“I will be delighted to tell you.”
“Lady Sybilla, I believe that we should set out immediately.”
“Miss Millpost – I agree.”
Lord Barton bowed and stepped aside as they moved towards the door.
“Perhaps Ladies, you would prefer to wait inside, until I have your carriage brought around.”
Sybilla laughed, suddenly seeing how it must look – the two of them positively champing at the bit, ready to go and demand answers from Mrs Westby.
“Yes, perhaps that might be wise, my Lord!”
~~~~~
By the time they reached Greyscar Keep, Sybilla was beginning to feel nervous about confronting Mrs Westby, but Miss Millpost was still full of righteous anger. She did not like being lied to.
Sybilla went straight to her room, and changed out of her riding habit and her still mud tainted boots. Once dressed in a respectable day dress, with her hair repressed into its pins again, she felt more prepared for what was likely to be a difficult conversation. She went down to join Miss Millpost in the parlour, and they rang for Mrs Westby.
“Yes, my Lady?”
Mrs Westby had looked a little taken aback, as she entered the room to find Sybilla and Miss Millpost looking stern and serious. Sybilla decided to be blunt – very unladylike, but, in this case, by far the simplest approach.
“Mrs Westby, I believe that you have lied to us.
“My Lady… I”
She floundered, her face flushing, and her eyes shifting about as if she wished nothing more than to disappear in that instant.
“When we asked what you knew of the history of the district, and particularly of Gallowbridge House, you claimed to know very little – just the ghost stories that you told me, and a few minor things. It has come to my attention that you are in a position to have considerable knowledge of Gallowbridge House. So, I must ask – why did you lie to me? You have been employed by my family for many years, and have, to my knowledge, always behaved in an exemplary manner. So, I do not know why you would spoil that record, and lie to me now.”
Mrs Westby wrung her hands together, looking distraught.
“Come Mrs Westby, do not prevaricate – we know that you are the daughter of the Genevieve mentioned on the headstone in the graveyard at Gallowbridge House, and that your brother is the owner of Gallowbridge House. We know this, because he has just confirmed that he will sell it to Lord Barton Seddon. We were present at Dartworth Abbey when they came to an agreement on the matter.”
At Miss Millpost’s words, Mrs Westby gave a gasp, and burst into tears. She stood there, wringing her hands in her skirt, the tears running down her face, and simply looked desolate. Sybilla abandoned her hard approach, and went to the woman.
“Come, Mrs Westby, sit here on the couch, and settle yourself. Please tell me what this is all about.”
Mrs Westby sat, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. After a few minutes, she started to speak, her words hesitant at first then stronger, full of emotion.
“I wanted to keep the place. We’ve never really needed much, and John’s business was good, until now… so we kept it. After my grandmother died, my mother lived there, by herself, until she married. It’s been empty ever since. When I was little, my mother would tell us stories about it, about her mother too. Always sad, always about hopeless love. It made me quite sure that I wanted to have a happy marriage. But Gallowbridge House was a symbol of everything that my mother had faced, and was all that I have ever had of my grandmother. For after my grandfather left her for the last time, he never contacted her again. My mother never saw her father again, not after she was two years old.”
Sybilla nodded, and simply sat, waiting for her to go on.
“My mother never cleared her mother’s things out, nor much of her own things that she didn’t want to take with her, when she married. For her, Gallowbridge House was almost a shrine to her mother, a giant memory box. I came here to work when I was seventeen, and that was when it all became real to me. I’d go past Gallowbridge House every day, and I’d think about what my mother had said. My father was gone by then, and my mother followed him within that first year that I was here, taken by the consumption. And Gallowbridge House passed to John. But he always said it was ours, not just his. When he asked me what I wanted to do with it, I said leave it, like mother had – let it hold the memories. Once I married Westby, and came to live here, I’d go there sometimes, just to sit.”
She wiped her eyes again and paused, staring blankly. Sybilla thought that she was remembering, revisiting things from years ago, trying to explain.
Then her eyes snapped back to Sybilla’s and she continued.
“It was strange – I felt like their ghosts were there with me, like I could feel them. It never felt right to go through their things, with them watching, like. So, I didn’t. I was young, and it all gave me the shivers. I never have gone through it. Suppose I’ll have to now. I’m sorry I lied to you, Lady Sybilla, Miss Millpost, but it was as if you were prying into my private life, into the only things I have of my grandmother and mother. I know that, in a way, you have as much right to see what’s there as I do, what with Stanford Barrington being your great grandfather but, I’m ashamed to admit, I resented you, and all of your family.”
“Why, Mrs Westby? I don’t understand.”
“Simple, my Lady. You have a title, and all that goes with it. If Stanford Barrington had not seen fit to disgrace my grandmother, then my mother would have been born a legitimate child of a noble house, would most likely have married a man of the nobility, and I would have been born into that too. Instead, here I am, working for the family that caused it all, as a Housekeeper. I’m silly, I suppose, for I’m happy with Westby, and the years here have been good – but somehow it still rankles.”
“Oh! When you put it that way, I can see why you would feel badly about us. But I’m not so sure about it all being Stanford’s fault. I think that they truly did love each other – they just met when it was too late, when Ella was already married. I feel sorry for both of them.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Lady Sybilla, but how can we know?”
“Well, we know a little bit, for Miss Millpost found a packet of letters – Ella’s letters to Stanford – would you like to read them?” Mrs Westby’s eyes had gone round when Sybilla mentioned the letters, and she nodded, gasping a little at the thought. “I’ll just get them.”
Miss Millpost and Mrs Westby sat in silence, waiting until Sybilla returned. The wind howled around the house, as if crying for Ella, and Genevieve, and even for Mrs Westby.
“Here you are. I’ve put them in date order.”
Mrs Westby took the bundle of letters, handling them reverently.
“I’ll read them a little later, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to get my head around the idea of selling Gallowbridge House. I know John is only doing it because he really needs to – his business has not done so well since the end of the war changed what happens with trade. I knew that it might come to this – he warned me, and I don’t resent him for it – he’s helped us often enough over the years. But still… it will be hard.”
“Do you think, Mrs Westby, that amongst Ella’s and Genevieve’s things at Gallowbridge House, we might find Stanford’s letters to Ella? For it is obvious in Ella’s letters that he wrote to her, that this was an ongoing correspondence.”
Mrs Westby gasped at the idea, and looked up smiling.
“I do hope so, Lady Sybilla. Indeed, the hope of that gives me courage for going through her things.”
“Might I help you do so, Mrs Westby?”
“Why yes, I think, now, that I would like that.”
~~~~~
Two days later, they stood on the doorstep of Gallowbridge House, and Mrs Westby – Isabel, as they now knew her to be called, produced a key, and ceremoniously opened the door. It was like stepping back in time. Nothing had been changed in the thirty-seven years since Genevieve had left the hou
se.
Sybilla could see why Mrs Westby had felt as if Ella and Genevieve’s ghosts haunted the house. It was eerie, everything as it had been, with just a little dust on it all, as if the occupants might walk through a door at any moment. She pushed those thoughts aside – they were here to sort through things, to see what more they could learn of Ella and Stanford’s relationship, and to help Mrs Westby choose what things she wished to keep, and what she wished to dispose of, one way or another.
Still, she found herself whispering, and intentionally walking carefully, almost as if any noise would disturb someone sleeping. As the day wore on, she became more relaxed, and they delighted in the discoveries – hats and dresses many years out of fashion, beautiful jewellery, ribbons and lace, which had lain untouched all these years, a small library full of books – of poetry, novels, and tales of adventure – and hidden amongst them, journals and sketchbooks.
The sketchbooks were a delight – beautiful renderings of local scenes, of pictures of the house as it was then, with the trees smaller, and the garden full of flowers, and of detailed drawings of birds, horses, flowers. It seemed that Ella had been a talented artist. By late in the day, they had not, however, found any sign of Stanford’s letters.
They sat in the kitchen of Gallowbridge House, nibbling at the remains of the picnic basket of food that they had brought with them, and trying to think of places where Ella may have hidden Stanford’s letters away. They concluded that, if there were a hidden compartment somewhere, they had failed to find it, yet that seemed the only remaining possibility, for they had looked everywhere that could be reached, including the dust filled attic.
All that remained was to select those items that Mrs Westby wished to keep, and set them aside, ready to be loaded into the carriage and taken back to Greyscar Keep with them. Checking each room again, they collected things – jewellery, a painting here and there, some small items of furniture, a vase or two.
In Ella’s bedroom, Mrs Westby stood for a long time, considering the two paintings on the wall. One was rather conventional for a woman’s bedroom – a garden, with a riot of colourful flowers. The other was one that they suspected Ella herself had painted – a view up the valley to Greyscar Keep, seen from a location which must have been close to Gallowbridge House.
Mrs Westby reached for the latter, gently lifting it down. The wires on the back of it caught on the hook, and she tugged a moment to release it. Once it was down, and lain carefully on the bed, she looked at the wall, worried that the hook might have pulled out and left damage. The hook was still in place, although a little crooked, but the wallpaper looked odd – apart from the darker patch where the painting had prevented it from fading, there was an unevenness in the pattern. Not much, but enough to notice when one looked closely.
She reached out a finger to touch the uneven spot.
It moved beneath her fingers, and she gave a little squeak of startlement, drawing Sybilla to her side.
“What is it?”
“This spot on the wall, it moved.”
Sybilla leaned in to look, and poked at it with her fingers. There was a click, and a square of wall, which had been covered by the painting, popped out on one side. It was hinged. Sybilla caught at the edge with her fingertips, and eased it open. A cavity in the wall was revealed. Inside was a box – carved and gem encrusted, the sort of thing that a Lady might use to store jewellery, or keepsakes.
Sybilla lifted it out, and set it on the dresser. Mrs Westby stared at it.
“You open it, Mrs Westby.”
Mrs Westby reached out, and lifted the lid. Inside lay a bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon, and a necklace. The whole smelled of spices, for there were cloves scattered under the letters.
As Mrs Westby lifted the letters out, her eyes alight, Sybilla gasped. The necklace now fully revealed was beautiful – three large Indian Sapphires, surrounded by varying sizes of diamonds, which trailed off into narrow bands that formed the ‘chain’ that supported it. Sybilla had seen it before. Well, not it, exactly, but a representation of it. In Meltonbrook Chase, in the gallery, there was a painting of her great-great-great grandmother, wearing this exact necklace.
Stanford must have given it to Ella. Which explained why no-one in the Barrington family knew what had happened to it.
Sybilla was pleased, for that was another mystery solved. And it was a most appropriate keepsake for Mrs Westby to have. The Barringtons would not suffer for not having it – after all, it had been missing for nearly seventy years – but Mrs Westby would benefit greatly from it.
Of one accord, they settled onto the bed, and began to read the letters.
The afternoon at Gallowbridge House changed many things – for everyone. Isabel Westby let go of her resentment of the Barringtons, for, having now read both Stanford and Ella’s letters, she could not deny that they had genuinely loved each other, and simply been destroyed by the circumstance of having met each other too late, when Ella was already married.
Sybilla, however, added another layer of guilt to that which she was already carrying. She could not help feel guilty, as a Barrington, about the fact that her great grandfather’s actions had left Genevieve fatherless and her children therefore not supported in any way. She resolved to do what she could to improve their circumstances.
The contracts had been drawn up, and soon, Lord Barton would be the owner of Gallowbridge House – which meant that he had much work ahead of him, to manage the restoration of the stables at Gallowbridge House, and then the refurbishment of the house itself.
And Miss Millpost now had another library to put in order.
It was November, and Christmas was approaching at a rapid rate. Sybilla found that she did not wish that to be so. Her morning rides with Lord Barton continued, for both of them were loath to lose the magic of those moments, even though the increasingly cold weather sometimes held them indoors.
Sometimes they talked as they rode, sometimes they spent the time in companionable silence – silence which was filled with the things they did not say – the things which Sybilla, at least, was still afraid to say. For her father and brother still haunted her dreams, although perhaps a little less since Isabel Westby had stopped telling her ghost stories of the district! And, whilst she had almost spoken of her guilt many times, somehow, she could not, in the end, raise the courage to lay her terrible guilt before Lord Barton. She judged herself, and found herself wanting – her courage far less than his.
Almost anything else, she could talk to him about – but still, she could not risk his regard by admitting her failings. But nor could she tell him how strong that regard was. For it had grown, despite her attempting to repress it. She had to admit to herself that she had come to love him. It was the height of foolishness, to love a man as good as he, when she hid such dark and terrible secrets – yet she had come to that. He had, somehow, just by being himself, wound himself about her heart. Perhaps there would be a time when she could talk of her guilt, and of her love. But that time had not yet arrived.
~~~~~
For four days, it had been fine, with little wind and soft winter sun. Everywhere dripped as snow melted.
Somehow, in that clear light, nothing about the valley seemed as laden with the ghosts of the past. When Lady Sybilla arrived at Dartworth Abbey, she was smiling, seeming lighter of heart than she had been for some time. Bart was glad – for he wished her happiness far more than his own.
“Good morning, my Lady. Shall we ride over to Gallowbridge House this morning? I would like to show you the progress they’ve made on my stables – I can be certain, now, that all should be ready for the Marquess’ return, even if that is closer to Christmas than mid-January. I had not realised how heavily the possibility of needing to return to Hawkford Park was weighing upon me, until I knew that I would not have to.”
“Good Morning, Lord Barton. That sounds like an excellent idea. I like the sense of positive change that you have already made – Gallowbridge House no l
onger looks so ominous or mournful when we drive past it.”
He offered her his arm, and, abandoning Miss Millpost to the library, they went straight to the stables. The horses were dancing with energy, keen to be out in the better weather, so they let them run a little, cantering fast across the fields towards Gallowbridge House. As always, everything seemed better from the back of a horse. If he could never have more of her than this time together riding, he would treasure every moment of it. For at these times, there was little chance of him being triggered into an attack – he was as close to whole as he could be.
At Gallowbridge House, the stables were almost complete – the roof restored, the stalls cleaned, painted, the hayloft dry and ready to store what hay they could find, at this time of year, and the feed room and tack rooms almost finished.
That morning, whilst there was no wind, the workmen were up on the roof of Gallowbridge House itself, ensuring that there were no chinks or cracks that might let rain or snow into the attics. They were alone in the stables, having left the horses with the groom outside.
“It will be beautiful, once it smells of hay and horses, as it should do.”
He smiled at her words, imagining it so.
“That will be soon. For once the house is made habitable, I will move myself here, with my horses, in preparation for Oliver’s return. And so that I can be, for the first time in my life, in a place that is of my own choosing.”
Lady Sybilla looked at him, those storm dark eyes troubled, but she said nothing, merely nodded. He wondered what thoughts were behind her expression. Eventually, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.
“A place of one’s own choosing… you have made me realise that I have never, really, had that. The closest that I have come, is Greyscar Keep, these last months – for I chose to come here to write. But that is not quite the same.”
“Ah… How is your writing progressing? Have you woven the crypt, and the eeriness of all of these old houses, into your gothic adventures?”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound, somewhat self-deprecating, not entirely happy.
Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9) Page 10