Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Kate pounded on the door with her fist until a bleary eyed Sybill came to answer it. “My lady, there has been an accident.”

  Involuntarily, she whispered, “Trevor?” Her face became as gray as the stones of the Cloister. Had Owen discovered that Trevor knew the truth and was planning to leave Foxbridge Cloister? The maid caught her lady as she swayed. Gently she sat her on a chair in the antechamber. Pouring out a glass of wine, she pressed it into Sybill’s shaking fingers.

  “My lady, it is Lord Foxbridge. He—he—”

  “Owen!” Her head snapped up to regard the distraught face of the older woman. In a rush, color flooded back into Sybill’s face. She placed the untouched goblet on a nearby table. “Take me to him, Kate!”

  “My lady—”

  “Now!” she ordered emphatically. There was no time when it could have been worse for Owen to decide to wander about in a drunken stupor. Christopher would be thrilled to prove his father incapable of running Foxbridge Cloister. Then he could take over the management himself and live well until the estate was bankrupted.

  Fearfully, Kate quelled before her lady’s vehemence. That shocked Sybill. Since the wedding, Kate had paraded her victory before her. Owen must have made a bigger fool of himself than she had suspected. She hoped she could smooth over the situation quickly.

  The maid went toward the staircase, but did not step onto the first riser. Pointing over the ornate railing, she said, “There, my lady.”

  A hand over her mouth kept Sybill’s scream from erupting from her lips as she saw the crumpled mass at the bottom of the stone stairwell. Gathering up the full skirts of her dressing gown, she raced down the steps.

  A crowd of servants stood silently in a half circle at the base of the stairs. They were speaking in whispers and wringing their hands in despair. Most moved aside as she dropped to her knees beside the twisted man.

  “Owen!” she cried in terror. She reached to touch him, but pulled back before her fingers could touch his skin, which would be too cool.

  Her eyes were held by the waxen lifelessness of his features. She had seen death too many times, and she did not fail to recognize it. With her face in her hands, she began to weep. Owen Wythe had been a friend when she had no other. His reasons were less noble in the light of truth, but if she had not come to Foxbridge Cloister, her life would have been even more wretched. Although he had used her abominably, she could not hate him when he met such an ignoble ending.

  Hands on her shoulders drew her to her feet and away from the corpse. With a sob, she clung to the warm strength she knew was Trevor. “Sybill, I just heard. Don’t cry so hard. It will be all right.” His soft words of condolence were drowned by her weeping. More than any other, he knew what she had suffered. Trevor, too, would mourn for the man he had worked for during the past three years.

  “Sybill, it will be all right.” He tenderly brought her face up to look into his sorrowful eyes. Everything else in the hall disappeared as they silently reaffirmed his love. It would be their only protection against the horror. “He fell. He must have slipped.”

  “He was drinking tonight. He—he was very … upset.” She could not speak the truth even now. For too long she had been protecting the man who used her so cruelly.

  His fingers caressed her cheek. “Then it was simply an accident.”

  “Was it?” demanded an icy voice behind them. “Are you two grieving or celebrating my father’s death?”

  Sybill stepped away to meet the enraged eyes of Christopher Wythe. Coldly, she turned from the recrimination to give emotionless orders to the staff to take the body to their suite where it would lie in state. A boy was sent to inform Reverend Sears of the accident. They would need his services for the funeral. Only when she had completed those details did she look back at her stepson. “Christopher, I do not wish to discuss such when your father lies dead at our feet.”

  “You don’t seem averse to being touched by another man before your husband’s body is stiff in death.”

  Ignoring the gasps of the servants, she stated, “I should have guessed your perverted nature would mistake Trevor’s attempts to console me for lust!”

  “Sybill,” came the hushed warning in her ear. She glanced up at Trevor’s granite stern face. Instantly she understood. No matter what Christopher said or did, she must maintain her ladylike exterior.

  “Enough of all this,” she continued with forced serenity. “Christopher, if you would meet me in the library I would be glad to talk to you after I have had a chance to dress.” She gave him no opportunity to reply as she went on, “Trevor, I know you will deal competently with all that must be handled here. Excuse me.”

  The two men watched as she hurried past the servants carrying the remains of Owen Wythe. Her light footsteps were the loudest thing in the somber house. When the sound of the door closing on the second floor drifted to them, they regarded each other cautiously.

  “Breton, I think it would be a good idea if you attended as well.”

  Swallowing his dislike, he said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, my lord,” he corrected pompously.

  Trevor hid his frown. He could not expect Christopher Wythe to show any regret over his father’s death. The new Lord Foxbridge had made it no secret that he wanted the title and this magnificent house. All he said was, “Yes, my lord. Pardon me. I won’t make such an error again.”

  “I will guarantee that, Breton.” His smile was threatening. “Fifteen minutes should allow the dowager, Lady Foxbridge, time to don mourning. Be in the library then.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Hating the circumstance, he bowed his head to the man who was less deserving of the fine title than any man he knew.

  When he looked up, it was to see Wythe’s back as the man strode purposefully away. The new Lord Foxbridge was going to spread the good news to his companions so they could celebrate this fortunate turn of events. The party would ring through the halls of Foxbridge Cloister while Owen Wythe lay unmourned upstairs.

  The lord was dead. Long live the lord!

  Wythe and his leeches would suck Foxbridge Cloister dry, and would then go on to other games elsewhere without a backward glance. All Trevor had worked for during his tenure at the Cloister would be destroyed.

  Sybill redressed in the same ebony silk she had worn when she arrived at the Cloister. It fit tightly, but she managed to squeeze her changed form into it. Only her face was visible under the black veil of a widow. When Kate drew it from the wardrobe, she did not ask why the maid had stored it there. The answer was obvious. In her throat a lump swelled as she wondered if Owen had been aware that this was included among the gifts he had ordered from Mrs. Stoddard.

  With irritation, she adjusted the veil, which already had a tendency to slip toward her right ear. It came forward to her forehead and swept along her back to rest on the train of her gown. Even her chemise, which normally was of pale cream or gold, was ebony. Her blue eyes were the sole spots of color.

  Those sharp orbs narrowed as she saw the new Lord Foxbridge had not adopted mourning clothes. Despite the animosity between father and son, it was the greatest insult Christopher had ever given his father to continue wearing the bright colors he preferred. “My lord,” she said quietly as he came forward to greet her. When he put his hands on her shoulders, she turned her cheek so he could kiss it.

  “My Lady Foxbridge.” His wide hands framed her face and brought her mouth under his. As his arm swept around her to hold her close, she broke away.

  “How could you?” she cried, rubbing the back of her hand across her mouth. “Your father, my husband, is dead upstairs, and you cannot control your lechery long enough to honor him.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t act outraged, Sybill. You didn’t love Father. You desired only to be Lady Foxbridge. You have the title now, as I have the one I wanted.”

  “I don’t wish to hear—” She paused as she heard the door open. “Trevor?”

  The tall man did not look at her as he
bowed his head toward the self-satisfied Lord Foxbridge. “As you requested, my lord, I am here.” His eyes followed Sybill as she moved to sit on a chair. From her distressed expression, he guessed Christopher was not letting his father’s death halt his plans to seduce his stepmother.

  “Good. Despite your hatred of me, Breton, I decided to treat you with the dignity due your rank. That is why I asked you to the privacy of the library so only Lady Foxbridge would be a witness to these words.” He swaggered over to lean on the desk where Trevor had spent many hours working to make the Cloister financially sound. His eyes rested superiorly on the two as he made his announcement. “Breton, your services are no longer required. Before nightfall, I suggest you be off the estate. Because of your service to my father, I do not wish to have to contact the sheriff to have you removed forcibly.”

  “No!” cried Sybill. Realizing how she was betraying herself, she added quickly, “Christopher, you cannot ask him to leave before the funeral. What will people think?”

  “I don’t care what people think.”

  She tried a different tack. “You must give him a recommendation so he can find another position.”

  Rifling through the papers he could not understand, Christopher said sullenly, “I do as I please, Sybill. This is my house. Breton will leave as I order.”

  “I am mistress of this house. I say no!”

  Before the situation could escalate further, the man in question said quietly, “I will go as you order, my lord. My lady, it is no problem. I was set to give my resignation.”

  “Trevor, you can’t go! We need you at the Cloister to attend to financial matters.” Even now, she could not halt the charade which compromised their happiness.

  He shook his head. “No, it is better this way. I have no desire to work for Lord Foxbridge. I can return to Liverpool and find a position there in one of the shipbuilding yards.” Without another word, he left.

  Sybill felt tears in her eyes. Trevor could not mean to abandon her. How long would it be before he came to take her with him to their new home?

  Paying no attention to her distress, Christopher swept the top of the desk clean. He laughed triumphantly at the storm of papers fluttering about him. “I never thought this day would come.”

  “Can’t you pretend to feel something for the man who sired you?”

  “No. I will let you act bereaved, Sybill. You are doing such a fine job.” He sat on the desk. Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes roved along her eagerly. “Black is a lovely color for you, Mother. You must have been wearing that when you came to Foxbridge Cloister. Mourning for that trash Alfred Hampton.”

  When he paused, she waited for him to continue. He said nothing as he smiled as if he knew all her deepest secrets. At that thought, her hands wanted to cover her middle to hide her most important one. Owen had not told his son of the baby. To do so now could be fatal. Christopher would not accept lightly a contender to the wealth of Foxbridge Cloister. “You must excuse me,” she replied when she saw he would not pretend to feel what he could not. “With all the plans for the funeral, you will understand that I have much to do.”

  He called out her name before she reached the door. “I have not dismissed you, Mother. You forget I am Lord Foxbridge.”

  Opening the door, she was prepared to ignore him and his childish ways. A hand on her arm kept her from leaving. Fire flashed from her eyes as she stated coldly, “You overstep even the debauched etiquette of the Wythes, my lord.”

  “You cannot rule me as you ruled my father,” he warned.

  Her emotions hung on a fine thread as she tried to find her way through this time of sorrow and relief. Despite herself, she laughed. The idea was outrageous that she had ruled Owen when he had used them so barbarously. When he shook her and repeated his words, she realized he saw her amusement as condescension.

  “Let me go, Christopher. I have no desire to rule you. I have no desire to have anything to do with you.” When he hesitated, she added, “Let me go! I would not want to make a scene.”

  “You wouldn’t, wouldn’t you?” he snarled. “You could bring the servants running to assist you. Then you could try to prove that you rule the house. That would fit right in with your plans, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not especially.” Her honest answer shocked him, and he released her. “Good morning, my lord.”

  She refused to wait for an answer. All she wanted was to run to Trevor and feel his arms around her. She hated to think of him leaving her alone for even a moment while her enemies encircled her like ravens eager to pick at the remains of the dead. Grim resolve gripped her. She went back toward the library. She was not surprised to see that Christopher had vacated the room. He would be seeking a celebration with his friends and a bottle of wine.

  Sitting at the desk, she opened the top drawer. She ignored the scattered papers. Christopher could learn of his stupidity in dismissing Trevor only if she did not help him with the household work. With a sheet of the paper topped by the Foxbridge Cloister crest in front of her, she searched for the ink and a quill. Soon she was finished with the letter she had to write. There was not a word of truth in it, but it would end one difficult situation.

  She was smiling as she climbed the stairs. Dawn’s light filtered through the stained glass window. That startled her. It did not seem that the night could have passed so quickly. She paused as she was about to climb the last steps to the second floor.

  Tears awashed her eyes as she thought of those easy days before madness gripped the Cloister. Happy, joking voices resounded through her mind as she recalled the day this window had been set in place. Then she had thought Owen appreciated Trevor for his fine work on the estate. She had considered her guardian a friend who would never hurt her intentionally. It was sad to discover Owen Wythe had died for her long before today. When he revealed his plot to her, he had become the monster who inhabited her most vivid nightmares. She could not mourn the passing of that man.

  Slowly she went to the suite which would belong to Christopher. Once the funeral was over, she would have her things moved to another, less spacious suite. This room was for Lord Foxbridge. She avoided looking at the door of the larger bedroom. What was left of Owen Wythe awaited the arrival of his mourners to take him to the family plot on the lee side of the house. He could rest next to his Edith.

  “Kate, where are you?”

  The maid poked her head out of her small quarters. “Yes, my lady?” She shuffled across the floor.

  Sybill handed the rolled paper to Kate. “Here is your recommendation. Your services are no longer required.”

  “You are releasing me? After all I have done for you?”

  Sybill could not control her wrath. Viciously, she bit off the words, “For me? All you did was spy on me! I will not have you continue in the same practices.”

  “You just don’t want me to tell him what I know!”

  “And what do you know? That I was pregnant with Owen’s child before we were married. I doubt if anyone will be overly interested that our child will arrive before what would have been the ninth month anniversary. There are more important matters in this kingdom than that Lord Foxbridge’s last child was conceived out of wedlock.”

  Slyly the woman smiled. “Lord Foxbridge’s or another’s?”

  “Do you think if it belonged to someone else, the lord would have married me?” Sybill did not hesitate. More than ever, she must calculate each answer carefully and never act as if there might be a discoloration of truth in her words.

  Kate hesitated. She had not known where the lady went on the afternoons she disappeared from the Cloister. At first, she had been sure it was the handsome estate manager Miss Sybill met for a tryst. When Lord Foxbridge had asked her aid in letting him know if Miss Sybill showed signs of fruitfulness, she had changed her mind.

  “I will arrange for you to be taken back to London, if that is where you wish to go. With the false recommendation I have written, you should find employment quick
ly. I have included ten pounds to enable you to live until then.”

  “My lady—”

  She held up her hands and shook her head. “No, do not say it, Kate. Any apologies at this point will only add to my anger.”

  The maid watched as the woman turned as she heard a knock. At the door stood Clara Pekins. This simple lass was going to be her full-time replacement? Kate hid her smile. Within a week, Lady Foxbridge would be urging her to return.

  Clara glanced uneasily at the woman who was turning to go to her room. Remembering her manners, she dipped in a curtsy. “My lady, I am so sorry to hear your bereavement.”

  “Thank you.” Sybill had been ready to wave aside the words, but had to maintain appearances. Even her new maid knew that. Clara had witnessed too many loud disagreements to believe Lady Foxbridge would rue the passing of her husband.

  “You wanted me, my lady?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” She was pulled back into the present. “Clara, I would like you to work with me all the time. Kate has decided to live in London.”

  “Yes, my lady.” She understood what Lady Foxbridge did not have to say.

  “Your first duty will be to air out the room three doors along the corridor. As soon as the funeral is over, I will be sleeping there again.”

  Again she nodded. “Like it was before, my lady.”

  “Almost.” She sighed as she looked at the closed door to the master bedroom. “Almost.”

  Sybill had little time to worry about the past or future as she dealt with the details of the funeral. For a man of Owen Wythe’s peerage, an elaborate memorial service would be required. A steady parade of families from the tenant farms came to pay their respects to their departed lord. If the eyes were more interested in seeing the elegance of the massive house than in weeping for Lord Foxbridge, no one said anything.

  In her role as the bereaved widow, Sybill was able to avoid talking to those who called. She spent time in the kitchens with Mrs. Dailey arranging for the funeral feast. It would be held in the drawing room where Owen’s portrait had been draped in black.