by Music Box
Bryce had sent him off to bed, along with the assurance that tomorrow right after breakfast they would have a professional chat.
And those were but a few of the fine staff members with whom Bryce had vowed to become acquainted.
Also, after tonight he had another welcome responsibility—that of getting to know his half brother, an objective that could potentially enrich not only Hermione’s life but his own and Thane’s as well.
In addition, he had yet to begin working on the other two aspects of Hermione’s request: revising her will and establishing a trust for Gabrielle.
Gabrielle.
Even her name elicited a smile. Softhearted, frank, and fiercely loyal, Gabrielle was an enchanting entity unto herself, a charming combination of wisdom and innocence. She’d endured an evening of hell just to ease his way with Thane, and Bryce would be forever indebted to her for that unprecedented show of support.
Now it was his turn to help her.
His smile vanished, as he considered Gabrielle’s precarious state of mind. She’d been as white as a sheet when she went up to bed, her brilliant blue eyes shrouded with frightened memories. She’d been in torment at Whitshire, a torment that, Bryce knew, had embedded itself deep inside her, accompanying her from the estate and remaining excruciatingly present despite the fact that they’d left behind the spot where the tragedy had occurred. Her reaction had been too powerful, too emotional, to be fleeting. Clearly she’d been carrying this pain around for years. It was only now emerging, prompted by her visit to the place where her parents had died.
And during that hour in the music room the look on her face had been devastating, the dread of reliving the past too much for her. What had she seen when she stared out those windows? What ugly picture had surfaced in her mind? Was it the fire swallowing up the servants’ quarters, destroying those she loved? And what in the name of heaven was Bryce to do? He had no experience at helping someone through this kind of trauma. His own emotional hurdles had been difficult enough to overcome, and they paled in comparison with Gaby’s. How in the name of heaven did one recover from something of this magnitude?
Leaning against the window frame, Bryce set down his goblet and rubbed his eyes. He knew what he had to do—what he wanted to do. He would send Lucinda a note, telling her he was detained at Nevon Manor on pressing business. She would accept it with her customary grace and breeding, and await his return with her customary patience and composure. They’d been apart before, when a particularly compelling case kept him working long hours or when she traveled abroad with her family. The separations never seemed to hamper the compatibility that marked their relationship.
And it had to be done.
Bryce folded his arms across his chest, dismissing Lucinda from his mind, his thoughtful gaze sweeping the grounds of Nevon Manor. He wasn’t sure what was troubling him more at the moment, the enormity of his own challenges or the enormity of Gabrielle’s.
As if in answer, a flash of white caught his eye, making him blink and focus more intently on the cluster of trees just outside. Something was darting about, a stark figure that was not nearly small enough to be Crumpet but that was frantically making its way across the grounds.
That something was a person.
Straining his eyes, Bryce stared more closely, watching the jerky movements of the ethereal creature that was maneuvering rapidly between the trees.
Gabrielle.
The instant he recognized her, Bryce was on the move. Snatching up his coat, he raced down the stairs and out the door, heading directly toward the area in which he’d spied her.
He stopped, his breath coming in short pants as he scanned the grounds, searching and listening all at once.
A twig snapped in the distance, and Bryce’s head jerked toward the sound.
She was pushing away, from an oak about thirty yards away, regaining her balance, and stumbling on with a muffled cry.
“Gabrielle!”
If she heard him, she gave no sign, just continued to shove her way forward, her linen nightgown catching on branch after branch.
Bryce reached her in seconds. “Gabrielle.” He seized her arm, but she yanked it free, her slender body trembling with cold, shaking with sobs.
“No!” she gasped, shaking her head wildly from side to side. “Oh, no.” She pressed on.
“Wait.” Bryce reached for her again, only to hear her cry out in pain as she tumbled to the ground.
“Gaby.” He knelt beside her, genuine fear knotting his chest. Tousled waves of hair draped over her shoulders like a dark curtain, shielding her face from view. But the reason for her cry was obvious: her feet were bare and badly cut by the twigs and acorns that covered the ground. “You’re bleeding,” he murmured, smoothing her hair away as sobs racked her body. “Why in God’s name are you—” He broke off as she stumbled to her feet again.
“Mama … Papa … No!” Her words were garbled, but chillingly recognizable:
“Gaby.” He caught her by the waist, dragging her against him.
She was clutching an object to her chest. The glistening alabaster color, the size, the shape—Bryce knew immediately it was her music box.
“Mama …” she whispered brokenly.
Gazing into her face, the vacant look in her eyes, Bryce realized with a sickening sensation that she was asleep. “Gabrielle.” He touched her cheek tentatively, unsure how to calm her, less sure how to awaken her. “Sweetheart, wake up.”
“Please, no …” she choked out, striking his shoulder with her small fist in an attempt to free herself. “Papa …”
“Gabrielle, wake up.” Abandoning his experimental attempts, Bryce shook her—hard—gripping her arms and holding her firmly against him. “It’s Bryce. Open your eyes, please.”
She gasped, then blinked, the emptiness in her eyes replaced by bewilderment. Like a lost child, she stared up at him, trying to establish her whereabouts, to regain control of reality. “Bryce?” she asked, her teeth beginning to chatter.
“Yes.” He sat back on his haunches, cradling her against him while he tugged off his coat, wrapped it around her quaking shoulders. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”
“Where are we?” She gazed about the grounds. Abruptly, her head snapped down and she took note of her attire, the music box she clutched. “Oh, God,” she choked out before Bryce could even begin to formulate a credible and soothing explanation for the past few minutes. “I was walking in my sleep. Again. After all these years. Oh, no.” She bowed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, drenching his shirt.
It had happened before, he realized with a start. Not recently but a long time ago. And it didn’t take a scholar to guess when—or why.
“You were reliving the fire,” Bryce said softly. “Trying to save your parents.”
Mutely she nodded.
“Was this the first time this has happened since just after they died?”
“No. I walked in my sleep over and over for months after I came to Nevon Manor.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Aunt Hermione and Chaunce used to take turns keeping vigil outside my room, stopping me before I could run outside and hurt myself. Finally, after nearly a year, the sleepwalking stopped. It never happened again. Until now.” More broken weeping.
“Shhh.” Bryce stroked her hair, wrapped the coat more securely about her. “It was the visit to Whitshire. You never should have gone.” He gritted his teeth, berating himself for persuading her to accompany him. “You’re shaking. We’ve got to get you into the manor.”
“No.” Gaby sat upright, her quivering mouth set in determined lines. “Please. Don’t let Aunt Hermione see me like this. Not when she’s been so weak. It will destroy her.”
“You’re scarcely clothed. You’re also freezing. And your feet are badly cut. They need attention.” Bryce rose, taking Gaby with him, walking purposefully toward the house. “I don’t want to upset Hermione either, but it can’t be helped. We’re going to your chambers.”
“All right.” Bryce relented. “You direct me.”
“I can walk.”
“No, you can’t. And don’t bother arguing—I’m carrying you.”
A shaky sigh. “Very well. Follow that path over there.” She pointed.
Five uneventful minutes later Bryce carried Gaby into her room and placed her carefully in the center of the bed, setting the music box just as carefully on her nightstand. Then he turned, seeking and finding a basin, crossing over to fill it with water. Scooping up a towel, he returned to the bed. “I’d suggest immersing your feet, but I’m afraid the sting would be unbearable. So I’ll wash the cuts with this.” He frowned, seeing the stream of blood that trickled on both feet, one on her toes and ankle, the other along the entire length of her instep. “I’ll be as swift as I can.”
Gaby winced at the first contact, but she bit her lip, silencing any cries that might awaken someone. Bryce worked quickly and efficiently, finally completing his task, pleased to see the bleeding had stopped.
“Good. Now let’s get you warm.” He glanced uncomfortably around the room. “Where do you keep your nightgowns?”
“In there.” Gaby pointed at the chest. “I can fetch one myself.”
“Stay off those feet. I’ll get it.” Bryce opened the chest and removed a clean nightgown, which he placed in Gaby’s hands. “I’m going to start a fire. My back will be to you. Change.”
She nodded, her cornflower-blue eyes still wide with trauma. “All right.”
A quarter hour later the fire was blazing and Gaby was tucked beneath the bedcovers.
Bryce stood beside her, rubbing his palms together and watching her worriedly. “Would you like to sleep?”
“No.” She looked positively stricken. “Please stay with me for a while.”
“Very well.” Normally he would never have agreed to such a scandalous suggestion. But how could he leave her when she’d just endured such a harrowing experience and when she still looked so utterly terrified? “Would you like to talk?” he asked, pulling up a chair and lowering himself to it.
“About what just happened?”
“Not if it upsets you. We could discuss any topic you choose.”
The fear in Gaby’s eyes banked. Settling herself beneath the blanket, she studied Bryce from beneath wet, spiky lashes. “You and Thane truly liked each other.”
He took her cue, relaxing in the chair and crossing one long leg over the other. “Yes, we did.”
“When do you intend to visit him again?”
Not “if,” Bryce noted with an inner smile, but “when.” “Soon. After I’ve had a chance to review Hermione’s papers and get to know her staff a bit.”
“You’ve already won most of them over. The rest should take no more than a few hours.”
Bryce chuckled. “I appreciate your faith in my congeniality.”
“It isn’t your congeniality,” Gaby said softly. “It’s your heart.”
The absolute conviction in her claim was humbling. “It doesn’t take heart to care for such fine people, Gabrielle. In fact, it would take effort not to.”
“I agree. But then, I love them. They’re my family; the only family I …” Her voice broke, her own words triggering a painful resurgence of the past. “Whenever I relive that night, I can’t help thinking that I should have yelled louder,” she confessed abruptly. “I should have gotten help. I should have found a way to stop the flames from spreading.” Tears gathered in her eyes, slid down her cheeks. “But it all happened too fast. By the time I got out of the shed, it was already too late. There was nothing I could do … nothing to save them.”
Bryce moved across to Gaby’s bedside, gathered her gently in his arms. “You were a child,” he murmured, his fingers sifting through her hair. “And even if you’d been grown, you would have had no way to combat such a rampaging fire.”
She pressed her wet cheek to his shirt. “I know. Truly I do. It’s just that …” An aching pause, filled with the fear and uncertainty of someone poised at the edge of an unknown and menacing abyss.
But why? It wasn’t as if she’d never spoken of this before.
Realization struck Bryce like a blow: she hadn’t.
“Gaby, you’ve relived this night countless times in your mind, but have you ever discussed it with anyone, expressed your feelings aloud?” Bryce asked, knowing what her answer would be, simultaneously recognizing how he could help her.
For a long moment she didn’t reply, and when she did, it was in a thin, watery voice. “There was nothing to discuss. No matter what I said, it wouldn’t bring back Mama and Papa. Besides, I didn’t want to upset Aunt Hermione any more than she already was. My sleepwalking, my agonized state of mind—she’d acquired both of those along with the little orphan girl she’d taken in. I couldn’t add to her burden.”
“Hermione’s a strong woman.”
“I know.” Gaby swallowed. “The truth is, I didn’t restrain myself only for Aunt Hermione’s sake. I did it for my own sake as well. And not because I couldn’t give voice to my feelings; the pain was there whether or not I spoke of it. But because I was terrified of the consequences. Even though Aunt Hermione never complained, I knew what an emotional burden I was. If I upset her any more, pushed her any further, she might … I was afraid she would …”
“You were afraid she’d turn you out.” Bryce completed the thought flatly. This was one fear he could not only sympathize with but relate to—from firsthand experience. “I understand.” His palm slid beneath her hair, caressed the nape of her neck in slow, soothing motions. “I know what it feels like to live in constant dread that whatever little security you have left might be snatched away at any time. I felt that way when I got Hermione’s letter at Eton—that if I dared do anything, albeit minor and inadvertent, which resulted in the discovery of my true identity, Whitshire would have me thrown into the streets, where I would doubtless perish. You had that same fear to contend with, plus the emotional scars from the fire. You must have been scared to death.”
“I was—which only made me worry more,” Gaby whispered. “After all, the way I was acting … what could Aunt Hermione have thought? Here she was, welcoming me into her home, and instead of accepting my good fortune with joy and gratitude, I was withdrawn, consumed by anguish and worry.”
“Gabrielle, you were five years old. The entire foundation of your life had been destroyed. You were totally alone. Many people couldn’t have survived that kind of trauma.”
“You did.”
“No.” He shook his head, his chin brushing the dark crown of her hair. “I never endured so devastating a loss. My parents, the Lyndleys, didn’t die until after I was away at school and living on my own. The rest was but an ugly story written on a piece of paper. Yes, I had my ghosts to confront. But I never had to survive the nightmare you did, certainly not when I was little more than a babe.”
Bryce’s embrace tightened. “You were extraordinarily strong. You still are. A minute ago you said you would have been able to talk about the fire right after it occurred. That’s far more than I’ve ever done, at least until last night when I confided in you. My initial pain and anger upon receiving Hermione’s letter were so acute that I could barely ponder her revelations, much less speak them aloud. After that, I buried the truth inside me until time dulled the pain into indifference. So you see, you’re far stronger than I. You could address your loss then, and you can address it now. Talk to me. Tell me about the night your parents died. Where were you when the servants’ quarters caught fire?”
“In the storage shed.” She hesitated—and then the words seemed to spill for
th with a will of their own. “I couldn’t sleep. Even the music box didn’t help, although Mama left it on my nightstand to serenade me into slumber. But it didn’t work. I was too worried about the robins.”
“Robins?”
“Yes. There was a nest down the way from our chambers. All the animals congregated in that area; it was just across from the stables. The way that section of Whitshire used to be arranged, there were the stables, separate and apart, followed by a long service wing beginning with the coach house, then the wood and coal rooms, and then the storage shed. On the other side of the shed were the servants’ entrance and hall and, of course, our quarters, followed by another entrance leading to the steward’s and butler’s rooms. After that, the wing ended, and a small garden separated it from the main manor.”
“And the fire destroyed that entire wing?”
“Everything from the coach house to Averley’s and Couling’s quarters, yes. Fortunately Couling was still manning his station at the entranceway door and Averley was walking back from the tenants’ quarters at the time the fire struck. So neither of them was hurt. Averley was the first to spot the flames and run for help. Thank God he did, or the rest of the manor might have caught next, and everything would have burned to the ground. As it was, the losses were staggering. The only servants who were equally as lucky as Couling, Averley, and me were those who had the evening off and those who were working late shifts in the manor’s main living quarters.”
“I don’t understand,” Bryce inserted, frowning. “You just said you were in the shed, where I assume you went to keep an eye on the robins. If so, how did you escape the fire?”
“Fate willed me to survive, I suppose. Because you’re right, I was in the shed when the fire started. And you’re also right that I left my bed to go check on the robins. They had just hatched that morning, and the May night was unusually cold. So I took my music box and crept outside to ensure their well-being and to soothe them with Beethoven.”