Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Sybill pushed herself upright against the pillows. Her pale face flushed crimson with the rage she did not feel well enough to hide. “Get out of here, Christopher!” she snapped. “If you do anything to endanger my child, I will kill myself as well. Then you will never have Foxbridge Cloister!”

  He glared at her, but knew he was powerless. The forces reshaping her body determined his future. Many women as petite as Sybill did not survive the birth of a child. If this one died, so did his aspirations. “I will wait in the antechamber.”

  “Just get out!” She threw one of the pillows at him.

  Ducking, he left. She dropped against the mattress as another contraction began. Not hearing Clara’s sympathetic words or feeling the cooled cloth placed on her forehead, Sybill was thinking only of the man who was too far away.

  Trevor, her heart called out into the night. Trevor, where are you?

  “It’s over, my lady,” came the compassionate voice of the midwife.

  Sybill opened her bleary eyes to see Mrs. Beckwith’s smile. Sometime in the memory laced with pain, she recalled the midwife bustling into the room to relieve a fearful Clara. The remembrance of Mrs. Beckwith’s warm voice giving her instructions to ease the birthing flitted through the caverns of her fuzzy brain. She tried to ask a question, but her voice was as exhausted as the rest of her.

  “It’s a boy … and a girl!” The woman’s laugh was bright as she saw Sybill’s shock. “Twins, my lady. ’Tis not unusual for twins to decide to make an early appearance.”

  Her eyes closed as she drifted away into happiness. Now she understood why the pains had continued so harshly after she heard a baby’s cry. She smiled. How disgustingly proud Trevor would be! The buttons on his doublet would strain as he strutted about like a proud peacock. All joy faded as she realized he would never be able to show how he felt, except with her. These children could never be known as other than Owen Wythe’s offspring. The truth would bring tragedy.

  Now was not the time to think of that. Now was the time to rejoice that her children were born alive, and she had not succumbed to the myriad perils of pregnancy. She wanted to touch them, count their tiny fingers, feel the feet which had woken her in the middle of the night with their antics. She asked softly, “Can I hold them?”

  “Aye.” The midwife smiled as she picked up a swaddled bundle.

  Tears filled her eyes as she looked down into the sleeping face of her child. When she heard Mrs. Beckwith whisper this was her son, she murmured, “Hello, Alfred Owen Wythe. It is so good to see you at last.” In awe she stared at his finely formed features, which seemed too small to be real. His skin was soft, and, as she touched him, she could not believe this wondrous child could be born of her love for Trevor.

  She placed him beside her on the large bed and reached for the other. Her smile broadened as she saw that her daughter’s eyes were open. The baby’s rosebud mouth was working to seek what it wanted. Sybill did not hesitate as she loosened her gown. As if both of them had done this many times, the baby nursed with ease. Wide brown eyes stared up at her. Across her oval head, thick black curls twisted with baby fineness, still moist from her first bath. Holding one, with her hand on the bundle of the other, Sybill felt a thickness in her throat as she was suffused with a bliss she could not have imagined.

  “They are perfect,” she breathed.

  “That they are,” agreed Mrs. Beckwith too quickly.

  “What is wrong? Is something wrong with them?”

  “No, my lady. They are both healthy.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Beckwith?”

  She hesitated, glancing at her daughter who had not said a word. Roughly, she swallowed, then said, “’Tis their eyes.”

  “Their eyes?”

  “They are brown, my lady. Both you and the late Lord Foxbridge have blue eyes. Your children should not have brown eyes.”

  Looking down at the beautiful child, she knew she could never hide from the truth. The rumors of her affair with a Spanish sailor would resurface. Christopher would use them to try to invalidate his father’s will. Instantly she knew what she had to do. “Mrs. Beckwith?” she whispered.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Can you find a wet nurse easily? A good woman who will provide proper nourishment for my child?”

  The woman’s auburn brows, which contrasted so sharply with her white hair, came together in bafflement. “Child? My lady, you should be able to nurse both if you wish.”

  Wincing, as her fatigued body protested, she sat and looked directly into the woman’s eyes. “I want you to take one of my babies and hide it. I don’t trust the lord not to murder my children.”

  “Which one?” Comprehension was instantly clear on the midwife’s face. Lord Foxbridge did not want his stepmother to have any children. That she had borne twins would more than double her sin.

  “Take Alfred, Mrs. Beckwith. Hide him somewhere safe. It should be only for a few days.”

  “It can be done, my lady. Goody Johnston gave birth last week. She can take care of your baby as well. Her husband is a lazy lout, but he will be silent, if you pay him well. No one will know.”

  Sybill agreed reluctantly. She bit her lip as she watched the midwife pick up the baby. Despite her brave words, she feared it would be a long time before she saw her son again. She whispered a silent farewell. Mrs. Beckwith handed the sleeping child to her daughter. Nancy took the baby carefully and picked up the bag of instruments. What the midwife whispered to her daughter, Sybill could not hear, but the young woman nodded.

  Determined no one would learn of her distress, Sybill was outwardly calm as she heard the midwife announce the birth to the men in the antechamber. While Mrs. Beckwith was busy answering their questions, no one but Sybill noticed Nancy scoot across the sitting room.

  Knowing her son was temporarily safe from Christopher’s machinations, she was able to smile as he crossed the room with as much ease as if he were the father of the child at her breast. At that thought, she drew the blanket wrapping the baby over her to cover her bared skin. As eager as he was to possess her, she did not need to entice him further.

  When he stood by the bed, he laughed. “Your bastard is a girl. What a joke, Sybill! Did you promise Father a boy? It’s a shame you failed him.”

  “Don’t speak so of your sister,” she admonished. “Don’t forget it is Edith who possesses Foxbridge Cloister!”

  “Edith?” His mouth twisted as he spat, “You dare to name that fatherless brat for my mother?”

  “It was Owen’s wish,” she lied easily. She could tell no one how she and Trevor had chosen names for the babies.

  He swore vividly. Mrs. Beckwith was ready to remonstrate until she noted Lady Foxbridge’s obvious delight. She realized Sybill was enjoying having the upper hand in this relationship. Now that the child was born and healthy, the lord would find it more difficult to wrest away what her husband had left to her wardship. She admired the lady’s wisdom at hiding her son.

  “Oh, Christopher,” Sybill admonished, “don’t be childish. Why don’t you leave? You know you will never have the Cloister. I have told you that I will arrange with the barristers to have you given enough money to last you the rest of your life if you spend it wisely. What do you need? Two thousand pounds? Five? Tell me, and I will contact Mallory. Go back to London, and leave us alone.”

  “You are going to give me a share of what should have been mine? You, the daughter of a male prostitute? You who cannot tell anyone the father of your illegitimate daughter because it could be the offspring of any of several men?”

  Turning, he ordered Mrs. Beckwith from the room. She hesitated as she saw the glitter in his eyes. She had no choice. If she did not leave, he would expel her. Lady Foxbridge needed her. When she announced she would return in five minutes, he nodded.

  Christopher did not care what the old woman did as long as he had the next few minutes alone with pretty Sybill. Soon her body would return to the slender lines it had when he f
irst saw her. Then she would be as alluring as she had been when he discovered who his impotent father had made his wife. The bitter taste of the envy he had experienced when hearing that news in his favorite gaming hall had not lessened. Nor would it, until he taught Sybill the lessons his father had been incapable of giving her.

  Sybill automatically cringed as his hand raised, but he was not interested in striking her. He grasped her left hand. If she had not been quick, the baby would have fallen to her lap as he wrenched her arm out from under the blanket. Her cry of protest was halted when he jammed something on her finger. In horror, she gazed at the amethyst gem set in a bed of silver.

  “There, my darling Sybill. It’s official. We’re betrothed. As soon as you have recovered from the birthing of your brat, we will be married. You will give me a son to inherit this estate.”

  “Edith owns this!”

  He placed his face directly in front of hers. As always the reek of wine wafted on his breath as he spoke. “You have two choices. Marry me and give me a son for Foxbridge Cloister, or I will kill this babe and marry you anyhow.”

  “But the will says—”

  “I don’t care! This is mine, and I won’t see it go to a bastard of some Spanish sailor.”

  With a grimace, she pulled off the jeweled band. Dropping it on the table by the bed, she stated, “I have heard enough of that ridiculous story.”

  “You will hear much more of it,” he threatened. He wrenched her arm painfully while he was forcing the ring back on her hand. “You will hear more than you ever expected, if you don’t do the wise thing and marry me.”

  She laughed lightly. “Marry you? Never!”

  He raised his hand, but paused when they heard the latch on the door. It opened to reveal his companions. With a chuckle, he slapped her. The others guffawed as she moaned with pain.

  “That’s the way, Wythe. Teach Lady Foxbridge her place.”

  His grin was victorious as he said, “Congratulate me, my friends. My bride-to-be has promised me a son once she has weaned her bastard.”

  “Sounds as if we should have a drink to celebrate,” called his friend Hartford.

  Christopher hesitated. “One minute. I have yet to see my sister.”

  Despite her cry of modesty, he whipped away the blanket. He tried to tug the baby from her arms, but Sybill refused to release Edith. She did not trust him to treat the child carefully. His actions woke the child, and she began to wail. “Christopher, stop!”

  He laughed and reached for the baby again. As he did, the child looked at him. He pulled away his hands as if he had touched a leper. “Brown eyes! She has brown eyes!”

  One of the men cried, “That is impossible!”

  “Look for yourselves!”

  “No!” cried Sybill as the quartet started toward her.

  Only when her command was echoed from the door in a male voice did the men pause. They turned to see Marshall there with Mrs. Beckwith behind him. In the butler’s hand was a sword which had hung over the fireplace in the sitting room. He did not raise it, but his livid stare told the men he would not be afraid to use it. “My lord,” he stated in his normal, pleasant tone, “I suggest you consider speaking to Lady Foxbridge on the morrow. Mrs. Beckwith feels it imperative that she rest. Whatever you wish to discuss with her will wait until tomorrow.”

  “You don’t give orders to me as if I were a member of your incompetent staff!” snarled Christopher. “I wish to speak to Lady Foxbridge now.”

  “As you wish, but Mrs. Beckwith warns that childbirth fever can kill quickly if the proper procedures are not followed. If Lady Foxbridge dies, where would you be, my lord? In London without a farthing?”

  He started to argue, then knew there was nothing he could do. It might be better to celebrate the lack of a male child tonight and come back here when Lady Foxbridge did not have an army of allies. Without a word, Christopher strode out of the room. Like a well-trained bevy of ducklings, his friends followed.

  Marshall closed the door and bolted it. If he could have known Trevor and Mac Beckwith would bring aid, he would have barricaded the door and defended Lady Foxbridge from this otherwise inaccessible room until their arrival.

  Sybill sagged against the pillows. When Mrs. Beckwith took the baby from her arms, she smiled gently. Sybill watched each motion the midwife made as she laid the child in the cradle brought from the attics of the Cloister.

  “Rest, my lady.”

  “How long will it take for Mac to get to Liverpool?”

  Gentle fingers massaged her aching muscles. “Don’t worry. Rest. All will come as you wish eventually. You must have patience, Lady Foxbridge.”

  Although she wanted to retort that, for her, that was impossible, she found the effort to form words too much. Instead she listened to the lilt of the conversation flowing around her bed and drifted away on the words.

  Mrs. Beckwith and Marshall, along with Clara, formed an untiring team in their task of keeping Lord Foxbridge from his stepmother’s bedside. Once they saw the ring on her finger, they redoubled their endeavors to find excuses for her not to be able to speak to him.

  Sybill heard Christopher’s oaths from behind her closed door and wanted to chuckle. The situation was far from humorous. Each hour they could delay brought Trevor closer. When she was not listening to the man’s ranting, she enjoyed quiet hours with her daughter. Although Alfred was never far from her thoughts, she did not allow his absence to make her regret the time she had with Edith. Lavishing love on the baby, she prayed for a quick ending to this stalemate.

  Sybill spun as she heard the bedroom door open. None of her allies came into the room without knocking first. She feared they had failed in keeping Christopher from her. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged as she saw the travel-stained man. He closed the door, careful to slide the bolt into place before he crossed the room.

  “You look very different, sweetheart.”

  “Trevor,” she breathed. With a sob, she flung herself into his arms.

  He smiled as he wrapped his arms around her slender form. The smile disappeared into her lips as he tasted the sweet kiss he had missed. It lasted too short a time before she pulled away.

  “Trevor, you should not be here. Christopher is here, and—”

  “I know, Sybill. I came as soon as Mac reached me with your message.” He framed her face with his hands. “What I don’t know is the name you have given our child.”

  “Children.”

  When she held up two fingers, he managed to squeak, “Twins?”

  “How many times did you tell me I looked like one of the ewes in the sheepfold? They often have two or more.”

  “Sybill, what—?”

  “Edith was born three days ago ten minutes before her brother Alfred.” She brushed his rain-dampened hair back from his eyes. “A girl and a boy, darling.”

  Although he wanted to shout his joy, he merely picked her up and swung her about in his arms. As her skirts swirled around them, the happy sound of her laughter was muted by his lips against hers. When he lowered her back to the floor, she took his hand and led him to the bundle on the bed. She watched as he touched the baby with the same reverent awe she had felt when Mrs. Beckwith put the child in her arms.

  “Both have your hair coloring and eyes,” she whispered as he slipped his arm around her.

  Her joy faded as he asked, “What does big brother Christopher have to say about his new siblings?”

  “He knows only of Edith.” She explained quickly what she had done. Her voice broke as she mentioned she had been unable to see Alfred, although Mrs. Beckwith or Nancy brought news of him each day.

  Trevor nodded. “That was wise. Lord Foxbridge could accept a girl, but I’m sure there would have been more trouble if he learned of young Alfred.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, my love. It will be fine.”

  She froze as he picked up her left hand. The garish ring caught his eyes. All her efforts to remove it had failed. For her finger had swolle
n from her stepson’s cruel actions. At his unspoken question, she whispered, “He means to marry me before the spring.”

  “Marry you?” His fury would have daunted her if she thought it was aimed at her.

  “The one thing Owen did not provide for.”

  Sitting in a chair, he shook his head as if he could not believe his own thoughts. “Damn fool! I have been a damn fool! Owen was determined you would not marry me.”

  “Marry you?” She picked up the baby as Edith began to cry. Soothing the child, she said, “It is Christopher he was concerned about.”

  “Not just Christopher, but me as well. Don’t you see, Sybill? He was a bitter, jealous old man. Although he was determined to see you pregnant so he could disinherit Christopher, he planned to destroy you and me. Damn!” He pounded his fist on the table. “He knew us all too well.”

  She placed Edith in the cradle. “He has never stopped manipulating us. The puppet master is gone, but the show continues.”

  “Yes. He knew that you love me. You told him the night you were married. He used us, but did not want the game to end. Once I knew the truth, I thought he would discharge me.”

  She shook her head. “No, he wanted to see you suffer. I knew that. He guessed I would do nothing to hurt our child. He knew I would not marry you until it was born.”

  “By that time Christopher would have figured out this hole or one of his cronies would have told him he could have Foxbridge Cloister if he wed you.”

  “What will we do?”

  “What we planned before your husband had the decency to die.” He leaned forward and took her hands in his. “Leave. Can you travel, my love? I don’t wish to let Lord Foxbridge discover I am here.”

  His words reminded her of Christopher’s threats. She did not hesitate, although she did not know if she spoke the truth. “Yes, Trevor. When?”

  “Tonight. The moon is new. Can you go tonight?”

  Lovingly her fingers stroked the harsh stubble on his cheeks and tilted his mouth toward hers. At the last moment before their lips touched, she whispered, “Yes. Tonight.”