“Certainly, Lord Barton. But I haven’t seen anything related to it, so far.”
“I suspected as much, but it was worth asking.”
He bowed, always the gentleman, and turned to follow Lady Sybilla.
“Gallowbridge House? I have noticed it, but why are you interested in it, in particular?”
“My interest began simply enough – I want to buy it. Its pastureland is the best in the valley – perfect for horse breeding, the place is well located, between Greyscar Keep and here, so I would have neighbours that I know, and I am sure that the house could be made reasonable, at least. I need a place of my own, before the Marquess of Dartworth returns to England.”
“But you said ‘began’ – is there more to your interest now?”
“Yes. It has proven impossible to buy. I don’t even know who the owner is – Tideswell, my man of business, has been working through a man of business in the closest town, who acts for the owner. But to no avail. Yet everyone tells me that the place has been empty for many years. So I am intrigued – why would the owner not use it, and not sell?”
“Empty? I thought that it looked rather stark and a little poorly cared for, when we drove past it, but empty for years?”
“Yes, odd isn’t it. One would expect at least a caretaker. But there is nothing, no-one.”
“Could we ride there today, going across the fields, rather than up along the ridge? You have made me curious – I’d like to see it close up.”
“Why not? I must confess, I have never actually gone right up to the house, and looked closely at the surrounds – I was more focused on the pastureland – one can fix a house, one cannot magically change the landscape.”
“A very wise approach to choosing a property. But let us see what clues the house can provide.”
They were soon on their way, the groom following at a distance as always, as a blustery wind began to blow.
The horses danced about, the wind lifting their manes and tails, making them want to gallop with it. The last leaves were stripped from the trees, a gold and red storm that pattered against them as they rode, leaving behind bare branches that reached for the grey wintry sky.
For a while, they let the horses run, until their first energy was spent, and they were willing to walk for a while, steady and calm as they normally were. Soon, Gallowbridge House was visible across the fields. They forded the small stream and rode towards the back of the house. Seen from here, it was quite different from the view from the road.
It had buildings that looked like stables, set to one side at the rear. And against the back of the house was a small structure, which, as they came closer, they could see was a tiny chapel. It seemed that most of these very old houses had once had private chapels. There was a gate into the stableyard area, which hung on one hinge, creaking in the wind. Riding through, they went towards the house, and saw that, beside the chapel, there was a small graveyard with a few forlorn headstones. Oddly, the grass in the graveyard was trimmed, even though that elsewhere was not.
Riding back the short distance to the stable buildings, Sybilla slipped down from the saddle, and found a spot to tether Ghost. It was a spot where, no doubt, many horses had stood in the past, for there was a dip in the ground worn by their hooves. Lord Barton joined her, tethering Templar not far away from Ghost.
The groom was still some distance away, as usual. She supposed that he would take shelter from the wind in the stable building.
Relying on that, and with an idle thought about what he might find in there, she turned. Of one accord, they walked back towards the graveyard.
The wind whistled through the trees, causing them to scratch and scrape against the old house, the sound seeming overly loud.
The empty house loomed above them, somehow mournful, stark against the grey clouded sky. The door of the tiny chapel stood open, creaking as the wind moved it. Sybilla shivered, then forced herself to walk forward and push the door further open. It was a simple, quite bare chapel, with some carving around the sides, and pale light from the two high windows illuminating the dust and drifts of leaves that had been undisturbed for so many years.
There were no plaques, no memorials inside – just a sense of peace, and sadness. She turned back to the outside, and made her way into the graveyard. Lord Barton was ahead of her, bending down to brush the red and gold wreathing of blown leaves away from one of the gravestones.
“Lady Sybilla – look, this one is quite readable – and not so very old.”
Sybilla bent down to see, conscious of him, so close beside her. Memory of that kiss, in the crypt below Dartworth Abbey, rose in her mind, and she felt warm all over, no longer feeling the sharpness of the wind. Her hair, blown loose from its pins as usual, drifted forward, blocking her view. She brushed it aside, tucking it behind her ear, and studied the inscription on the stone.
Here lies
Ella Kentworthy
Marchioness of Dartworth
1730 to 1770
Better to love truly than to follow convention.
Wife to Titus Kentworthy, Marquess of Dartworth,
Beloved of Stanford Barrington,
Loving mother of George and Genevieve.
“How strange. Does that mean what it implies, I wonder?”
“I suspect so. It would seem that the Marchioness had an affair that is acknowledged even here – for what else could those words mean? And I must wonder – which man was the father of her children? Surely the title would not have passed to a man whose birth might have been in doubt?”
Sybilla was silent as she considered his words, looking at the stark simplicity of the headstone, here in this forgotten graveyard – which was, in itself, a puzzle – for she would have expected the Marchioness to have been buried in the cemetery beside the vicar’s church, with all of the others in the long line of Kentworthys.
“And… ‘Stanford Barrington’ – I think… if I remember correctly, that Stanford was my great grandfather’s name…”
“If so, then your family, and that of the current Marquess are linked, through whatever happened here. I did not expect to discover a mystery today, but it seems that we have.”
“Indeed. And now that I have seen this, I must know more. It is as if I am living a gothic novel, not just writing one!”
They looked at the other graves, but all were much older, and the inscriptions barely readable. Leaving the graveyard, they walked around the house, seeing no sign of anyone having been there for a long time – yet… the building seemed in quite good repair, as if it had been given at least minimal maintenance. It was strange – and made the whole place feel more eerie. The wind had risen even more, and the trees thrashed against each other, and the house.
The horses sidled about, but stayed where they were - they were well trained and their calm temperaments helped. As they turned away from the house, there was a loud, sharp cracking noise, and a very large branch from the tree almost directly overhead broke off, and came crashing down beside them. Sybilla flinched aside, just avoiding splintered pieces of wood, but Lord Barton’s reaction was far more violent.
He screamed, and dropped to the ground, curling into a tight ball, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Sybilla was startled by the intensity of it – but he had told her that this was what happened. After hesitating a moment, unsure what was best to do, she made a decision. She lowered herself to sit on the ground beside him, her back against the wall of the house,
Edging carefully as close to him as she could get, she reached out to gently touch him. He twitched away a little when her hand first made contact, then seemed to relax into her touch.
She stroked her hand across his shoulders, over and over, then, ever so carefully, she moved herself, and him, so that his head rested almost in her lap.
She slid her arms around him, and held him to her, murmuring gentle reassurance as she did. The words did not matter, for she had no idea what words would be best – but the tone of her voice did matter,
she somehow knew.
For it was clear to her at that moment, that what he needed most was contact with something real, here, now, to pull him back from the ghosts of the battlefield. After a little, his voice joined hers, a low muttered repetition of words that she could not make out. That he lived with the possibility of this happening, every day, and still was as strong a man as he was, amazed her. The courage that would take!
Minutes passed, as their voices wove through each other, underlaid by the howl of the wind and the creaking of the trees. She had no sense of how long they stayed like that, but, eventually, she felt the tightness in him lessen. His eyes opened, and he jerked back against her, surprised to find her face so close to his. She brushed a gentle kiss across his forehead, a little shocked at her own daring, and loosened her arms, giving him the space to ease himself up to a sitting position beside her.
“I… apologise, Lady Sybilla. I had hoped that you would never have to see me like that.”
His eyes were pools of despair, as if he had lost everything that he cared for. She did not know why. She ached to take that despair away.
“There is nothing to apologise for, Lord Barton. It was a most understandable reaction, given the suddenness and the sharpness of the sound. I am glad to see that it has released you, enough for you to converse with me again.”
His face was full of confusion, as if he had expected her words to be far different. That thought filled her, in her turn, with confusion – what other response could he have expected from her?
“Thank you. What did cause the noise?”
She indicated the shattered remains of the tree branch, not far from where they sat.
“The tree. It seems that the wind was too much for these old branches, and a rather large one broke off, and fell, almost on top of us.”
His expression became concerned, and contrite.
“I must apologise again – for I have not enquired about your wellbeing. I hope that none of the falling timber hit you?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think so – at least, not that I noticed. Some small pieces did collide with my skirts, but nothing more.”
“I am relieved to hear that! I believe that I am now capable of standing, so I suggest that we move from this location, before another branch chooses to fall.”
As if to add emphasis to his words, the tree above them creaked ominously, under another onslaught of wind. Templar whinnied, as if calling them to be gone. He rose, carefully, still a little shaky, using the wall of the house for stability, then, gentlemanly as always, held out his hand to help Sybilla rise.
She took it, delighting in the feel of his hand in hers, and pulled herself up, careful not to destabilise him.
He seemed so calm, so strong and determined, forcing his body to obey, even after being so distressed such a short while before. She could, she supposed, see how some might see his affliction as weakness, but all she saw was a man of great courage, who overcame all challenges through sheer force of will.
They walked to the horses, his stride becoming steadier with each step, and the wind swirled around them, battering them with leaves, twisting her hair into a tangle that whipped across her face. As they reached the horses, the groom peered from in the stable, and went to come out. She waved him back, to get his mount, and mounted Ghost as Lord Barton held her steady in the wind. She was glad that she wasn’t one of those women who could not get themselves onto a horse without a mounting block. She settled into the saddle as Lord Barton mounted Templar, and they moved towards the gate, the groom emerging from the stable as they did.
~~~~~
Bart’s mind was in turmoil. For the third time, she had completely rearranged his world. He had demonstrated his weakness, at full force, right beside her, and she had not immediately recoiled in horror, she seemed to be treating him as she always had. He could not comprehend it, was afraid to even believe it. Perhaps he was mad, perhaps he was still locked in the attack, and all of this was a delusion. He could not tell, but the wind that howled around them like a mad thing seemed real enough, as did the darkening storm clouds above.
She had held him, spoken to him, stayed with him as he relived the horrors – he was sure of it. He had come back to himself in her arms, his head and shoulder across her lap. That much he could piece together from the confusion that always followed an attack, for at least the first few minutes. And he thought – had he imagined it? – that she had kissed his brow. Surely he had imagined it. What woman would do such a thing, when presented with such a display of failure and weakness in a man. Still, even if he had imagined it, he would treasure it.
Inside he was still shaking, but his legs held him, and he thought that he managed a creditable mount onto Templar, without too much inelegance. The groom emerged from the stables as they rode towards the gate and Lady Sybilla shook her head, flicking her hair back from her eyes, the wind taking it and making it stream out behind her.
She looked like a wild thing – magnificent, and made for the storm. The first drops of rain struck them, and the wind redoubled its force. She looked at him, her face alight.
“We had best hurry. How fast can we get back to the Abbey, do you think?”
She did not give him time to answer, she simply urged Ghost forward. The mare went willingly, full of the wind and impatient after the long wait at Gallowbridge House. A different kind of madness took him, the kind of rash, joyous craziness that he had felt, long ago as a youth, before he had ever seen war. Templar leapt forward at his command, and he gave himself utterly to the ride – to the wind and rain, to the speed, and the exhilaration of the moment. The panic and the horrors were forgotten, blown away on the wind.
He was gaining on her, but the mare was fast. They splashed across the flooding stream, side by side, and her laughter reached him as she urged the mare to greater efforts. The rain was in earnest now, soaking them, half blinding them, yet still they raced on, until the buildings of the Abbey rose out of the grey wall of rain in front of them.
They pulled the horses back to a steadier pace, and entered the stableyard together, flushed, laughing and utterly exhilarated. They slid from the horses, and took them into the warm stables, where the grooms would rub them down and keep them walking up and down until they cooled without chilling.
He gave a thought to the poor groom that they had left so far behind, in the driving rain. He would make sure that the man was well cared for when he finally reached the Abbey.
Once inside the house, they looked in on the library, to let Miss Millpost know that they had returned. Her expression said that she thought them quite mad, and her words were almost as direct.
“You both look as if you have been drowned and come back from the deeps. Lady Sybilla, I do not think that I have ever seen you look less like a Lady!” They laughed at her reaction, still caught up in the energy of their ride. She sniffed. “Well, if that’s the way you want to be, I’ll just go back to these nice dry books. They don’t laugh at my opinions.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Millpost. I’m not laughing at you, exactly. I am laughing because I just had more fun than I have had for some years. I think that we should go and dry off before the parlour fire, with some tea.”
Miss Millpost, with a longsuffering expression, put down the book that she held.
“Then I had best do my duty as chaperone, and come with you.”
“Of course.”
Bart wished, in that moment, that Miss Millpost were not so dutiful. He would be happy to spend more time alone with Lady Sybilla, to extend the sense of intimacy that their shared joy in the wild ride had created. He had much to think on. Lady Sybilla’s reaction to his attack had raised the tiniest flame of hope in him. Was it possible that a woman might see past his brokenness to the man inside?
No matter what the answer to that question was, in the instant, he was happy – happier than he had been since… happier than he had been in almost ten years, since before he went to war. And tha
t within an hour of an attack! Miracles were happening. And he knew at whose door to lay them.
Her face was still alight with energy, and she seemed more bright and alive than he had ever seen her – perhaps the wild ride had lifted some of the sadness for Lady Sybilla too – the sadness that he sensed in her at times, as if there was something unresolved, something that she was not willing to talk about.
In time, perhaps she would trust him enough to share her concerns, as he had rashly shared his.
~~~~~
The storm passed, leaving the afternoon clear and cold.
The warmth of the fire dried them, their clothes steaming as they sat close to the heat, and they told Miss Millpost of what they had found. Sybilla could see, by the glint in Miss Millpost’s eye, as she described the headstone in the graveyard, that Miss Millpost would be as enthusiastic in researching this mystery as Sybilla would.
Although Sybilla wanted to stay, for she did not want to lose the sense of connection that she had with Lord Barton, after their wild ride in the storm – a sense of shared enjoyment in such a thing, which she had never felt with anyone before - there really was no excuse to stay, now that she was at least mostly dry.
As they took their leave, with polite platitudes, all the while, she was possessed of a desire to throw her arms around him, to go further than that gentle kiss upon his brow.
She did not. That would be foolish. No matter how much they might have in common, with their wildness on horseback, she could never allow it to be more, to believe that it could be more – for, once she told him of her terrible actions, of the guilt that she carried, he would turn away. She knew it, for any reasonable man would do so.
Such thoughts took away, a little, from the giddy happiness that she had felt, when they had arrived back at the Abbey. In the carriage as they returned to Greyscar Keep, she distracted herself by considering, again, the puzzle of Gallowbridge House, and the grave of Ella Kentworthy.
Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9) Page 6