Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Running her fingers along the taut muscles of his chest, Sybill murmured, “This is a very special day.”

  “I know. Six weeks we have been meeting here, my love. Six weeks of ecstasy.” He tweaked her nose. “Do you grow bored?”

  “Never!”

  “Nor do I.” Leaning her across him, he gazed up into her smiling face. “Every time we meet, I learn something new about the woman I love. Each day is a renewed pleasure.”

  “I know nothing of you, Trevor. You know so much of me.”

  He grinned roguishly as his fingers swept along her soft skin. “Aye, I know so much of you. I wish to know more.”

  “Stop it! Be serious!”

  “I am.” Rolling her back onto the soft pillows, he rose to look into her laughter-crinkled eyes. “I would love to know every bit of you more intimately than I know myself.”

  “Then there would be no more of these delicious surprises.” She tilted his lips across hers for an unhurried kiss. Her fingers remained on his cheek as he raised his head. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. My father was a clerk in Liverpool for Lord Foxbridge. When I finished my schooling, I worked with the shipping that makes that city famous. My two brothers also work in that field, but not for Lord Foxbridge. I have a sister who is wed, with a houseful of children.”

  She traced a path through his dark beard and across his chest. When she heard his sharp intake of breath, she felt the answering warmth deep within her. Before the waves of passion swept over her, she whispered, “But how did you become Owen’s estate manager? This is so different.”

  “As a lad, I did some work on farms around the city in exchange for fresh food for our table. He must have known of that, for he approached me nearly three years ago about the position. I have never regretted deciding to come to Foxbridge Cloister.” He smiled as his hand settled on the soft curve of her breast. “Especially now. If I had not come here, I would never have met you. Love me, my love.”

  Her response was lost beneath his mouth.

  Owen did not seem surprised to see Sybill standing in the morning sunshine at his door. “Come in.”

  She recalled that she had not been in this sitting room since her arrival. That night and the angry woman seemed to belong to another life. She could not imagine leaving Foxbridge Cloister and the love she had found. “Owen, Marshall told me you were feeling poorly. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Sit. Grace me with your charming company.” He pointed to a chair next to his own.

  Spreading her burgundy skirts, she did as he requested. Her eyebrows reached for each other as she noted the gray tint of his skin. When she saw the half empty bottle of wine beside the chair, her concern turned to anger. Without asking his permission, she reached for it.

  “Sybill!”

  She ignored his shock at her forthright actions. He watched in amazement as she tugged on the bellpull. Giving the bottle to the servant who answered it, she told the lad merely that the lord was finished with it.

  “Sybill, what are you doing?”

  “Taking care of you!” she retorted coolly. “I saw too many in London ruin their health with too much wine. If you are ill, I will have Mrs. Dailey prepare a posset for you.”

  He grimaced so violently at her suggestion that she laughed. “’Tis nothing. Just a bit of queasiness. Perhaps the same bad humor which has struck you this week.”

  As she was about to sit again, she froze halfway to the chair. “How—how—did you know I wasn’t feeling well?”

  “Very little stays unknown long in the Cloister. Kate was concerned about you and came to tell me. She assured me that she would let me know if it became serious enough to call in Dr. York.”

  Sybill wet her arid lips as she dropped into the chair. Trust Kate to note the slightest aberration in her normal behavior. That she had been suffering all week was something she had wanted no one to know until she could talk to someone who could help her. Kate was not that one. “I did not want you to worry,” she told him with a watery smile. “With the changeable weather, it’s a wonder all of us aren’t ill. I shall have your midday meal brought to you on a tray.”

  Owen took her hand in his and stroked it. “Sybill, you care for me so sweetly. Is it too much for an old man to think that a beautiful child like you could love him?”

  “Please, not now.” There was sorrow in her voice. “The love I have for you isn’t the kind you want.”

  Gently he relented. Instead he told her tales of the early years of the Wythes’ residency at Foxbridge Cloister. The stories of the construction of the massive new addition soon had her laughing as he recounted mishaps and the adventures he had as a young boy scrambling over the stones and hindering the workmen. For the first time, she learned of his younger brother, who had died of typhoid during a visit to London. It helped her understand why he was so disappointed in his wayward son. They were the only Wythes alive.

  Extracting a promise that he would rest, Sybill left Owen when his tray arrived. She bent to kiss the parchment dry skin of his forehead and tried to ignore the caress of his fingers on her waist. The touch sent a shiver of clammy sweat along her.

  Sybill did not urge her horse to a trot as she normally did when she exited the main gate. She was not in a hurry, for she had to make a stop before she met Trevor. It was an errand she dreaded, but she knew she had no choice. Already she had delayed and cost herself many sleepless hours in the darkest nadir of the night.

  The chickens clucked in the dooryard as she stopped before the crude cabin. As she had the first time, she noted the ornate lintel over the simple door. Her life had twisted in upon itself in ever more confusing, tightening circles since that day. Then she had come as a stranger and been welcomed as a friend. Today she needed that friendship like never before.

  Her hand paused as she raised it to knock. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes and whispered a fervent prayer. She wished she could still the trembles controlling her body as the waves ruled the shore. Even as she rapped on the wood, she was fighting the impulse to flee.

  “Miss Hampton, come in!” Mrs. Beckwith automatically offered her hospitality. The gray-haired woman had spoken to Miss Hampton when she saw her along the road. Often they had chatted easily of Goldenrod and the people they both knew. Except for the one time she had come with Trevor, the lass had not visited the Beckwith house.

  Sybill hesitated before stepping into the small cottage. Her voice quivered as she asked, “Are you alone?”

  “Aye. Mac is out in the fields, and Nancy has taken this week’s eggs and cheese to the market in Foxbridge.”

  Only when she heard that did Sybill enter. With her hands gripping her riding crop tightly, she wondered how she could ask the questions without compromising her secret. She sighed. There was no way. Perhaps if her mother had lived to teach here the things all maidens should know she would not have had to seek out this woman.

  “Can I get you a mug of cider?”

  “No, I have to meet—I am late—No, thank you.” Her jumbled words fell over one another as she fought to keep her lips from trembling.

  Mrs. Beckwith’s knowledgeable eyes widened further. Many lasses had come to ask for help. They all came for the same reason. Now it was the lord’s ward who appeared on her doorstep. There was no way to soften the question, so she did not hesitate. “You fear you are pregnant, Miss Hampton?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. Her eyes remained on the knots in the boards on the floor. Until she heard Mrs. Beckwith say the horrid truth aloud, she had tried to refute it. Now it was impossible.

  “And you wish to end that pregnancy?”

  “No!” she cried. She edged back toward the door, afraid of the evil she had heard hinted at by some of the women who visited her father’s house. There were whispered asides of old women living in the most disgusting sections of London, who would, for a large sum of gold, rid a woman of an embarrassment.

  “No, don
’t go.” Mrs. Beckwith smiled gently. She put her hand calmly on the stricken woman’s arm. “I don’t do such. I am a midwife, a bringer of life. If you were looking for other help, I could not do that for you.”

  When she motioned to the bench, Sybill sank onto it gratefully. In a barely audible voice, she answered the woman’s questions. She noticed immediately that Mrs. Beckwith did not ask who had fathered her child. That eased a bit of her guilt. She did not want to lie, but she could not tell the truth. It would mean Trevor’s banishment from Foxbridge Cloister.

  Mrs. Beckwith nodded sagely. “Aye, Miss Hampton, I would guess you are pregnant. Eat heavily, rest when you are tired, and send for me when the pains start.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you expect?” she asked with a laugh. “It’s God’s will when this child will be born. All you can do is allow it to grow healthy within you.”

  “Mrs. Beckwith?”

  “Yes?” she prompted when Sybill paused. “Ask me, child. Do not let your fears eat you up inside. That won’t be good for your child. Happiness is the best prescription for a strong child.”

  Softly she said, “My mother died when I was born. Will I?”

  “Childbed fever happens even in fine homes in London.” Proudly she added, “I have lost only one woman to that. Tend to yourself wisely and think of your baby constantly, and you will be fine.” She smiled as Sybill rose. “You will do fine, Miss Hampton. You are the perfect age for your first child. Have Lord Foxbridge send for me as soon as the pains start next springtime. With a first child, it’s impossible to guess how long it will take to birth it. Don’t worry. Simply because your mother died is no reason to suspect you will have trouble.”

  “Thank you.” As she put her hand on the latch, she heard Mrs. Beckwith call her name. “Yes?”

  “It will be easier for you if you are wed. Do you plan to marry your child’s father?”

  Honestly, she replied, “I don’t know. First I must tell him.”

  She was startled when the woman put her arms around her and squeezed her as she said reassuringly, “He’ll want to make his child legitimate. Tell him right away.”

  For a fearful moment, Sybill was afraid the woman knew exactly who the father was. Then she saw her own terror was blinding her to simple kindness. Mrs. Beckwith had been nonjudgmental all through the discussion. “I will think about that. Thank you again, Mrs. Beckwith.”

  “Of course, child. If you have any questions, come immediately.”

  The midwife stood in the doorway as she watched the slender woman remount her horse and turn away from Foxbridge Cloister. A pricking of curiosity teased her to wonder whom this pretty lady had chosen as her lover. There could be only one man. He would do the right thing and marry her before scandal could disrupt the whole shire.

  With a sigh, she closed her door. At least Miss Hampton had sense. She had come to see the midwife instead of fretting. That could endanger her baby. Gentle thoughts were the hallmark of a successful pregnancy. Lost in her musing, she never noticed the figure flitting through the hedgerow like a child fleeing from a nightmare.

  Sybill tried to compose her thoughts as she rode along the deserted marsh roads. By the time she reached the hut, she had been unable to decide how to tell Trevor the truth. Vowing to tell him soon, she dismounted.

  “My love,” murmured Trevor as he drew her into the warmth of the cabin. The day had turned chilly, so he had a fire snapping on the hearth. “I wondered if you were delayed at the Cloister this afternoon.”

  She stepped away to pull off her gloves and cape. “I had an errand to run before I could come here.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  Gently he turned her. His ebony eyes tried to reach past the unexpected barrier. “And what is wrong?”

  “Nothing. I simply have a headache this afternoon. It is nothing.”

  Taking her hands, he brought her to sit on the bed. He leaned her back on the pillows. Closing her eyes, she sighed with happiness as she relaxed into the softness. She knew the truth. There was nothing she could do to change the facts. A sense of peace wafted over her as she gazed up at Trevor’s concerned face. “I love you. Did you know that?”

  “I guessed.” He laughed at her suddenly lightened tone. “I love you, too. That is why I’m worried about you. You have been feeling poorly too much lately. Perhaps you should have Lord Foxbridge’s doctor look at you.”

  With a shiver, she shook her head. “That old toad? I would never let him touch me!”

  “Lord Foxbridge or Dr. York?”

  “Trevor!” she admonished, but she began to chuckle. Sitting, she threw her arms around him. As her laughter turned to tears, she clung to him.

  Unable to guess what disturbed her so deeply, he stroked her back and held her as she sobbed. He reclined on the wide bed and drew her down to rest next to him. Silently he listened to her sorrow. What was upsetting her was something she did not want to share. He was sure she would tell him when she was able. For now, he would have to be patient. That would not be easy.

  Her sharp breaths smoothed into gentle puffs of sleep. He knew that she had not been sleeping well lately. Beneath her paper-pale skin, he could see the dark circles of restlessness. He suspected the man they seldom mentioned as the source of her unhappiness. While she slept on his shoulder, which was dampened by her tears, he gazed at the thatched ceiling. Owen Wythe would never willingly let her go. That they had eluded his watchdogs this long amazed Trevor, but he did not question their good luck. To do so might bring it to an abrupt and tragic end. With a sigh, he closed his eyes as he rested his face in the soft nest of her hair. He loved her and would do everything he could to keep her with him.

  It seemed only seconds later that he awoke to find Sybill leaning over him, using a strand of her hair to tickle his nose. When he sneezed, she laughed. With a growl, he pressed her back into the mattress. His mouth teased hers as he reached for the buttons on her dress.

  “No,” she whispered regretfully. “Look at the shadows, Trevor. We have slept the afternoon away. I must get back. Owen is expecting me to bring his dinner tray this evening.”

  “Tray? Is he ill?” He was not surprised by the blossoming of hope. Guilt surged to bank that brief happiness. Lord Foxbridge had raised him from the low ranks of the clerks to run this estate. Instead of wishing the man dead, he should be grateful to him for bringing Foxbridge Cloister and, more importantly, Sybill Hampton into his life.

  “Just a bit. I told him to rest.”

  “Good. I hope the rest helped you, too.”

  She smiled and stroked his whisker-sharp cheek. “Being with you always helps me, my love. The hours we have together are too short.”

  “Sweetheart, I have something very important I have delayed talking about. I must tell you today.”

  “You tell me?” she gasped. She clamped her lips closed as she realized what she could reveal with such a stupid reaction.

  He gave her a queer glance, but said only, “Lord Foxbridge has business for me to attend to in London. I must leave next week. I should be home before the Christmastide.”

  “Trevor!” She sat and stared into his startled eyes. “No, you can’t go now!”

  “My love, I don’t want to leave you or these sweet hours behind me for the dirty streets of the city. I have no choice. Every year, after the harvest, I go to London. Although I am leaving a week or two earlier this year, it is nothing unusual.”

  She nodded. “Of course, you must go. Excuse me, I’m being silly.” She bent and kissed him before she stood. “I simply hate the thought of being without you.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed as she tied her cape around her and waved farewell. Each day he gave her five minutes before he followed. He did not want to compromise their secret needlessly before he had time to make the proper arrangements. Everything would fall into place within days after his return from London. With a sigh, he rose to bank the fire on the hearth. He
did not want to endanger the only place where he could hold Sybill and feel her soft skin so close. If only she would tell him what was bothering her …

  The door came crashing open, and he spun around. His eyes widened in astonishment. “Sybill, what—?”

  She did not answer as she closed the door quickly behind her. Slowly she opened it again a crack to peer out at the marsh.

  “Sweetheart, what is the matter?”

  Without turning, she said, “I know you don’t trust my feelings totally—”

  “I do trust them.”

  She ignored his interruption as she continued, “But I know someone was riding after me when I left here. Someone has been waiting to see where I was today.”

  “What did you see?” He drew her away from the door and shut it. Going to the shuttered windows, he tilted the slats slightly so he could see the road twisting into the distance.

  “A lone rider. A man I would guess. He had on a dark cape.” She shivered. “I felt as if Lucifer himself was spying on me. I know I shouldn’t have come back, but I didn’t know where else to go. I thought if he saw me come here as if I was not worried, he would—Oh, I don’t know!”

  “Perhaps it is just as well that I will be away for a while. If someone is curious enough to follow you, we will fool them. Come here alone for several days after I leave.”

  She smiled weakly. “You have a devious mind, Trevor Breton.”

  “Aye,” he said softly. Her jesting did not fool him, for he could see the glow of fear in her eyes.

  When he held his arms out to her, she went to him. He drew her close and held her trembling body against his. Not for a second did he doubt her words. Someone was curious as to where Miss Hampton was riding each afternoon. The time of their innocent love was ended.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Marshall, have you seen Trevor this morning?” The tall man smiled. He dismissed the housemaids he had been reprimanding for slack work. “Hello, Miss Sybill. Didn’t he tell you? He left at sunrise for London.”