She had not been so long and so far away from Fallstowe in years. It was such an odd feeling, Sybilla considered not going back at all as she stared out the carriage window, her head rocking on her fist as the large wheels rolled over the rutted road. People whom she passed in the conveyance, and those who passed her, did not know her identity. They didn’t know who she was or where she was from. Even if she chanced to meet other travelers face-to-face, the likelihood that they would recognize her was almost nonexistent. On this road, she was just a nameless, homeless woman.
Perhaps that’s what she was, any matter.
Sybil de Lairne’s wooden coffin followed Sybilla’s hired carriage in a tarp-covered wagon. Sybilla had encouraged both Cee and Alys to return to their homes at their husbands’ sides, although both of her sisters had protested vehemently and Sybilla thought it possible that Alys was entertaining the idea of a physical altercation in order to personally accompany Sybilla to Fallstowe. In the end, though, Sybilla had flatly stated she did not want their company, no matter how much she loved and treasured them. She did not want anyone’s company. She needed time to think, and think she could not do with Cee’s fretting or Alys’s endless questions, Piers’s stoicism and Oliver’s outright discomfort with the whole lot of them. She couldn’t fault any of them.
Cee and Alys would first go on to Bellemont and Gillwick, respectively. But they would likely arrive at Fallstowe only shortly after Sybilla, as she had instructed the drivers to travel at an easy pace, with orders to overnight at two inns between London and Fallstowe. The leisurely journey would give her more time to think.
All the questions she thought had been answered remained unanswered. And more questions had grown in the compost of convoluted facts and allusions between the time of Sybilla’s trial and the moment the ghosts of Amicia and Sybil de Lairne had departed the royal guest apartment. Alys and Cecily had questions, and Sybilla had her own, of course. But no one had any answers. Least of all the woman who was slated to marry Julian Griffin.
The vision of her mother’s spirit upon Sybil de Lairne’s bed haunted her still—the plain woolen gown, her simple, unadorned plait alongside a youthful and scrubbed-clean cheek. The look of love and protectiveness on her face.
My lady sleeps.
Sybilla had known in that very instant that Lady Sybil de Lairne had perjured herself before the king of England.
And so Sybilla was still the illegitimate daughter of an illegitimate daughter.
She was still a traitor.
She was also now a patriot.
A coldhearted matriarch.
A stepmother.
A sister.
The mistress of Fallstowe, but entitled to nothing.
Who was the woman Julian Griffin wanted for his wife? Sybilla did not know, and so she was certain that Julian could have no inkling. How could she ever agree to marry him, to undertake those roles so foreign to her—the roles of mother and wife—when she had not yet come to a polite agreement with who she had been her entire life?
Who was she? What was she?
The carriage rumbled over the road, drawing ever nearer to that place which had for so long been her reason for existence, and which now seemed a stone enigma, housing the whole of the riddle of the woman who had once been Sybilla Foxe.
On the fourth morning, Julian knew that Sybilla had returned when he saw the packages on the lord’s table as he and Lucy came down to break their fast. A small, cloth-wrapped bundle tied with flaxen string and decorated with a tiny brass bell, the little vellum tag reading simply L in Sybilla’s light, flowing script. Next to it sat an even smaller wooden box with a similar tag labeled J.
He frowned at the gifts, and at the realization that he’d not seen Graves all the morn. Sybilla had likely returned in the night or the small hours of the morning then, but no one had alerted him, and it made him quite cross all around.
Lucy had already voiced her desire for the bell, and was now leaning down to the table even as Julian seated himself. The baby flicked her chubby fingers back and forth over the delicate fixture, letting its dulled tinkle echo in the strangely vacant hall. He pulled the package toward her and slipped the tie from the cloth.
Inside was a gorgeous miniature sleeveless robe in scarlet velvet, the full length of it and also the hood lined with white rabbit. Ornate silver clasps laddered up the front of the white fur trim. It was an outrageous gift for the child, but Julian couldn’t help his smile as he slipped Lucy’s little arms through the embroidered side slits and fastened the closures. It fit her perfectly and suited her more than humility warranted.
As his daughter continued to play with the little bell, Julian pulled his own gift toward him. He unhooked the little leather strip wrapped around a bone peg and lifted the lid of the box. Inside on a bed of boiled wool lay a silvered quill and ink pot, with an additional slip of vellum.
For your accounts.
The gifts were thoughtful, and in Sybilla’s generous mind, likely highly practical. But why had she not waited to give them in person? Had she not missed Lucy?
Had she not missed Julian?
His troubled thoughts were interrupted by a smiling kitchen maid who brought a tray of food and warmed, spiced wine, as well as a bladder of milk for Lucy.
“Good morrow, milord,” the girl chirped as she set the offerings in their precise place on the table. “Lady Lucy.”
Julian did not mince words. “Where is Lady Sybilla?”
The girl paused in her chore, giving him a kind if curious glance. “Madam doesn’t take breakf—”
“I know Madam doesn’t take breakfast,” Julian said with as much patience as he could muster.
“Of course, milord,” the girl apologized. “Madam arrived very late in the night. I would think her still at her rest.”
Julian’s temper darkened even further. As far as he knew, Sybilla did not have a bed to rest in any longer, as the splintered remains of the black monstrosity that took up the surface of her chamber still lay in ruined pieces on the floor.
And she certainly hadn’t sought the tower room in the night.
“Where is Graves, then?” he barked.
The serving girl blinked, and then crossed herself, owl-eyed. “Seeing to her ladyship’s grave, I believe, milord. Shall I have him fetched for you?”
Julian shook his head as he sat Lucy back against his chest in her luxurious robe and settled in to feeding her her breakfast.
“No. I shall find them myself.”
The serving girl bobbed a nervous curtsy before turning quickly away from the table.
Julian was not completely sure, but he thought he’d heard her whisper, “God be with you, milord,” as she’d scurried back toward the safety of the kitchen doorway.
Chapter 30
Everything was the same. And yet nothing was the same.
Sybilla sat at her wide table before the bank of windows in her chamber, her knees drawn up to her chest, her toes curled into the cushion. Her tray of tea and bread sat untouched off to the side, and she had quietly dismissed her maids soon after their enthusiastic arrival. Sybilla would attend to no business today besides the burial of one enigmatic old woman next to another. The impending funeral was all she could handle today, and that made her both angry and sad. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would approach the idea of her future.
Or perhaps not.
She heard the creaking of what was left of her chamber door—it had never creaked before Julian Griffin’s violent attack on it, and she had not ordered it repaired.
“Welcome home.” Julian Griffin’s voice was low and easy, as if he was approaching a skittish animal that might become spooked at any moment.
The analogy was quite fitting, she thought.
She turned her head slightly to look over her shoulder at him. “Thank you.” He was standing on the far side of the ruin of her bed, holding Lucy high on his chest. The sight of the infant caused Sybilla’s heart to skip. She seemed a little queen in her velve
t robe, and Sybilla was pleased that it fit her so well. “Good morrow, Lucy.”
The baby squealed and waved her fist excitedly, as if she would direct her father.
“I believe she’s missed you as much as me.”
Sybilla was not certain of Julian’s meaning, and so she let the comment pass unanswered, turning her gaze back to the hills beyond the bailey.
“I’d hoped you would find me upon your return,” Julian continued.
“It was late,” she answered. “I didn’t wish to wake you. I see you found the gifts I left for you both.”
“Yes. It was very kind of you to think of us. Thank you.”
The air in the chamber grew exponentially thicker with awkward tension, as if the two adults not looking at each other had never entertained more than tolerable company for each other.
“I was very sorry to hear of Lady de Lairne’s passing.”
Sybilla had nothing to say.
Lucy gave an impatient squawk.
“Are you not going to speak to us at all?” Julian finally asked.
Sybilla swallowed, unable to bring herself to look at them again. “Forgive me, Lord Griffin. I’ve a lot on my mind. Perhaps later this evening . . .” The excuse trailed away into nothing.
“You are not alone any longer, Sybilla,” Julian reasoned in a quiet voice. “Let me help you with whatever it is that’s troubling you. Your burdens are to be mine once we are married.”
“We are not yet married, Lord Griffin.”
There was a heavy pause in which not even small Lucy dared breach the silence. “Will we ever be married?” he asked finally.
“I don’t know,” Sybilla whispered. Then she blinked away the sudden wetness in her eyes and drew upon her vast stores of cool experience. “After Lady de Lairne’s burial, I shall arrange with the clerk to have my fine separated from Fallstowe’s accounts and readied to send to the king. I’ve already ordered a draft of service for the men owed under my obligation at Midsummer. Once I’ve put my signature to those tasks, I do believe the running of the hold will be officially at your command.” She paused again to swallow. “Congratulations, Lord Griffin.”
“Sybilla—” Julian began.
“I’m really quite harried this morn, Lord Griffin,” Sybilla interrupted stridently. “If we could please continue our conversation later this evening as I’ve requested, I would be grateful.”
“Very well,” Julian said, and the wounded tension in his tone was clear. “I shall seek you after the ceremony.”
“Good day,” Sybilla said crisply.
Julian did not reply, but as his crunching footfalls retreated from the chamber at her back, Lucy began to cry.
Once they were gone, so did Sybilla.
Julian saw Lucy to a maid in the small chamber at the bottom of the tower steps for her morning nap before carrying on to the great hall once more. He could barely contain his frustration long enough to see his daughter lovingly to sleep.
He was angry. He was hurt. He was confused.
What had happened in the short time of his and Sybilla’s separation, besides the death of the de Lairne woman, to have so radically changed Sybilla’s demeanor?
It’s not really changed, though, has it? a voice spoke inside him. This is the Sybilla who greeted you upon your initial arrival at Fallstowe. It seems only that the woman has returned after her holiday.
No, Julian would not allow that. He loved her. He knew she loved him, and Lucy. They were to be married. They had survived royal condemnation by the skin of their teeth, had come through a tempering fire to have the fantastic dream of Fallstowe within both of their grasps. He would not let her throw it away in some pique of melancholic mourning for an old woman she hadn’t ever known.
He arrived in the hall on stomping boots, in the back of his mind seeking Graves for whatever insight the old man might offer. He should not have been surprised to find Sybilla’s sisters and brothers-in-law just arriving in the cavernous room, but he was.
The youngest, blond Alys, wasted no time, striding through the hall leading the quartet. “Lord Griffin, good day. How is Sybilla?”
Julian stopped in the center of the hall. “What the bloody hell happened in London after I left?”
The two sisters exchanged looks as they came to a halt before him.
“She’s not well then,” Cecily sighed.
“The three of us were present at the moment of Lady de Lairne’s passing,” Alys supplied. “Some rather . . . strange events transpired, which we think have led Sybilla to call into question the truthfulness of Lady de Lairne’s testimony.”
Julian was still frowning. “I don’t understand.”
The sisters exchanged looks again before Cecily explained. “Sybilla believes that our mother was not a titled lady of the de Lairne hold, as Lady de Lairne attested. She thinks perhaps that everything Mother confessed to was the truth.”
Julian looked to the heretofore quiet men standing behind their wives, in the hope that they would be able to translate this feminine explanation into something he could understand.
“So?” Julian prompted. “The king’s ruling still stands, does it not? Sybilla is cleared of all charges. The records will forevermore reflect Sybilla’s right to Fallstowe and to the title of lady.”
No one said anything, but the sisters looked at each other meaningfully once more.
“Why do they keep doing that?” Julian pleaded with the men.
Oliver Bellecote quirked an eyebrow. “Vexing, isn’t it?”
Julian rubbed a hand across his forehead and then placed his fists on his hips. “She won’t talk to me. And when she does . . . she’s giving me reason to think she has reconsidered our marriage. She’s so . . . so cold.”
Alys shrugged. “I’m sorry, Lord Griffin. But that’s Sybilla.”
“No,” Julian snapped. “No, it’s not. Perhaps it is who she has played to be to the majority of persons, but I know her better than that. I have seen her caring and vulnerable. I have seen her in weakness. I know how kind she is.”
“We all do,” Cecily said, trying to console him. “But Sybilla has always been very . . . solitary. The last several years, that has been of necessity. She has always had something to fight for, something to prove or defend. And now, well . . . now the fighting is all over, and yet there is still some question about her role in it all. I think she feels rather at a loss. And so she is behaving how Sybilla always behaves. She fortifies her defenses and battles her demons. Alone.” Cecily’s face was sad.
Julian shook his head. “I don’t understand why she can’t simply let the past be over.”
Alys laid her hand on his arm lightly. “Sybilla’s very survival has depended on the past for a very long time,” she explained. “It’s the essence of who she is. In her mind, her history defines her.”
Something in Alys’s statement tickled at Julian’s brain, but he was too frustrated to flesh out the meaning thoroughly just then.
“We are to discuss our future after Lady de Lairne is laid to rest,” Julian said on a sigh. “I do hope I have something encouraging to report to you all on the morrow. I won’t be so pompous as to invite you ladies to make yourselves at home—you have greater privilege here than I.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true anymore,” Cecily said with a kind smile. “Good luck, Lord Griffin.”
Alys suddenly brightened. “May we see the baby now, please?”
It drizzled softly while Sybil de Lairne was laid in the deep, rich dirt of Fallstowe. Sybilla was barely present, and she could not have recounted the majority of the short, solemn ceremony, either in Fallstowe’s chapel or now, on the knoll. She did know that Julian Griffin had stood at her side throughout. Lucy was conspicuously absent, likely for the damp chill, and Sybilla told herself it was just as well. The child would have demanded that Sybilla hold her, and she did not think that was in either of their best interests at present.
She barely noticed that the few gathered had
begun to move away in the gloomy rain, signaling that the ceremony was over. Then Julian Griffin leaned close to her ear.
“In the solar,” was all he said, and then he turned and left her in the cold drizzle.
She remained there for quite some time, Graves silent at her side. She knew she made the burly men charged with the task of lowering the box and filling in the hole uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. She needed to see the end of this. The very end. By the time she parted company from Graves in the hall and found herself walking down the corridor and pushing at the solar door, she was thoroughly damp. But she didn’t care about that, either.
Julian Griffin stood at the hearth, his back to the door. By the way his elbow was cocked, Sybilla guessed him to be partaking of strong drink.
She longed for a cup of her own.
He turned as the door latch clicked shut. “I wasn’t certain you’d come.”
“I told you I would.”
“No, you didn’t,” he argued as he slowly ambled around the low couch toward her, chalice in his hand. “You didn’t say anything.” He handed the cup to her. “I thought you might need this.”
Sybilla stared at the chalice and frowned, before taking it hesitantly. “Thank you.” She took a sip and found greater pleasure in the warmed honey liqueur than she would have thought herself capable of at the moment. It seemed to seep into her frozen, brittle bones and glow. Much like the sensation she had felt after making love with Julian in the tower room. She missed that feeling.
“I miss you, Sybilla,” Julian said.
The tender words caught her so thoroughly off guard that she turned and walked to the hearth so as not to face him.
“The monies and the soldiers’ orders are finalized,” she said instead.
“Are we going to talk about what happened in London?”
She took another long drink and then licked her lips, staring at the flames for a moment. “I don’t think I can marry you, Lord Griffin.”
He was quiet for a moment, and when he did speak, he did not sound angry. “Why not?”
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