Kate did not remove her eyes from her charge as she sank onto the padded bench by the window. Miss Sybill’s words were correct to a point. Perhaps Lord Foxbridge did not possess her, but he controlled her life. If she had not learned that yet, the lesson could not be long in coming. Angrily she muttered, “I suppose this was Mr. Breton’s idea.”
“Trevor’s?” Sybill laughed lightly as she rose and brushed the cloying hair from her. Unlike the other servants, Kate refused to call the estate manager by his given name. “Why would Trevor be interested in something like this? He has more important matters to consider than how I wear my hair.”
“He is interested in all you do, Miss Sybill.”
She froze as she was reaching for her gown. With her hands fisted, she fought to contain her retort. She must not betray her feelings for Trevor. Even to her own ears, her chuckle sounded false. “Of course he’s interested in me. He is my friend.”
“Friend?”
As she heard the sarcasm, she spun to face Kate’s superior smile. Like a thick slug, Kate made Sybill’s skin crawl with disgust. “Yes, although I know you would love to have such a wonderful tidbit of gossip to share with your cronies in the kitchen, Trevor and I are not lovers. We are friends. Only friends.” Viciously, she snapped, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Kate.”
“Miss Sybill, I—”
“Oh, be quiet. Go away, Kate! Send Clara to help me dress.”
“Clara?” She laughed derisively. “That youngster doesn’t know anything about helping you dress.”
Sybill walked to the door and yanked it open. “I said, ‘Go!’ You have not been averse to making Clara do the rest of your chores. Send her in. Let her learn all your tasks, and I won’t have to see your fat face. Go, Kate!” she repeated as the woman stared at her. The rancor in her maid’s eyes astounded her. Since their arrival at the Cloister, Kate had become insolent, but this was the first time she had shown that she despised her mistress. A shiver raced along Sybill’s spine. She did not like making enemies, but it seemed she had one who shared her rooms. In a calmer voice, she said, “Don’t force me to make your banishment permanent, Kate.”
“It’s not you who makes such decisions.”
“I know Owen pays your wages, but do you think he will allow you to remain if I ask him to find you another position far from Foxbridge Cloister?” Only bravado strengthened Sybill’s voice. She did not know if Owen would let Kate go. He had done nothing the last time she talked to him.
Kate started to retort, but, clamping her lips closed, thought better of it. Hate burned inside her. Let Miss Sybill revel in her victory. Her time was coming, and she would discover exactly how the power in this house was distributed. With a bitten off “Good night,” Kate flounced out the door, the epitome of wounded dignity. When the door crashed closed, she knew Miss Sybill was not interested in her feelings. Just like her father she was. So blinded by love that she could not see the signs of her downfall. It was coming, but not soon enough for Kate.
Sybill fumed. How dare Kate take those pompous airs with her! Even if she and Trevor were lovers, that certainly was not Kate’s business. She was going to have to speak to Owen again, but she hated to do it. When she told him about this, it would sound silly. She sighed loudly. Perhaps it would be just as easy to continue to train Clara and ease Kate out of the position.
When the door opened, Clara peeked in myopically. “You sent for me, miss?”
Accustomed to the young woman’s guileless stare, Sybill smiled. “Yes. I was wondering if you would help me dress tonight.”
“Oh, miss, I would be delighted.” Chirping like a starling on a summer morning, she went about her duties with enthusiasm.
Astonished by the young woman’s innate skills, Sybill found her ire fading. She listened to Clara’s bits of innocent gossip and was pleased to hear of marriages and births instead of the sinister tales of illicit affairs and jealous battles that Kate preferred. While Clara hooked up the back of Sybill’s dress, she spoke in a shier voice of her own impending betrothal.
“To Mac Beckwith?” Surprise put a squeak in Sybill’s voice.
Instantly Clara was defensive of the man she loved. “I know what they say about the Beckwiths, that they are no good and lazy and always looking for trouble, but that isn’t true of Mac and his family. They—”
“I know.” Her soft words interrupted the maid. “I have met Mac, his sister, and Mrs. Beckwith several times. They are fine people.” She smiled. “And think how lucky you will be to have the shire midwife as your mother-in-law! When is the wedding?”
“Before Advent. We haven’t decided yet.”
“Will you be staying on at the Cloister?”
She dimpled. “If I may, miss.”
Sybill placed her brush on the table. Her eyes remained on the silver inlays of its handle. Whether she was Owen’s wife or not, she was the lady of Foxbridge Cloister. Only for dismissals did he want her to consult with him. She could hire whomever she wished. “Of course you may stay, Clara,” she said slowly. “Your work is always more than competent. We don’t want to lose you if you wish to stay.”
“I do.”
Smiling, Sybill watched the young woman place a clean chemise on the bed. If all problems could be solved as easily as this one, life would be such a joy. Mac Beckwith and Clara Pekins. It was an excellent match.
Her happy expression disappeared as she descended the stairs. She paused to look at the stained glass window, which continued to catch her eye each time she passed it. With no sunlight beyond it, the colors seemed tired. She shared that feeling, for she was exhausted from playing games for which she could not guess the rules. When she entered the dining room, she paused. A third man stood near Owen and Trevor. Forcing a smile back onto her face, she recognized him as the Reverend Sears. She had forgotten he was joining them. Something about a donation he expected from Foxbridge Cloister.
Some sense must have alerted Trevor. His eyes moved to capture hers. The surprise he felt at her changed appearance stabbed at her until a lazy smile spread across his face. It was impossible to keep her lips from leaping upward in response. She had told herself it did not matter what anyone thought, but she wanted Trevor to continue to admire her. His eager gaze caressed her enticingly. With difficulty, she kept herself from flinging her arms around him and offering her lips for his kisses. Since the day in the monk’s cell, they had not had a chance to be alone. Always as they talked or worked together, they were conscious of unseen eyes.
The other men noticed his expression and turned to see what he was looking at so avidly. Owen’s face creaked into a broad smile as he walked toward where she stood. She forced her eyes to her guardian’s face. “My dear Sybill, how lustrous you look tonight. So happy, so alive. You must be enjoying your time with M. Sievers. It is a delight to see your lovely hair loose.” He frowned slightly. “You shortened it. My dear, do you think that was wise?”
With a soft laugh, she said, “It will grow long again.” She was unconcerned with Owen’s opinion. Her heart had taken flight when Trevor smiled at her. That had been as intoxicating as his sweetest kiss.
“Yes, my lord,” came the ingratiating voice of the minister. “You know how young people are. They must follow the dictates of fashion. I understand this is how all the young, London ladies dress their hair.” He bowed toward her. “Good evening, Miss Hampton.”
“Good evening, Reverend. I’m so glad you could join us this evening.” She did not particularly like the clergyman, who could not be many inches taller than he was round. The buttons on his doublet appeared resigned to their task of keeping it closed, although it might be a worthless battle. His bald head was littered with the remains of his once black hair. With his hearty laugh and rigorously enforced Christianity, he was a force not to be ignored in their small community. She respected his position, but avoided his company whenever possible. Tonight she must endure it.
When she turned to greet Trevor, the lilt of happines
s was more pronounced in her voice. “Good evening, Trevor. Did the fieldwork go well?”
“It is progressing well.” With no more warmness than etiquette permitted, he raised her fingers to his lips. Hunger in his eyes holding hers brought an answering surge of yearning from deep within her. Although she was shocked Owen did not rush to interrupt them, she savored the brief moments she could have with Trevor. While she spoke of the day’s work, her heart sang with a joy she was sure he must hear echoed within him. Only when she heard the word she despised did she note what Owen was saying.
“Spanish?” she cried. “The Spanish have attacked?”
Condescendingly, Owen smiled. Taking her hand, he patted it in a motion meant to give her solace. It failed. She was not a child to be coddled. She had a right to know what was happening beyond Foxbridge Cloister. When she glared in Trevor’s direction, his shoulders lifted in the most minute shrug. Like her, he had not heard whatever was the latest news.
“The battle began on Sunday.”
She pulled her hand away from him and put it over her mouth as she fought to keep her stomach from embarrassing her. Swallowing roughly, she stared at the men. Trevor’s mouth was drawn down in a scowl, but both Owen and Reverend Sears were smiling broadly. Their expressions gave her the courage to ask the question she must. “Who won?”
“It is not conclusive as of the latest dispatch.” Owen recaptured her hand and drew her to him. His arm around her trembling shoulders did not ease her fear. “The news we have is sketchy, my dear, but don’t worry your pretty head with details of state.”
Twisting away, she cried, “Details of state? Is that all you consider this?”
“Now, now, Miss Hampton,” soothed the minister.
“Our queen’s enemies are attacking our coastline!” she continued as if she had not heard him. “If God’s will and the sea winds are against us, soon we will be bending our knee to a Spanish king. It isn’t just details of state which concern me. I don’t wish to see Elizabeth forced to marry a man she does not want or to see my country subservient to the Inquisition!”
Hands on her shoulders calmed her as she recognized Trevor’s loving touch. “Don’t, Sybill,” he said quietly. “The Cloister is far from where the English ships have been amassing at Plymouth.”
“Plymouth isn’t that far,” she protested.
“Not by land, but all of Wales and Cornwall sit between us and the Armada. ’Tis not us they want, but London. Toward the Channel and the Thames is where they will sail.”
Her face became even more pale. The house where she had lived for most of her life overlooked the reeking waters of the Thames. That house and its neighbors could become embroiled in the warfare and be razed by the mighty cannon of the Spanish ships.
“Listen to Mr. Breton,” urged the minister, trying to remain in the conversation. “Drake and his men will sink Philip’s ships to the bottom. Once they taste the wile of the English seamen, the Spanish will turn their tails and flee back to their home ports.”
“But what is happening?” she demanded. It was to Owen she turned. She knew he had the information she craved.
He smiled, but there was no humor on his uptilted lips. Going to the table, he picked up a goblet of the ruby wine awaiting them. He placed it in her quaking hand and closed her fingers around its stem. “Drink, Sybill. Calm yourself. The word out from Plymouth is mixed and confusing. There have been losses on both sides, but the English have struck strongly against the crescent formation of the Armada.”
“But they continue on toward the Channel?”
With a nod, he said, “That is so. Like the bull, they pay no attention to the bees swarming about its massive head. When they step into the hornets’ nest, they will pay the price of overconfidence. God is on our side. Don’t you agree, Garth?”
The reverend’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “Of course! Hasn’t He proven that with the bad luck which has befallen the Armada? One ship, the San Salvador, blowing up without a shot from the English. It must be a sign the hand of Providence is on our cause.”
“I hope the Spanish share your feeling, Reverend.” Trevor smiled as the blustery clergyman stared at him, his mouth working while he tried to think of a suitable response. “I’m afraid they feel this most holy crusade against their heretic cousins is blessed by God. It continually surprises me that men dare to call down blessings on the thing which is the bane of heaven. Did you ever think that perhaps both the English and the Spanish fight with the blessing of Satan?”
When he laughed, Sybill began to smile. Trust Trevor to put the grandiloquent Reverend Sears in his place. Beneath his good humor, she could hear his concern with the situation that might even now be over. News traveled so slowly to this part of England.
Owen chuckled, but the sound rang falsely. When he urged them to sit at the table, he changed the subject easily. During the serving of the food, he listened with apparent concern as the minister listed the needs of the parish.
Sybill said nothing as she pushed her food around her plate. At the earliest possible moment, she excused herself, saying only that she would leave the gentlemen to their wine and conversation. When Trevor tried to catch her eyes, she shook her head to let him know she did not dare to meet him.
As she climbed the stairs to her rooms, Sybill wondered if she should have accepted his invitation. He wanted to comfort her, and tonight she could use that strength he had in such abundance. If her world was coming to an end, she could think of no one she would rather spend the last hours with than Trevor.
Now she was alone. Fear sifted into her. All over England on this summer’s eve, people felt the same terror as they waited for the herald to announce the outcome of the battle which would change their lives, no matter who won.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Sybill’s panic seemed silly. As the sun rose to brighten the sky, her spirits lifted as well. That Kate did not come to help her dress was no surprise. After the argument, she would have been shocked to see her maid. Instead Clara answered the tinkling sound of the bell.
“How is the weather?” Sybill asked as she washed in the tepid water from the ewer.
“’Twill be very hot, Miss Sybill. I think it may storm later in the day. Mac said the cows were lying down at the base of the hills. Surely a sign of rain.”
“Mac?” She took the towel Clara held out. Thinking of how seldom she and Trevor could find time alone, she asked, wistfully, “When do you two get to see each other? You seem so busy here all the time. If you ever want time—”
Clara laughed easily, love adding music to her voice. “Don’t worry, Miss Sybill, but thank you. I’m glad you understand. It’s not surprising you do. What with you being courted, too.” She was drawing the dress Sybill wanted from the cupboard and did not see the other woman’s startled expression. “Of course, you don’t have to leave the Cloister to see the lord. So romantic it is!”
“Yes … yes, it is.” Sybill sat on the bench by the foot of her bed. Her brow striped with concentration. She did not want to think of Owen. She wanted to think of Trevor. More than that, she longed to be with Trevor. Looking up, she said, “Clara, I think I would like my riding clothes instead.”
“But, Miss Sybill, it’s so hot! You will cook in that dark wool. How about this one?” She reached into the cupboard and selected a gown much simpler than most of Sybill’s gowns. It was made of light paisley material which had come from India. The bolt had cost Owen dearly, for it was very rare. The rose-colored fabric had traveled on a Dutch ship around Africa and then across the Channel.
Sybill smiled and complimented Clara. The neckline dipped in a deep arc to reveal the lace at the top of her chemise. Like the butterfly wings it resembled, the skirt floated over her petticoats. Small sleeves ended at her elbows in a wide band of ribbons. As lovely as a summer morning, it was perfect.
The young woman flushed at the praise. “La, Miss Sybill! I only think which one I would choose. There is no great m
ystery.”
Dressing quickly and brushing her hair into place, Sybill raced down the stairs. As she walked past the drawing room, she paused guiltily. She had an appointment to pose as she did each day. She peeked into the room. As she expected, the painter was working. It was seldom that M. Sievers could be found anywhere but with his beloved box of colors.
“Excuse me?” she called tentatively.
His head snapped up, and he swore imaginatively in his native language as the painting rocked on its easel. Once he had righted it, he turned to see who had startled him. He smiled. “Mademoiselle Hampton, come in. Is it that late?” He regarded her with confusion. “But where is your blue gown?”
“Could we cancel this morning’s sitting, Monsieur?”
“Cancel? Mais oui, if you wish.” His smile returned. “It will give me a chance to mix the color for your dress. I am determined it will be exact.”
“If you wish to see the gown, ring for Clara. She will bring it down for you.”
He bowed his head toward her. “You are gracious as always, Mademoiselle. Shall I see you on the morrow?”
“I am planning on it.” She waved as she walked toward the door. The skip in her step was more appropriate to a child than the lady of Foxbridge Cloister.
Even the wind smelled hot as Sybill rode across the fields burdened with summer crops. She did not hurry her horse. Not only did she want to keep the animal from overheating, but she longed to savor the beauty of the day. Inland the scene shivered in the haze, but toward the sea, a breeze refreshed the air. Glancing with longing at the ceaselessly moving water, she smiled. She heard Trevor’s often repeated warning about the danger along the cliffs. She did not know how much longer she could resist its siren song luring her to explore the narrow beach.
She turned her back on temptation and rode toward where Trevor would be. Owen had kept her in the cool halls of the Cloister with him the past few days, and she was glad she had eluded his ever more vigilant eye. There was a freedom on horseback which had been missing in her life.
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