“Thank you.”
Her smile remained, and her eyes were alight. His heart did some extraordinarily strange thing in his chest.
She reached out a hand, and he took it, and they rode along in silence, in accord with one another, as Ghost and Templar were also. It would be, he thought, a much simpler world, if humans were as comfortable expressing their affection for one another, as animals were.
He was, in that moment, supremely glad that the groom was a wise man, and always stayed just on the edge of being able to see them, close enough to officially be a chaperone, but never so close as to invade their privacy. The man deserved to be paid more.
When they reached the narrowing of the path, she raised his hand, and pressed her lips to it, their warmth palpable through the thin leather, then released it, and urged Ghost forward into the trees.
~~~~~
By the time they reached the stableyard, the frost had melted, and the horses’ hooves churned it to mud. The magic of the morning up on the ridge dissolved into everyday life. Sybilla sighed. For whole blocks of hours at a time, when in his company on a horse, she could forget – forget what a terrible person she was, forget what she had done, forget the accusations of her father’s ghost, most nights in her dreams, and simply be.
She even, foolishly, in those moments let herself dream – dream of what it would be like to have his company, always. To imagine a life where she had not done terrible things, where the past did not haunt her, where she could permit herself happiness.
She pushed aside the foolish thoughts as they picked their way through the mud to the house. In the library, Miss Millpost was making steady progress on achieving order. She had found nothing substantial in the way of family history, or anything about Gallowbridge House. It was almost as if someone had intentionally removed everything like that.
When they had scraped off enough mud to venture in, Bart called for tea, and they sat with Miss Millpost, discussing their progress.
“Oh – I have just realised – I have not shown you what I found. In the excitement of all that you discovered in Ella’s letters, I forgot all about this.”
Lord Barton went to his study, and brought back the framed family tree. They studied it, intrigued, seeing, on that parchment, the illustration of the shattering of Ella and Titus’ marriage – the stark fact that Genevieve, who had existed, was not shown. Lord Barton also told them of the painting of Titus, which graced the wall of the old study. Both Sybilla and Miss Millpost immediately wanted to see it, so they proceeded upstairs to do so.
Sybilla found the room as eerie as Lord Barton had, even now, in the early afternoon. The portrait of Titus glared down at them, as if resenting Sybilla for being a Barrington, and she shivered, disturbed. Lord Barton stood beside her, his closeness reassuring, but, so strong was the chill, that she found she had reached out, curling her fingers into his, seeking the warmth of touch in the face of long dead animosity.
His eyes came to hers, startled, then warmed with pleasure, and his hand tightened on hers.
Miss Millpost, observant as always, stood a little behind them and smiled, well pleased by what she saw. These young people both had need of something more in their life, and were well suited, but she had thought them, perhaps, too stubborn to see it.
To Sybilla, that return pressure on her hand changed everything for an instant. The air seemed warm, the malevolence of the dead seemed to pass from the room, and her heart beat faster.
And then she realised what she had done.
She released his hand, berating herself for a fool, and stepped a little away from him. What might be permissible in the magical suspension of real life, up on the ridge, was certainly not, here.
“Is there anything else of interest here, do you think?”
She heard the brittleness of her own voice, and forced herself to steady.
“Not that I saw – but then, I did come to look rather late…”
Miss Millpost bustled forward, and proceeded to methodically search the room, but found nothing of interest. They all repaired to the library, and called for more tea, as they considered what they knew.
“I think that the only possible next step, is for me to see if Tideswell can discover more. I am sure that we have dealt with a merchant by the name of Titchworth. I will send him a message shortly.”
“I hope that he can discover something, or I have no idea where to look next, as we can’t access Gallowbridge House.”
~~~~~
Once Lady Sybilla and Miss Millpost had left, Bart sat at his desk to write a note to Tideswell. Before he had touched pen to paper, Graves tapped at the door.
“A message, my Lord, from Mr Tideswell, I believe.”
He proffered the correspondence tray. Bart lifted the message, wondering if Tideswell had developed psychic awareness of some kind.
“Thank you, Graves.”
The note was short, but its impact was large.
My Lord, I have good news. I have finally contacted the owner of Gallowbridge House, one Mr John Titchworth, in person, and he is inclined to sell. He wishes to attend upon you at Dartworth Abbey, at a mutually agreeable time, to discuss the matter of price.
Yrs.
Tideswell
Sybilla started awake, staring at the empty air at the foot of the bed. Shivering, she pulled the blankets tighter around her, listening to the almost ever-present wind whistle and moan outside the window.
It was just a dream. It had been her brother, this time, accusing her, moaning and wailing about how she had deprived him of the life he had been entitled to. Would they haunt her for the rest of her life? Probably, for she saw no way to expiate her guilt. Perhaps it would be better if she spent her life like this, isolated, where there were few people to see, and potentially argue with, where she could write, turning her morbid thoughts to some value, and not hurt those she most loved.
Those she loved. The thought brought an image of Lord Barton to her mind. She shied away from the implication, she could not allow herself the foolishness of love – that way lay pain, for once any man knew of her terrible guilt, he would most certainly turn away from her. She stifled a sob, wanting him, wanting the kindness in his eyes, and the touch of his lips.
But knowing that would never be possible.
She rose, pulled a warm wrap around her, lit a candle and left the room. She wandered the halls, almost like a ghost herself, she thought wryly, as the flickering light cast everything into dramatic relief. If the ghosts of the past walked here, she would wail with them, and it would achieve as little as they did.
The thought made her laugh, a laugh that sounded on the edge of hysteria, and echoed strangely through the house. Disturbed, despite herself, she sought the comfort of the kitchen, and a cup of tea.
~~~~~
Bart woke early, to the sound of the wind. Opening the shutters cautiously, he saw the world laid out in tones of silver, where the wind blew the light dusting of powdery snow against things. For a moment, he remembered the bitterness of war in France and Spain, the cold of winter and the subtle horror of the beauty of new snow hiding the rotting dead on the battlefield. He pushed the image away, reminding himself, as always, that he was home. No more battlefields.
There was nothing beneath the snow outside except clean earth and grass. The sky was clear, so a ride would be possible. His heart beat faster at the thought. His rides with Lady Sybilla had become the thing he lived for, if he were truly honest with himself. All else seemed less real than those moments, high on the ridge, with only themselves and the horses. He dreamed of her, more and more often, a delicious reprieve from dreams of death and destruction, yet still torture in its own way.
For they were no more real than the battlefields he found himself upon, when loud noises startled him. He could no more expect them to ever become real, than he could expect to prevent his reaction to loud noises.
But… the thought made him pause. He had, it was true, had less attacks of late. Admi
ttedly, there had also been less unexpected loud noises, as the renovation works had moved on from major roof work and demolition of walls, and was now more about the placement of new materials, and the interior refinement. It would be some time before things were finished – the greatest time needed was in the final details.
Yes… there had still been some noises, and some attacks. They had been… somehow less. Less all encompassing. He had been, the last few times, almost immediately aware that what he felt and saw was not real. It had made it easier to come back to himself. And each time, he had imagined her arms around him, as they had been when the tree limb falling at Gallowbridge House had triggered him so strongly. Her arms were worth coming back for.
He could not, now, imagine living without seeing her often. He knew that the time would come, when she would finish writing her book, and she would leave, would go back to the warm loving care of her family, at Meltonbrook Chase. If only it were possible, he would wish her to stay here for ever, in his warm loving care. He stopped again, staring unseeing out the window as the rising sun changed the ghostly light of dawn into a delicate splendour, painting what had been a silver landscape gold.
He stood, replaying his own thoughts.
‘In his warm loving care’- his thoughts had betrayed him, for as he replayed it, he knew it to be true.
He loved her.
Oh, the joy, and oh, the pain. He could not expect so wonderful a woman to live her whole life with a broken man, to be looked upon pityingly by the ton, to be held apart from social interaction by his inability to cope. The safest, by far the safest thing to do, would be simply not to see her, not to be tempted. But he could not face that, nor the hurt he knew it would inflict on her, if he suddenly stopped their rides, and other conversation.
He had no choice but to be strong. Pulling himself out of his tumultuous thoughts, he pulled the shutter to and shut the window, shivering a little as he finally noticed the cold that he had let into the room. Food first, and then the ride. They would have limited time today, for Titchworth was coming to discuss Gallowbridge House at twelve of the clock, so he needed to have returned and freshened up by then.
~~~~~
Sybilla looked at Gallowbridge House as they drove past, wondering what secrets it held inside it. It seemed forbidding, in the early light, with long shadows behind it. She shivered, the residue of the night’s dreams and upsets having left her out of sorts and sad. That the landscape appeared overlaid with the ghosts of her ancestor’s hopeless love seemed bitterly appropriate.
She looked up at the ridge in the distance, anticipating.
Their rides had become the most important part of her day – a time when she could, at least a little, pretend that her guilt did not exist, and that nothing mattered but the two of them, and their comfortable companionship. If anyone had asked her, six months earlier, if she could find a gentleman, who was not one of her brothers, good company, she would most likely have laughed, saying that most she had met were definitely not able to be described so.
Now, her opinion was different. This man, she found good company, always.
They stopped in front of Dartworth Abbey, and alighted, careful on the slippery ground, where the light snow was frozen on the steps. The wind whipped her hair into tendrils, tugging at her pins, as if pulling her away towards the ridge. In the house, Miss Millpost shed her coat and hat, and hurried to stand by the fire in the parlour.
“Why you want to ride, in weather like this, I really don’t know. I’m beginning to think that this whole district inspires madness in people. What with your ancestor’s complete folly for love, and the vicar and Mrs Westby obviously keeping secrets, and hidden crypts, and who knows what else! Perhaps it’s infectious and you’ve caught it.”
Sybilla laughed, shaking her head.
“Perhaps, or perhaps a good ride in the clean fresh air simply clears my head so that I can think to write.”
“If that’s the case, then we had best be off to clear your head, for I’ve a need to be back earlier than usual today.”
She turned, her face lit with a smile.
He paused, his eyes warming as he looked at her, and she blushed, which was quite, quite unlike her.
“Good morning, Lord Barton. I trust that you slept well?”
“Well enough that a ride will clear my head of any lingering sleepiness. Shall we?”
She took his arm, and they walked out to the stables, the wind blowing them across the stableyard as if in a hurry to run with them, along the ridge. Ghost whickered a greeting as she entered the stables, and the homely scent of horses and hay wrapped around her.
Not long after, they were mounted, and climbing up towards the ridge, through a magical forest where snow crystals sparkled on branches, and tiny icicles dripped pure clear water as the day warmed. With him beside her, it was always magical, in some way.
They rode, each thinking their own thoughts. She saw again, her brother, as he had been in her dream, and mourned the loss of her father and brother all over again. If she could go back, and change things… but she could not. The weight of her guilt was heavy on her shoulders. She was tempted, oh so tempted, to speak of it, for his silence allowed and invited confidences, but she could not. Fear froze her. She could not bear to lose this, for it was all she could ever expect to have of him.
She watched him, sidelong, under her lashes, wondering about his thoughts. He looked sombre, as if his thoughts were no more pleasant than hers. She did not know what pain plagued him, but she ached to ease it. She said nothing, and they spent the entirety of the ride in silence, drifting with the wind, watching the light snow melt around them.
There was comfort, even in his silence. As they turned down the hill to return to the Abbey, a single bird flew overhead, with a mournful cry, as if giving a voice to her heart.
In the stableyard, as always, the reality of the world came back into sharp detail. She shook off her mournfulness, and could almost see Lord Barton doing the same. Once in the house, he apologised, leaving her with Miss Millpost, as he went to prepare for his meeting. She had not asked about it, and he had offered no information. She supposed it was to do with the renovations.
The library door stood open, and, once Miss Millpost had shown her the state of her progress organising, they settled in some chairs by the fire, and called for tea, hoping that Lord Barton would be finished soon, so that they might politely take their leave of him, before going back to Greyscar Keep.
As they sipped their tea, Sybilla heard a door open, and voices approach along the corridor, to stop not far from the door. Obviously, it was a last piece of conversation, before the man departed. She could not help but overhear.
“We’re agreed then. As I’ve said, my sister is none too pleased about selling it, but its time she stopped seeing it as a monument to our mother and grandmother. You’d think that, working for the Barringtons all these years, she’d have got past worrying at the unfairness of things that happened two generations before her.”
“I would hope so, Mr Titchworth.”
“Never fear, my Lord, I’ll settle my sister’s concerns. Gallowbridge House is yours, as soon as the contracts are drawn up and payment made.”
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Titchworth. Let Tideswell know when you have the papers ready, if you would.”
“I will, good day to you, my Lord.”
Footsteps moved away, and the sound of the front door closing followed soon after.
Sybilla sat motionless, her mind whirling. Titchworth… so that must be John, Genevieve’s son. But… a sister? The girl must have been born in another parish. They had been talking about Gallowbridge House – if she had heard aright, the man had just agreed to sell it to Lord Barton. She was glad, he would be pleased to have the place he had wanted, for his horse breeding plans.
Something else about the conversation niggled at her – what had Titchworth said about his sister? ‘You’d think that, working for the Barrin
gtons all these years, she’d have got past worrying at the unfairness of things that happened two generations before her.’ But… the only woman old enough to be his sister, who worked for them at Greyscar Keep was… Mrs Westby! Sybilla had never thought about any such possibility – and why would she, they had not even known that there was a sister.
But… why had Mrs Westby not told her, when she had asked questions about Gallowbridge House, and the gravestone? If this was what she was hiding from them, it just didn’t make sense! Miss Millpost watched her, thinking hard herself.
Footsteps approached.
“I’m glad you’re still here. I have excellent news – I have just closed the agreement to purchase Gallowbridge House.”
Sybilla flushed – really, she did that far too often around this man!
“I… I must admit to shamelessly eavesdropping, as you spoke in the hallway. That was, I assume from what I heard, Mr John Titchworth?”
“Yes, Genevieve’s son, from what I can tell. He’s about the right age, and how else would he be the owner of Gallowbridge House, with that name?”
“He… he mentioned a sister. A sister who ‘worked for the Barringtons’. I have a strong suspicion about exactly who that is. And I am most unhappy about it. I believe that his sister is our Housekeeper at Greyscar Keep!”
Miss Millpost made a remarkably unladylike snorting sound.
“Indeed, and I will be giving the deceiving baggage a piece of my mind! Fancy her telling me that she knew very little about Gallowbridge House, or about that gravestone! I wonder what she thought to gain, by deceiving us like that?”
“I have no idea Miss Millpost, but I intend to find out.”
Lord Barton looked between them, smiling, and laughed.
“I would not be your Housekeeper for anything, at this point, with your combined fury descending upon her. I will be most interested to hear what you discover, when you talk to her.”
Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9) Page 9