Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9)

by Arietta Richmond

  Some time later – which might have been minutes, or many hours, for all that he could tell – he came back to himself, slowly becoming aware that he was still alive, that he lay on a comfortable mattress, between clean sheets, not on a muddy battlefield in Spain. He wondered what had caused the crash that had triggered him – or had it even been real? Had he, perhaps, dreamed even that?

  He could no longer tell. Perhaps, after all, he was a little mad. In a sense, ghosts haunted him – of men dead in battle, far from here.

  But when they surrounded him, it seemed so real, and in those moments, he could not tell the difference. The wind howled again, the shutters rattled, and the old building groaned in response. It would be easy to believe in ghosts, surrounded by such sounds, in the middle of the night.

  He forced himself to get out of bed, and stand, on legs that still shook a little, before wrapping his banyan around him, and lighting the candle that stood ready on his bedside table. He would go down to his study, have a glass of brandy, and give himself time to reconnect to the here and now.

  In the candle’s feebly flickering light, the halls seemed longer, and the paintings seemed almost alive, as the light moved across them. He shuddered, especially at the ones depicting men in uniform. In the study, he lit more candles, and built up the fire, before pouring some brandy.

  As he sipped the brandy, he still felt odd, detached, as if he were not quite here, even though he knew that he was not back in a battlefield. The house was eerie at night, with everyone but him asleep, and the creaks and groans of the old timbers seemed all too similar to the moans of the dead and dying on the battlefield. He refused to let his mind take him back there.

  As he had since his return from France and Spain, he wished for someone to talk to, someone who would not ridicule him for his weakness. But now, when that thought rose in his mind, a face came with it. He thought of Lady Sybilla, and how she had not rejected him as a person, when he had revealed his brokenness to her. He savoured the memory of the simple pleasure that her conversation brought him, and the shared joy of rides in the wild wind on the hills.

  That same wild wind that now howled and moaned around the house, like a demented soul.

  He wished she were beside him, there in the dark house, for her presence soothed him. He had not realised, until she came, how lonely he had been, here at Dartworth Abbey. He was glad to be away from his family, but he had missed company. But that was foolishness, to think of her here. She may not have rejected him when he had spoken of his troubles, his marginal sanity, but she surely would do so if she saw him when the full force of it overtook him.

  For that reason, thinking of Lady Sybilla brought him bittersweet comfort – for truly, what woman would want a broken man like him? She might be wonderful to talk to, might ride better than most of the men he knew, and might even care about many of the same things that he did – but she was a gently reared woman, of some considerable beauty, with the chance to have, most likely, any man of the ton – why would she ever look at him as more than a friend, to keep her company whilst she stayed at Greyscar Keep and worked on her novel?

  Whilst she had spoken of not liking any of the men she had met during the Season, that did not mean that she would not find an agreeable suitor – one who was whole of mind, as well as body. He would not delude himself. He would appreciate her friendship, but not look to ever have more.

  He was not yet ready to seek his bed again, yet he could not simply sit, indulging in wishful thinking about Lady Sybilla. He needed to distract himself. He turned his thoughts to Gallowbridge House. Tideswell’s news had not been good, not when he had first asked about the house, nor yet, months later.

  Bart wanted the place – it was as simple as that. Christmas was soon approaching, and somewhere then, or in January, Oliver would return, and perhaps wish Bart to move out of Dartworth Abbey – perhaps not, for Lady Georgiana was at Casterfield Grange, so they might stay there somewhat longer. Still, he would prefer to own his own property, before that point.

  And Gallowbridge House was perfect. Large enough to be a good house to live in, with, from what he had seen, adequate stables for his purposes, and with a large area of land as its estate. Land that was mainly beautiful pasture, with a number of creeks and streams running through it. For his horse breeding program, he could not imagine a better location – especially as Oliver seemed happy for Dartworth Abbey land to be used as well. It was well located, between Dartworth Abbey and Greyscar Keep – so that his neighbours would also be his close friends. In addition, it was empty – apparently had been empty for many years, according to Graves.

  Which made it all the more frustrating that the owner apparently did not wish to sell. Tideswell had enquired of the magistrate of the area, and of the vicar, who had put him in contact with the person they believed to be the owner’s man of business. Mr Greeve had confirmed that one of his clients owned Gallowbridge House. He had also been absolutely certain that they would not sell.

  So far, Tideswell had pursued it, but the answer was still no. There was no reason for the refusal, that they had been able to discover. It grated on Bart, that he should have found the perfect location for his breeding enterprise, only to have it denied him for no more than the whim of a wealthy man.

  He was at a loss – how could he change that decision? But he would persist – he did not give up easily, and he wanted this, perhaps, more than anything he had wanted before. It certainly wasn’t a matter of money, for he had offered far more than the property was worth, because to him, its worth was not measured in coin. Yet still they had refused. The puzzle of it chafed at him, ever-present.

  He sighed, tossing back the last of the brandy, and decided to go back to bed. The wind had dropped, and perhaps sleep would be possible. It would certainly be of more benefit to him than sitting here, wishing for a woman he would never have, and a house that perhaps he would never have either.

  He dropped into sleep with surprising ease, and dreamed – of dark hair, storm dark eyes, and kissing the woman he could never have.

  Dartworth Abbey was full of surprises. As the workmen progressed to the most run-down parts of the building, having first restored the roof to a waterproof state, they began to uncover things that they had not expected. Whilst the roof had been broken, there had been considerable water damage in many areas – to the extent that the timber panelling on the walls of many rooms had to be removed, as it had warped and rotted beyond recovery.

  But behind the timber was not plain stone, as they had thought. There was plaster, and, in many cases, murals and decoration painted onto the walls. There were niches – some bricked up. Now, each day, everyone was eager to see what might be uncovered next. Bart supposed that it should not have been such a great surprise – after all, the oldest part of the building had been constructed at least 600 years ago. Fashions in interiors had changed more than a few times across the years.

  The revelations made Bart more curious than ever about the history of the Abbey.

  Whilst the library was extensive, he had not yet found any part of it dedicated to the history of Dartworth Abbey. It was, in fact, rather alarmingly haphazard in its placement of books. That had improved a little of late, for, whilst he and Lady Sybilla rode most mornings, Miss Millpost was very pleased to allow a groom to go with them for propriety’s sake, and to immerse herself in the library. Which had resulted in her beginning to organise it. Whilst she would eventually discover any history stored there, he was not willing to wait that long, now that his curiosity was aroused.

  It seemed best to seek another source of information. On the few occasions that he had visited the local villages and towns, he had heard multiple mentions of the vicar’s obsession with the history of all of the oldest houses in the district. Therefore, a visit to the church seemed in order.

  ~~~~~

  It was a beautiful church – although plain in style and fairly small, it was almost as old as Dartworth Abbey, and the cemetery behind
it occupied a large area, with gravestones large and small scattered about, shaded by a huge yew tree, and slowly being overrun by the grasses and vines. The vicarage was beside the church, but when he knocked at the door, Mrs Bell, the housekeeper, informed him that Mr Godfrey, the vicar, was over in the church.

  When Bart entered, pausing to appreciate the colours cast on the interior through the delicate stained-glass windows placed high in each wall, he initially did not see the vicar.

  “Achooooo!”

  Bart stepped forward, seeking the source of the sneeze. He discovered the vicar, on his knees, just backing inelegantly out of a rather large cavity in the altar. The vicar saw him and rose, dusting off his garments, with the result of causing himself another sneeze.

  “I do apologise. Every so often, I must clear the dust from inside the altar, and make sure that the Saint’s holy bones are still as they should be. I must confess to the sin of delaying doing so as long as possible, because I always sneeze so very badly. Now, my Lord, what can I help you with today?”

  Bart moved forward further, from the shadows near the door, to where the coloured light fell full on his face. The vicar, taking in his appearance, paled dramatically, and gasped.

  “Good day to you vicar. I must also apologise, for I have now been residing in this district for four months, and, whilst I have attended your excellent services, I have not previously introduced myself. I am Lord Barton Seddon. I am currently staying at Dartworth Abbey, to oversight the repair work whilst the Marquess is travelling.”

  The vicar had pulled himself together whilst Bart spoke, and seemed more composed, although he stammered a little when he next spoke.

  “I am glad to see you my Lord. And glad to see Dartworth Abbey being restored to its former glory. It is a fine building, and a key part of this area’s history. I was most distressed when the previous Marquess let it fall into disrepair.”

  “The history of Dartworth Abbey is exactly why I have come to see you today.”

  “Oh – how can I help?”

  “I have heard mention that you are a dedicated researcher into the history of the oldest estates in the area, so I felt that you may be able to assist me. But tell me, forgive me if I seem rude, but I must ask – when you first saw me clearly just now, you looked rather shocked – almost as if you had seen a ghost, you were so pale. Why did my appearance draw that reaction from you?”

  The vicar looked rather embarrassed, and a little sheepish.

  “Ah, to explain that, I must show you something – something which is also related to the history of Dartworth Abbey. One moment.” He turned, and tidied the area, carefully closing the panel to the altar cavity, so that, once more, it looked a simple carved structure, before turning back to Bart. “If you will follow me.”

  The vicar led him through the vestry, and to a small door. He lit the lantern that stood waiting on a shelf beside it, and unlocking the door, led Bart through, and down steep narrow stairs. The chill was palpable, and the air was musty and faintly tainted with aged decay.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs. It was a crypt. Complete with tombs and effigies, some of which seemed very old. The vicar led Bart through the tombs to the largest one, located far back in the space. He said nothing – he simply held the lantern above the carved head of the knight who lay upon the tomb.

  It was Bart’s turn to gasp. It was like looking in a mirror. The carved face before him might almost have been his own.

  There were small differences, but still, the resemblance was uncanny. A chill passed through him, and he felt unaccountably disturbed. That a man, dead five centuries, should look so like him was eerie. No wonder the vicar had paled.

  “I… see…”

  “Let us go back up into the light of day, and I will tell you about him – what I know, anyway.”

  Bart nodded his agreement, and gladly followed the vicar up out of the crypt.

  The crypt door locked again, the vicar led him to a bench which stood against the wall of the church, looking out across the cemetery, perfectly placed to catch the warmth from the sun. Settled there, his back against the sun warmed stone, Bart felt the cold of the tomb below begin to leave him.

  “You said that he – the knight below – was related to the history of Dartworth Abbey?”

  “Yes, yes indeed. His name was Edward Cetan de Hirst. When it was first built, Dartworth Abbey was a house of the Templar order. In the 1320’s, when the order was banned, Edward led those who arrested the Templars, and claimed the Abbey for the crown. He lived there, holding it in trust until his death, when the King at the time granted the properties to Sir Ralph Kentworthy. Edward was not very popular with the people hereabouts, for many had sons, brothers or ancestors who had joined the Templars at the Abbey. Sir Ralph was better liked as he was a man from not far from here, and well known to them.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? As you have been told, I am rather obsessed with the history of all of the estates in the area. I have often wondered what may be tucked away at Dartworth Abbey, unseen by anyone for centuries. Because it was a Templar house, there have always been rumours – that Templar treasure must be concealed there, or that the violence that occurred when the Templars were ousted must have left the place haunted. I doubt both of those ideas, but the concept that there are things we have not found – that I can believe.”

  “You were right to wonder. For that is what has brought me to you today. The restoration work has reached the stage where the men are working on the oldest parts of the building. The roofs had leaked so badly that we have had to remove almost all of the wall panelling in some areas. And behind it, we have found, not plain stone, but plastered walls, painted with murals. As well, there have been bricked up niches and pieces of carved decoration.” The vicar’s eyes had lit with fanatical interest as Bart spoke, “I do not know enough of the history to know what to make of it. I had hoped that you might come to see it, and tell us more of the history of the place.”

  “I… I am overwhelmed at the very idea. Thank you. I most certainly will come to see these wonders. Might I be so bold as to ask – may I also have access to Dartworth Abbey’s library? I have been certain, for many years, that there are books and documents there which will fill gaps in my knowledge.”

  “Of course, and you will find a kindred soul there. Lady Sybilla Barrington, who is staying at Greyscar Keep at present, has a companion who is also passionate about books, and history. She has taken it upon herself to begin putting the library in order.”

  “But that is wonderful!”

  “If it is not too much of an imposition – can you come tomorrow? I do not wish to delay the restoration, yet I also do not wish to damage what we have found.”

  “I most certainly can. Perhaps around the hour of noon?”

  “That would suit well.”

  “Thank you, again. I can hardly wait to see these wonders that you have uncovered.”

  ~~~~~

  “Mrs Westby, might I ask you some questions? About Greyscar Keep.”

  “Lady Sybilla – I am not sure that there’s very much to tell, but please ask, and I will try to answer.”

  Mrs Westby did not look pleased, thought Sybilla. Whilst her words had been everything that was polite, she had stiffened when Sybilla asked, and looked unhappy about it. Still Sybilla persisted.

  “Greyscar Keep seems so very old – do you know when it was built? Is it of a similar age to Dartworth Abbey?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know. It could be – but I’ve never seen a date anywhere to prove it.”

  “I have been looking in the library – often, when I sit there to write, at the escritoire beneath the window, I end up thinking about the history of this place. I have looked through the library, but found little about it.”

  “Most of what’s in the library was collected at least two generations ago. I’ve been working here since I was a girl, and the Barringtons have never spent more than
a few days at a time here, in all those years. Until you. So, little has been added, and nothing has been organised, for a very long time.”

  “I only remember a little about the few times we came here, when I was a child. My mother found it all too stark and gloomy. But I was intrigued. I have always thought that this was the sort of house where there would be hidden passages, and ghosts and the like. I suppose that’s all childish fancy. But… are there hidden passages, or anything like that? Do you know?”

  Mrs Westby looked at her, a hard expression on her face, as if she disapproved of the question entirely.

  “Really, Lady Sybilla! What a thing for a grown woman to ask. If there are hidden passages, they can stay hidden! I’ve no desire to be finding things like that.”

  Sybilla was disappointed – in her novel, there would definitely be hidden passages! Still… Mrs Westby had not answered all of her question.

  “And other things? Are there secret drawers in the furniture? Or stories of ghosts haunting the house, or other houses nearby? My novel will be ever so much better if I can draw on real ghost stories to create dramatic scenes to trap my heroine in.”

  Mrs Westby was silent, as if considering what to tell her. Then her face cleared, and she smiled, warmly.

  “Well, if you really want to hear that sort of faradiddle…”

  “I do, it would really help.”

  “All right then. Yes, there are plenty of stories about places being haunted – not just this house, but the Abbey, and many others. Some of them are rather gruesome. I’ve wondered myself if any are true, or based on true things that happened. Living here, so close to Combe Gibbet and Gallows Down, perhaps people are inspired by the reminders of death, and create tales.”

  “Hmmm – let’s start with stories about ghosts that are supposed to haunt this house, and the Abbey.”

  “Let me just get some tea, and we can sit here at the kitchen table, if you don’t mind, and I’ll tell you as much as I can remember.”