to you. Perhaps simply coming so close to hurting you will reform him.”
She lowered her eyes. Everything in her life pivoted around Owen Wythe, and she hated it. She felt Trevor’s tender fingers caressing her as gently as he touched the young plants in the fields. Hot tears blurred her eyes. It should be so perfect, and it was all wrong. “Trevor, I had to talk to you because I don’t know who to trust any longer.”
“Trust?” His dark brows leaned toward each other. He straddled the bench so he could look directly at her. “I think you had better explain.”
“It sounds so silly.”
“Explain anyway.”
With a sigh, she nodded. “I have heard or seen nothing. It’s simply feelings I get.”
“Feelings? Sybill, no more mysteries. Speak plainly.”
“I am! When things are about to change, I get feelings.”
He slapped his hand on the cold surface. Clenching his teeth, he fought not to spit out the words he wished to say. He had too much work to do to waste time. If he was going to be alone with her, he could think of far better ways to pass the time than speaking in riddles. Seeing her shattered face, all desire for a sharp retort faded. Whatever Sybill sensed, she believed it with all her heart. Forcing himself to remain calm, he said, “Tell me about these ‘feelings’? Have you had them before?”
“All my life.”
“And?”
She rose. This was something she could not understand any more than he did. To explain it to another was like trying to describe color to a blind person. Impossible, for the words did not exist to convey the way she sometimes simply knew things she should not know. “Trevor, whe
n I feel like this, I have learned to listen. Something is lying in wait. I can feel it with the same surety you have when you know someone is watching you. It’s the sense of being invaded and somehow defiled by a thing beyond yourself.”
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly she faced him, but the width of the small room was between them. Feeling the isolation of these old chambers, she wrapped her arms around herself. “You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe. Does it matter, if you are sure these feelings are accurate?”
“Yes, it matters. I would like someone to understand. Father never did.” Her face brightened. “I know. I asked you how you knew when it was the right time to start the planting. And you said—”
He interrupted her, “I said that I simply knew, and I could explain it no more than that.” Reflectively he nodded. “I think I understand now, Sybill.”
“I’m glad.” She placed her hands in his and allowed him to draw her to the bench. When she sat on it, he leaned her head against his chest and enfolded her in his arms. For the first time, she felt safe.
“Tell me. I will listen to you.”
Quickly she told him of her unease with the situation in the Cloister. The steady alterations in the people was frightening. She spoke of Kate’s attitude of invulnerability and superiority compounded with hints of impending doom for Sybill. Her voice faded to silence as she ended, “And now there is this portrait.”
“So he has told you about that?”
“You knew?” Her eyes widened as she stared at him with recrimination. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what? That Lord Foxbridge has contacted Gerard Sievers to paint you? It isn’t such a horrible thing to be immortalized on canvas by such a fine painter.”
She frowned at his nonchalance. “Coupled with the fact that Owen is lying about the reasons why he wants this done, it’s very important.”
Caressing her hair, he murmured in her ear, “You knew before how he feels about you.”
“But what am I going to do? I don’t want to marry him.”
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