~~~~~
Bart walked back to the main house with them, feeling rather as if he were dreaming. He had just had an entire conversation about horses without the words ‘hunt’ or ‘hunting’ occurring once, until he had mentioned it himself. He could not remember the last time that had happened.
His father and brothers, whilst happy to ensure that he had a suitably large allowance to do as he wished with his life, could not comprehend that what he wished to do was not the same as they wished to do. They were dedicated hunters – whether it was foxhunting with a pack of hounds, or shooting grouse, or some other hapless creature, they would be hunting every day if they could.
Just the thought of joining them made Bart feel physically ill.
He had seen more than enough of death during the war, had seen too many kind and giving horses blown apart by cannon shot, or falling broken on the field. He never wished to see another animal killed, unless it were a mercy killing for a badly injured beast. That his family killed for sport sickened him. But then, they had never been on a battlefield. He forgave them, for they truly could not comprehend his feelings. But they harassed him – in the name of helping him reintegrate with civilian life.
The chance to escape that terrible freight of their care had been wonderful, even though he felt, in part, guilty for that relief. He had begun to believe that he would never meet a person who could understand how he felt. He was, he knew, broken, in a way. The overwhelming terrors that sudden loud noises and movements caused were not normal. But they were now part of him.
He had not expected to ever find a woman who might tolerate him, who might care in the least about horses, although his well-meaning family had introduced him to enough society misses in the hope that he might marry one. They grated on him. They were shallow, and insensitive to everything. He had resigned himself to a lack of female companionship, in fact, to a lack of companionship completely, apart from occasional times when he might meet with the other Hounds.
And now, something remarkable was happening. Lady Sybilla wished to go riding with him – and he was not horrified – he wished it too. His world had just upended itself completely.
The breeze was crisp, and Sybilla’s hair had, as usual, escaped some of its pins as she rode. She did not care.
“From here, you can see Greyscar Keep. In the distance, there – you can pick it by the scar that the rock outcrop makes on the scarp. That’s how the Keep got its name, I believe.”
Lord Barton pointed, and Sybilla squinted a little in the weak morning sun, eventually making out the Keep, made small by the distance. The sun lit its stone face, making it seem paler than it was, and cast its shadow huge on the scarp behind it, like some dark monster looming above the house.
Sybilla shivered. Was it because of her novel that she had such morbid whimsical thoughts? Or was it this place? She didn’t know.
“You seem to know every inch of the Abbey lands and beyond – you must have spent much time riding here since you arrived.”
“Yes. Every day, unless the weather is unbearably bad. It… it frees me. There is peace in it. With no-one but my horse to deal with, I am never expected to make small talk, or to enthuse about things that revolt me.”
Sybilla was silent, considering his words. They rode on, along the top of the ridge, the wind tugging at her hair, whipping wisps into her eyes. The groom was far behind. Lord Barton looked sombre, as if he too was thinking about his words.
“I would not wish to disturb your peace. Am I intruding by my presence?”
“No!” His response was quick, sharp, and held a tone almost of desperation. “You add to my peace. For you do not expect anything of me, but talk of the land, and horses, and the history of this place. I…,” he hesitated, as if unsure whether he should speak, and she wondered what deep emotion moved him. “I no longer cope well with most people, or going about in society. I especially do not cope well with my family.”
“To me, you seem the most amiable of men. You are, from what I have seen, excessive in nothing, and you do not question my choices. Most men that have heard of my desire to write have mocked it, as if a woman would not have the wit to produce anything of worth. And you indulge my unladylike passion for horses. I cannot imagine what might make society difficult for you.”
“Ah, but perhaps that is because you are not like them. My family care for me – I do not question that – but they cannot imagine a man not enjoying the same things that they do. And I do not. War changes you. It changes each man differently. But it always changes you somehow.”
“Yes, I understand that. Hunter was so very changed when he returned – so full of grief and a kind of distance. He has only come back to being the brother I remember slowly, so much better since he married Nerissa.”
Bart let the wind roll over him, washing his emotions away, as much as anything could. He envied Hunter, for having found a woman who accepted him as he was, a woman that he could make a new life with. He doubted that he would ever have that comfort – for he was far more broken than the others, and in ways that were far too visible if he spent much time around people.
The wind blew on, and they rode, seeming detached from the world below, high on the ridge line. The wind drew things out of him, and he found himself speaking them, and allowing Lady Sybilla to hear them. He did not know why, but speaking to her felt safe. He almost laughed – there was no true safety in the world.
“Some come home from war inured to death and killing. I came home abhorring it. In all forms. I accept that some animals must die for us to have meat – that is the way of the world. But I can no longer accept the concept of hunting for enjoyment, of shooting and killing something living, just for the sake of doing so, not through any kind of need. Yet my father and brothers love to hunt. And they want me to go with them. I tried. I was physically ill. They saw that as a terrible weakness. Perhaps it is. They do not say it, but they think me less of a man for it, and cannot reconcile that with the idea of a ‘war hero’.”
“How can they judge? They have not been where you have, nor seen what you have seen.”
“That is exactly why they can judge. They know nothing else than their small world – for it is small, now that I have seen more. And society is the same. The ton live in their own world, with their own rules and prejudices, and I no longer conform to what they expect of a man.”
“Surely, disliking hunting is not such a grave crime in their eyes?”
“Ah, but it is more than that. Much more.”
He took a deep breath, and Sybilla watched as emotions played across his face, flickering and gone, like the patterns that the wind made in the long grass. She waited, knowing that she had, for this man, infinite patience. She did not know why, but it was true.
“More?” Her voice was quiet, encouraging, barely heard above the wind.
“More. You… you have seen me, I think, when sudden noises happen? Have seen that I… flinch?”
“Yes. But to be startled is not such an uncommon thing.”
“Ah. But it is not just startled. If the noise is loud enough, sudden enough, close enough, then I do more than flinch. I… panic. I curl up like a terrified child, and I am, in that instant, no longer here. I am back on a battlefield, with cannon balls falling around me, with men and horses torn to pieces beside me. I cannot prevent it from happening. After a time, somewhere from minutes to hours, I come back to myself, and know that I am not on a battlefield. But knowing does not prevent it happening again, at the next sudden sound.”
The trees moaned in the wind, and his soul cried with them.
For he was certain that he knew what would happen next. She would look at him in horror, knowing that he was broken, perhaps mad, and pull away. She would no longer want to ride with him. What foolish thing had he done, to tell her this?
But she did not recoil. She simply rode on beside him, thinking, calm as always, in tune with Ghost and the world around her. Her voice surprised him, for he had not real
ly expected her to speak to him again.
“That seems an understandable reaction to me. It is a horror that I am most grateful I have never had to see. That you continue in your life, with plans for breeding horses, and for doing non-destructive things, is a good thing, come from the horror of war. But I can see how not knowing when you might react that way could make moving in social circles difficult.”
For the second time in a matter of weeks, she had turned his world upside down. He gasped, as if unable to breathe, as the enormity of it struck home. She had not rejected him when he had admitted his brokenness. Eventually, he found words.
“I wish that there were others in the world who might conceive of it the way that you do. Even I, as I live this, am not really certain of my sanity. The renovations at Dartworth Abbey have been a double-edged sword. For I find a kind of joy in seeing the damaged parts removed, and restored to their rightful state. The destruction is so that restoration can happen, renewal, of a sort. But… restoration work is necessarily full of loud noises, thumps and bumps, all of which happen without warning. The old place creaks and groans, and the wind whistles through everything, like the ghosts of past inhabitants bemoaning their fate. That I am sane seems an unlikely thing, some days.”
“Perhaps you are more sane, and certainly more courageous, than those who would discount your concerns and reactions. Greyscar Keep is a little like that. It is so old that everything creaks and moans, and the wind howls around the building, passing between it and the scarp. As a child, I was sure that it must have hidden passages and ghosts and terrible secrets buried away. As an adult, I find that I may still believe that, especially when I wake in the night to odd and unexplained sounds.”
He looked at her, astounded yet again. Perhaps it was possible for someone else to understand, at least in part.
“Yet you chose to come here, and to write a novel based around a heroine experiencing that very sort of thing. Why would you do that, if it makes you uncertain of what is real?”
“I, like you, do not much enjoy going about in society. My mother laments the fact – for my first Season was cancelled, when my father and brother died,” her voice caught, and a momentary expression of pain crossed her face, “and this year, I was totally overshadowed by Hunter, as far as the ton’s view of our family was concerned. He was a much better catch than I. But my mother still hoped that I would find someone to marry. At twenty, I am almost on the shelf, and she despairs for me. Perhaps I despair for me too. For all of the men that I met horrified me – they wished me to be pretty, and not intelligent, to not write, not read, and certainly to not rush about the countryside on a horse, with my hair blowing wildly in the wind.”
He reached for her hand, unthinking, and held it a moment, a connection of simple human warmth. Yet it was warmth that threaded through both of them with surprising strength.
He released her, as if only then realising what he had done. She spoke again, her voice barely audible.
“My mother would have me be a married woman soon, and Alyse too. In a way I agree, for it is time that Alyse and I stepped out into living our own lives, and gave Nerissa space in the house to grow into her role as Duchess. I love her dearly, and would not impose upon her too long. Life at Meltonbrook Chase is no longer comfortable for me.”
They rode on, losing themselves in the wind again, until he spoke.
“All I have come to want is an ordinary life. To breed horses, to never see death and destruction, to, perhaps, have companionship.”
“All I want is to lead a quiet life, to write, to read, to ride, and to have companionship of the kind that can respect my silences, and leave me to write when I need to.”
“It seems that we are in accord on the matter of a quiet life that includes horses.”
“Indeed. But is that what we have here – in this place that seems so steeped in gloom and the ghosts of the past?”
They were nearing the end of the ridge, where the trail wound steeply down amongst the trees towards the creek, and their conversation paused of necessity as they moved to ride single file down the narrow trail. The trees broke the wind to some extent, although it howled through their branches, and the leaves whispered – dry and rustling, like the ghosts of summer, as they clung to the branches before the wind tore them, golden and dying, away.
At the foot of the hill, they forded the stream, and the wide flat pasture spread out before them towards the Abbey. Without sparing a thought for the poor groom’s attempts to keep up, Sybilla cast her melancholy thoughts aside, and urged Ghost to a gallop, feeling as if they both rode the wild wind as they raced towards home.
Bart watched her a moment, holding Templar back as he sidled about, keen to run. With her dark hair and charcoal skirts blowing wild in the wind, and the fleet grey mare beneath her, she almost faded into the grey toned landscape, as the first drops of rain fell about them. A ghost on the wind indeed, he thought, as he gave Templar his head and committed himself to the wild wind too.
“No! I didn’t mean…”
Sybilla’s voice trailed off, as she realised that she was alone. The room was dark, the fire burnt down to embers, and the faint moonlight silvered the edges of everything, rendering the room a ghost of itself.
The same dream. Again. Her guilt ate at her – they were right – it was her fault.
For two years now, she had dreamed, over and over – it was always the same, with only one variation. Either her father, or her brother Richard would be standing in front of her, telling her that she had killed them, that everything was her fault, that they would be alive now, if she had been more ladylike, and less prone to stating her inappropriate opinions. This time, it had been her father.
It seemed so real, and she shivered, sitting up in her bed and staring about the room, as if he might appear before her, even while she was awake.
Perhaps in this house, he might. Here, the thought that her father’s ghost might haunt her did not seem so far-fetched. Always, in the dream, she tried to explain – but they never listened, they just berated and accused her, and she would wake with tears on her face, and desolation in her heart.
This time, something, some sound, had woken her in the middle of the dream. She shivered again, as loud creaks and groans sounded from the walls around her, and the wind shrieked as it passed through the ill-fitting window frame in her dressing room. It was almost as if the house was joining her father in accusing her.
Sleep would not be easy to find, now. Sybilla pushed back the covers, pulled a warm wrap around her, and lit a candle from the embers of the fire. She could not just sit here, the dream replaying in her mind, and the house conspiring to make it seem more real. She would go down to the library. This situation called for a book, and a brandy. Definitely a brandy. Perhaps that would help her get some more sleep before morning.
As she slipped down the stairs, she felt as if she had gone back in time somehow – the house seemed ancient, and faded to black and white in the feeble glow of her candle. The paintings on the walls, most likely some distant ancestors of hers, stared accusingly at her as she dared to disturb their darkness.
In the library, she lit more candles, and poked the fire to life, adding more wood from the pile set to one side, ready for the morning. With more light. She felt better. She went to the cabinet where the brandy decanter stood waiting, and poured a rather large glass.
“Don’t be silly, Sybilla. The way you are thinking, you might just as well be the heroine in your own novel, starting at the slightest thing, and seeing ghosts in every corner. It was just a dream.”
Her voice sounded odd in the empty room, and she sipped the brandy, (yet another unladylike habit of hers…) appreciating its warmth, as she wandered along the shelves, seeking a book to read. The library was marvellous – a huge collection of books, many of which were very old, yet in excellent condition, and she had barely begun to explore its possibilities.
What to read? Certainly not a gothic novel! Nor anything
dark and serious. Something light was called for, after that dream. Perhaps one of Shakespeare’s comedies, if she could find them here.
Finally, she found them – on a shelf below a collection of books on Alchemy and magic. She shivered a little, wondering what ancestor had collected those. Selecting a comedy, she went to sit by the fire and read. But she could not concentrate – the dream still nagged at her – it had seemed so real. She found herself wishing that Lord Barton was beside her, that she might talk to him about it, might admit her terrible sin, her abiding guilt, and find relief in sharing the burden. She was sure that the simple pleasure of his conversation would ease her mind.
But… if she told him what she had done, surely he would turn away from her in horror, as any reasonable man would. She was not so brave as to risk that, for she treasured his company too much to risk losing it. She was not good. She should be fair to the man, and let him know just what sort of woman he was spending his time with. But she could not bring herself to do so.
She was disgusted with herself – it felt dishonest to not reveal her faults to him, when he had been so open with her, about his own problems. Perhaps she would be braver later. The branch in the fire popped as it burned, startling her, and the library door moved, groaning as it did so.
Just the wind, she told herself, firmly, ghosts are not real, they are stories to scare children. Still… in this house… she was not quite certain of it. She tried to read again, with no more success. Eventually, she finished the brandy, left the glass on the side table, and took the book back to her bedroom. Perhaps, if she read in bed, she might manage to fall asleep again.
~~~~~
Bart woke suddenly, as a thunderous crash echoed through the house. In the dark, coming from sleep he had nothing to anchor him to now. The panic took him, and he curled, shaking, into the smallest ball that he could, a whimper of fear escaping him. The wind howled around the house, rattling the window shutters, and in Bart’s panicked state, it seemed like gunfire.
Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9) Page 3