“Miss Millpost?”
The gentle snores were interrupted suddenly.
“Yes?”
“Do you think that there will be something at Greyscar Keep which might help us find out about Stanford Barrington and Ella Kentworthy? Or perhaps Mrs Westby will know something?”
“Mrs Westby can be a close one. I’m not at all sure that, even if she knows something, she’ll tell us. But I’ll see if I can get her gossiping.”
“At least we can ask. And we can look in the library, and other parts of the house. Now that we know what we are looking for, or, rather, who we are looking for, perhaps it will be easier to find something – for surely, only a few generations back, and with a Barrington involved, there must be some information, somewhere?”
Sybilla and Miss Millpost were sitting in the small private parlour, which was shared by their suites at Greyscar Keep.
The day was cold, and the feel of winter was strong in the air. The fire in the grate only just managed to warm the room.
“This past week, I think that I have asked all of the staff here about Gallowbridge House and my ancestors. They all say that they know nothing. The maid and the footman, I can believe, they are quite young. Mina says that they haven’t even lived in the district very long. I think that she’s sweet on the footman, actually. But I am quite sure that Mr and Mrs Westby know more than they are telling.”
“I agree. When we first got here, she was all gossip about the district, but now, when I asked her about Gallowbridge House – well, she went as white as a ghost, and got all busy. She suddenly had no time to talk.”
“How annoying! I am not getting as much writing done as I had hoped – I keep getting distracted, and searching through the library here in the hope of finding something.”
“Hmm – well you have the best reason to be in there, and digging through things, with your writing to do. Not that you should need a reason – it’s your brother’s house, after all! I think that I shall develop an absolute fascination with seeing every inch of the place. Mrs Westby already thinks me nosy, so I will just confirm that. Who knows what old papers might be in desks or drawers in other rooms in this huge old house?”
“Thank you, Miss Millpost. I simply have to know what happened. That gravestone has made me aware of how little I know about my family history.”
~~~~~
‘Bless Miss Millpost’s orderliness’ – Bart’s thought was the same, each day that he attempted to search further through the library of Dartworth Abbey. He had soon concluded that there was nothing to help him discover more about Gallowbridge House, or Titus Kentworthy, in the parts of the library that she had sorted. Therefore, if there was anything, it was in the rest. Which was still a lot to sift through, but he was determined.
If he were to eventually own Gallowbridge House, as he was determined to do, he wanted to know about its history – to know the story behind that gravestone. He should also ask the vicar – if he could ever get him to stay out of the crypt long enough. The crypt, it seemed, had actually been sealed up for 500 years – since the time of the Templars.
The vicar was slowly cataloguing everything down there, with the assistance of a secretary, provided by Bart, and an inordinate number of candles and lanterns. What he had found so far was quite remarkable. And, whilst it was extremely likely that he did know much of the history of Gallowbridge House and the more recent generations of Kentworthys, getting him to focus on that, rather than 500 years ago, was going to be a challenge.
The last few days, Bart had felt lonely – more so than he ever had before. Between the cold wet weather, and the search for information about that gravestone, at both Greyscar Keep and the Abbey, they had not seen each other, had not been out riding, for days on end. He missed Lady Sybilla’s company. His time with her had become the high point of his days.
He knew himself for a fool, knew that it was dangerous to allow himself to feel that way. For what woman would want to spend her days buried in the country, with nothing to focus on but horses? She might seem perfect to him now, might say that she only desired a quiet life, to write, and to ride good horses, but really, was that likely? It was probably only a passing phase, which would last until the novel was written, and that was ticked off as an accomplishment. Even if she truly did just wish that quiet life, what woman would tie herself to a damaged man like him?
No, letting himself become attached to her was not a good idea at all. Yet he yearned for her company. And his mind kept replaying what he remembered of the attack of the terrors that he had suffered at Gallowbridge House. She had seen it all, and she had not turned away in disgust. Or… was that why he had seen less of her since that day?
Once a thought was thought, it could not be unthought. The idea wormed its way into him, leaving sadness in its wake. If that were the case, so be it. He would squash his hopeless yearnings before they could become too painful. He would focus on the mystery that was Gallowbridge House, simply because knowing more would make him happier about buying the place. And, of course, because knowing more about her ancestor would please Lady Sybilla.
On his fifth day of searching, fruitlessly, in the library, another idea occurred to him. He wondered why he had not thought of it before.
There was a section of the building, close to the part in which he was living, that had been repaired, but was closed up, as he did not need that much space. It contained, if he remembered aright, the room which had been Oliver’s father’s study. The room had been, when he had seen it some time ago, much as it must have been when Oliver’s father was alive. Nothing had been touched. The furniture had been covered with dust sheets, and the roof and walls checked for damage, but nothing had been required to be done.
It was, almost certainly, still exactly like that. What if there were records of family history in there?
Taking a candle with him, for the day was grey and dim, and that part of the house was dark and closed up, Bart let himself into the unused wing, and made his way to the old study. The room was dark – the window shutters had been closed, and the cloth shrouded furniture hunched in the darkness like a herd of ghostly monsters waiting to pounce. He laughed at the concept, even as he thought of it, and set his candle stick down upon the desk. Where to start?
The desk itself held nothing of import, just a collection of scribbled notes and a cancelled chit for a gambling debt. There were no secret drawers or cavities that Bart could detect. He moved on to the sideboards and bookshelves which stood against the walls. As he turned in place, deciding which set of shelves to examine next, he looked back towards the door. On the wall beside it, in a large gilded frame, hung what appeared to be an illuminated family tree.
With an exclamation of pleasure, he went to it, and lifted it carefully down from the wall. With the candle close to it, he could see that, whilst the parchment like paper was aged and yellowed, it did show the generations right down to Oliver’s father. And there, two generations before that, was Titus Kentworthy, married to Ella Cholmondley, and their son, George, who was Oliver’s grandfather.
There was no other child shown for them. Which meant that Genevieve…
Leaving it lying on the desk, he continued his search, but found nothing else of interest. Still, the family tree was a significant find and confirmed at least part of what they had interpreted from the gravestone. And, it gave them Ella’s maiden name – which might allow other avenues of research.
Excited, and wishing that Lady Sybilla was there, so that he might show her immediately, he gathered it up, and made to leave the study. Looking up at the wall above the desk, he stopped, caught by the eyes of the man whose portrait hung in pride of place. It was as if the painted man stared at him, condemning him for removing the family tree from the room. A chill ran through him, and he stepped forward, around the desk.
A small plaque below the painting declared it to show Titus Kentworthy. He stepped back, chilled again, and rapidly left the room, feeling as if the painted e
yes followed him all the way.
~~~~~
At Greyscar Keep, both Sybilla and Miss Millpost had had some degree of success in their investigations. Not in getting anything from Mrs Westby, who remained stubbornly close lipped about the topic of Gallowbridge House, but in finding items of interest, related to Ella and Stanford.
Sybilla had found, quite by accident, a book, inscribed by Ella to Stanford. She had been looking through a section of shelves containing poetry, idly leafing through various volumes, as a break from working on her novel, as the particular passage that she was writing was simply not working out as she wished.
The volume she had selected was The Complaint; or, Night-Thoughts on Life, Death and Immortality a collection of poems by an unnamed poet, which much focused on life in what seemed to Sybilla a rather morbid and negative fashion.
At first, she had simply flicked through a few pages, but then had turned back to the start, and discovered, there on the first blank page, before the title page, was an inscription, in an elegant hand. It read:
For S.B, my heart and soul – that we should ponder fate’s unfairness, and not, as declaimed here, allow procrastination to be the thief of what time we have.
With love, Ella.
She had gasped, and stood, holding it, her thoughts tumbled. Her ancestor had held this book, Ella, his lover, had written in it, her feelings made clear. What had he thought? Obviously enough to have kept it, for it to have found its way onto these shelves, to survive for her to find.
And, as she had turned towards the library door, to seek out Miss Millpost, that same lady had come through the door, a find of her own in her hands.
“I found…”
They both spoke at once, then stopped, laughing a little. Sybilla waved Miss Millpost to a chair near the fire.
“Tell me what you have found, Miss Millpost – what have you there?”
“Letters. From Ella to Stanford. A whole collection of them, sent over almost five years. I’ve not had time to read them all yet, but I am sure that they will be fascinating.”
“Where did you find them?”
“They were on a high shelf, behind some books, in one of the oldest bedroom suites. Rooms that I think were often used by the previous Dukes when they lived here at times, from the look of it.”
“Ah yes – I remember that my father hated the old rooms – he said that they were gloomy and old fashioned. He had another suite redecorated to suit his style.”
“So, the room where I found these was simply left as it had been, I assume. I was poking about, and saw the books. I thought that I would get them down, as they should be in the library, not up there.”
“A good thought. What were they?”
“They were not really books at all, but one of those boxes cunningly crafted to look like a set of books. But, because I had, of necessity, climbed up on a chair to reach them, when I moved them, I could see that there was something behind them. If I’d been a bit taller, and been able to reach them from the floor, I would never have known that there was anything else there. I reached back and pulled it out, and it was this – the letters wrapped in a sheet of oilskin.”
She handed them to Sybilla. Sybilla passed her the book.
“This is what I found. Ella gave it to Stanford. She inscribed it to him, at the front.”
Miss Millpost looked, and smiled.
“I think that we have some reading to do, Lady Sybilla”
“Most definitely, Miss Millpost.”
The letters spanned a period of nearly five years, from 1750 to 1755, and were like a window into Ella’s life. Sybilla wished that they also had Stanford’s letters to Ella, for the one-sided view left many questions unanswered.
What was clear, however, was that Ella had already been married to Titus Kentworthy at 18, and in 1749, had born him an heir, George, within the year after their marriage. Late in 1750, she had met Stanford, apparently when he had attended a dinner party at Dartworth Abbey, and there had been an instant attraction.
The tone of her letters ranged from adoring love to anguished despair, as time passed. In early 1751, it seemed that she had taken the remarkable step of removing herself from Dartworth Abbey, to live alone at Gallowbridge House, with none but maids and a Housekeeper for company. George, she had left at Dartworth Abbey, in care of a dedicated Nursery maid. In 1753, she bore a daughter, Genevieve, to Stanford.
Much of this they worked out from what was said in the letters, but the details were often not clear. Stanford had, apparently, spent months away from Greyscar Keep, presumably dealing with the affairs of the rest of the Melton estates. The last few letters were particularly poignant, for they spoke of Ella losing Stanford, as he, now Duke, fulfilled his obligations, and married, to get an heir.
He could not marry Ella, for she was already married, and he was not willing to continue their association once he married. Sybilla was left wondering if he loved Ella, and was as anguished by this choice as Ella was, or if his association with her had been a passing fancy, that had burned itself out naturally, leaving him ready to move on. That part of her which loved the melodrama of the novels she read, and which she was trying to emulate in her own writing, hoped that he was anguished, that his love for Ella was true, and that the choice was a terrible one to have to make. Once they had read through the letters, Sybilla found herself wanting to know more. If Ella’s letters to Stanford had survived, here, was it possible that Stanford’s letters to Ella had also survived, and might be found somewhere in Gallowbridge House? And what had happened to Genevieve?
The letters told her nothing, beyond the fact that Genevieve was still alive and healthy at two years old, when the last of the letters was written. At breakfast the next morning, Sybilla was still thinking about it.
“Miss Millpost, given that Stanford’s name was put on her headstone, do you suppose that Genevieve’s birth was recorded in the parish registers, even though she was a scandalous illegitimate child? For I have the impression that the entire district knew of the situation.”
“It’s certainly possible. And given how obsessed with history the vicar is, I’d imagine that he’ll have all of the old parish registers neatly stored in easy reach. If you can get him to come out of that Templar crypt, for longer than to just give the Sunday sermon, you could ask him.”
“A good thought. After my ride this morning, I will attempt to convince him to help us investigate.”
~~~~~
Once the truly wet days were past, they had been riding again, a little later each day, as winter wrapped its cold grip ever more firmly around the land, and the frost steamed itself to mist more slowly, in the weak winter sunshine – on the days when there was any sunshine. They had not discussed it – both simply knew that they would ride regardless, if at all possible, for the peaceful time together in the crisp air of morning had become something that they treasured.
As the wind lifted her hair, and the early sun made Greyscar Keep sparkle like a pâtissière’s sugar confection in the distance, as it lit the frost which coated its stone, Lady Sybilla told him about the letters, and the story of doomed love that they told. He found himself anguished for the long dead lovers, the thought of loving someone that you could never truly have woke an echo in him. It reminded him, yet again, that the price of his survival, the brokenness of his mind, would keep any woman from ever choosing to tie herself to him. He might love, but he would never be able to hold the one he loved.
The story gripped him, and he found himself wanting to know more, as she did.
“Do you think that we could persuade the vicar to come away from the crypt long enough to show us the parish registers?”
“I am sure that we could. I suspect that, if he is hesitant, the moment that I imply that his continued access to the crypt might be contingent upon us seeing the parish registers, he will become remarkably helpful.”
She laughed, bright and unaffected, her eyes sparkling. It took his breath away to watch her, so
relaxed by his side, her beautiful face limned by the morning sun.
“Then let us hurry back, and disrupt the vicar’s plans for the day.”
Eyes full of mischief, she grinned at him, then urged Ghost forward, taking the path down through the trees at a reckless pace, sure in the saddle, and utterly in tune with the horse. Even as he followed, taking care with where Templar placed his feet, he watched her, torn between fear that she might allow Ghost to misstep, and admiration for everything about her.
At the stream, they slowed, by mutual accord, and went the rest of the way somewhat more sedately – it would never do to encourage the horses to always race home, and, in the cold winter air, bringing them in too hot would only mean that the grooms would need to walk them for longer. It was another thing that he appreciated about her – she understood what was needed, to treat good horseflesh as it deserved, without him ever needing to speak of it.
They went straight from the stable to the crypt. The narrow stairs were now well lit, and more light was visible below.
The crypt had been transformed. Most of the drifts of dust had been removed, the marble of the tombs cleaned, and the stacks of boxes and other items were being sorted. One side of the huge space was all clean and tidied, the other still contained the items that they were working on. Bart had allocated two rooms in the house for the discovered items to be stored in, above, as they were progressively catalogued and identified. The most difficult decision with many items was whether they had been intended to stay in the crypt, or were an item temporarily stored there.
The vicar had deduced that many items had been stored to prevent them being found, when the Templars were arrested. It appeared that they had placed everything they wished to hide in the crypt, bricked up the entry, and plastered over it, probably some weeks before the end came. They had done well, for the crypt had stayed concealed all these centuries since. Bart found it amusing that the stories of Templar treasure were, in this case, true. Although whether it was of the sort of value that the stories suggested, they would not know for some time.
Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9) Page 7