It had come to her, deep in the night, as she lay awake, after another dream in which her father’s ghost had screamed at her, that she was being very foolish.
She was so afraid of how Lord Barton might react, if she told him the terrible truth about her, that she had never once considered the possibility that he might not reject her. It seemed a slim possibility, truthfully, yet… it existed. What if, by never telling him, by never letting him know how she felt about him, and doing him the honour of letting him choose how to react, she was depriving herself of the one thing that she most wanted in the world?
Looked at that way, she would be the biggest fool known to man if she did not gather up her courage and tell him. If he rejected her, as she expected, she would at least know the truth, and could begin to heal, instead of living in a perpetual twilight of uncertainty. If he did not reject her…
Reviewing the idea now, in the light of day, with only the snowy landscape for company, it still seemed clear. She had no choice but to find the courage, somehow, to tell him – everything.
~~~~~
A chaos of carriages filled the space in front of the imposing portico of Meltonbrook Chase. Somehow, the footmen, grooms and coachmen sorted it all out, getting the arrivals into the warmth of the house, their luggage to their allocated guest suites, and their horses and carriages to the stables with commendable speed. Inside, it was a continual round of greetings and introductions, as old friends met new wives or betrothed and their families, and finally settled to conversation in the warmth of the large parlour.
Sybilla and Alyse found themselves in a quieter corner of the room, discussing horses with Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford. Gerry, also one of the Hounds, was one of those whom Lord Barton hoped might invest in his horse breeding business.
Sybilla was a little surprised that Alyse was there – for, although she could converse quite intelligently on the subject of horses, it was not the passion for her that it had always been for Sybilla. Still, she was grateful for her presence, for her mind was in turmoil, awaiting Lord Barton’s arrival, and her conversation consequently rather less engaging than usual.
They had become involved in a debate over the best thoroughbred bloodlines – something at least interesting enough to engage Sybilla’s attention – when she became aware of someone standing at her side.
She looked up, expecting to find a footman, offering refreshments, and faltered mid-sentence. Lord Barton stood there. His eyes locked with hers and all else faded away.
For a moment, they might as well have been alone. He, as if with great effort, looked away first, releasing her from the sudden paralysis. She floundered, having lost all track of what she was saying.
Alyse, bless her, rescued her, by choosing to finish her sentence. Her sister’s eyes were curious, and Sybilla knew that later, Alyse would be asking questions.
“Lady Sybilla, Lady Alyse.” Lord Barton bowed, and drew up a chair. “And Gerry, good day to you all – do I detect a conversation on my favourite topic?”
“Bart – good to see you! You do indeed. These two lovely ladies and I were just debating the merits of the various thoroughbred bloodlines – a topic on which I am quite certain you have an opinion, given your plans for a breeding establishment.”
“I do, most definitely have an opinion. But I hesitate to deliver it, for fear that I become a boor, who lectures his companions.”
Sybilla felt his voice in her bones. Her eyes wanted to stray to him, continuously, to drink him in. He seemed so at ease, so sure of himself, whilst she was in turmoil. How did he manage it? Or… was he not affected at all by their proximity? Was she wrong in thinking that he cared for her? Sternly, she told herself not to be foolish – here he was, not five minutes in her company, and she was trying to determine his feelings! But the thought that he might not care terrified her anew – and fixed her intent to talk to him privately, as soon as possible – she could not live with this torture!
She forced herself to re-join the conversation, and to think of nothing else, until later. Finally, what felt like an eternity later, dinner was called, and she found herself led into the dining room on his arm. When she placed her hand upon him, she felt a quiver run through him, and knew, then, that he was not so unaffected as he appeared. Such a simple thing, to fill her with so much joy.
As dinner progressed, every moment of accidental touch – a brushing of an elbow, an adjustment of one’s position on the seat, which, in the crowded room, was not an uncommon occurrence – was sweet torture.
Conversation flowed, and, as the meal wore on, Lord Barton turned to her, smiling, and spoke in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper.
“Tomorrow morning, if there is a horse that I might borrow, will you join me to ride? I have missed our mornings ahorse. Once one becomes accustomed to sharing such moments, they do not have the same savour alone.”
Her breath caught, and she swallowed, working hard to make sure that her voice was calm, and even.
“I agree with that sentiment. I have missed our mornings too. I am sure that Hunter will be happy for you to ride one of his horses, perhaps even Nuage. You would know the horse, from your time in Spain?”
“Indeed I do – one of the best horses I have ever known.”
“Then I suggest that you ask Hunter, over port.”
“I will do so. I look forward to it.”
They did not speak of what time, or how, or where – it was something that they knew. They both rose early, and would see each other in the breakfast room, likely far before anyone else arose, given how likely very late conversation was this evening.
~~~~~
The snow was pristine, hiding the detail of the land, the early sun gilding the edges of things in the otherwise silvery landscape, as they rode away from the stables, a groom following at a distance.
The two dappled grey horses went along together, well acquainted and relaxed, blending into the landscape to any observer.
To Bart, everything seemed in sharp focus, crisp and new, as if the last few weeks without her had been blurred, and her presence had resolved that, bringing the world back to him. The silence was welcoming, open, a space into which words might fall, or not, with neither being a preference. This was his chance – he would find a place where they might stop, and dismount, to sit for a while, and he would speak.
The fear was still there, but his determination overrode it, and the sense of freedom that had been with him, ever since he had decided to tell her, to lay out his heart for her to take, or to trample as she wished, filled him, pushing the fear down. After some time, riding through the perfectly maintained parkland, they entered a wooded area, then emerged where the corner of an older fence still stood, in isolation, with a view across the river towards Viscount Chester’s lands.
“Shall we stop for a while, here, where there is a fence to perch upon?”
“Why not – the view is pleasant, and the old fence is likely to be the driest seat available.”
They dismounted, and tethered the horses.
They had no way of knowing, for Hunter had never mentioned it to his siblings, but they were now settling themselves upon the very piece of fence where Hunter had first come upon Nerissa in the woods, on just such a winter’s day as this.
Once seated, they looked at each other, and there was a moment of almost uncomfortable silence, so different from their usual companionable quiet.
“Lady Sybilla, I…” Bart cleared his throat, lost for words for a moment, “I have missed you, these past weeks. Missed you – not just our rides, but you. For I have… come to… to… to love you. I have felt that way for some time, but I have been afraid. Afraid to speak – for what could I offer you? I am, as you know, a broken man, damaged by the war in ways that are deep and long lasting. In addition, I am a second son – I have no peerage, or likelihood of one, for my father and older brother are hale and hearty. I have nothing to recommend me to a woman. But these last weeks without you have led me
to realise that I needed to be honest, to tell you of my feelings, to hear your reaction. I cannot live with veiled hope and uncertainty any longer.”
Sybilla gasped, her hand going to her mouth, as if to hold the sound in. Her storm dark eyes met his, and filled with tears. There was an agony of sadness, and something more, in their depths. He took her hand, waiting.
“Lady Sybilla, will…”
Her voice cut him off, ragged, and raw.
“Please, say nothing more. I must tell you something too. I also have been afraid to speak, but I have realised that I must. This is… difficult…”
“As you wish.”
His fingers tightened around hers as she took in a shaky breath, before speaking again.
“Lord Barton, I also have strong feelings for you. But, before you say anything more about your feelings for me, there is something that I must tell you, something about me, something terrible. You must hear it, for, upon knowing it, you may change your feelings for me – indeed, it would be most reasonable and expected should you do so. I have been selfish, and have not spoken of this, although so many times I was tempted, but, in the end, I stopped myself, each time, for I did not wish to lose your company.”
As she spoke, tears trickled down her cheeks.
She ignored them, obviously forcing herself to go on.
He wanted to sweep her into his arms, to kiss the tears away, but he understood, instinctively, that he could not do so, yet.
She took a deep breath, and went on.
“I… am a terrible person. I… I caused my father and brother’s deaths.” The tears flowed faster, but she ignored them, the pain in her words so deep that he could hear it, as if she dragged them from her flesh. “The day that they died, Father, Mother and Richard were going to a Ball, some distance away. Alyse and I were deemed too young to attend, Charles was at one of our other estates, and Hunter was still in Spain. I was annoyed with everything that day. I wanted to go to the Ball – I was seventeen, nearly eighteen, and I didn’t see why I couldn’t. Added to that, I had asked, earlier in the day, if I might ride a new horse that Richard had bought. He had refused. I was so angry! I was, even then, a far better rider than him.”
She paused, staring away from him, deep in memory.
“I argued with Richard about it, accusing him of being a terrible rider, of being a bad brother, of spending unwisely, of being cruel to me – a whole litany of complaint. Perhaps some of it was justified, perhaps some wasn’t – I do not know, but from the perspective of now, the one thing that I am certain of, is that I was behaving like a petulant child, not a grown woman – which just proved that it was reasonable that I not attend the Ball. Of course, at the time, I did not see that. Richard lost his temper with me, completely. He had such a temper – I should have expected it, but for some reason, I was too stubborn to see. By the time that they had to leave for the Ball, he was completely overset, and stormed off to the carriage – they were taking the lighter carriage, because the large one was being repaired, and Richard had, earlier, decided to drive, for he enjoyed doing so. There was snow, and the roads were bad.”
She paused, sobbing now, her hand clutching his as if he were the only solid thing in her world. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it gently.
“He was so angry, he drove too fast. There was ice amongst the snow, as the evening was closing in, and the carriage slid – so badly that the horses could not halt it. It went sideways a long way, until it crashed amongst the trees. Richard was thrown from the box, and his head smashed on a tree. My father was on the side of the carriage that hit the trees, and the force of it broke his bones, and broke his neck, so hard did it hit. My mother was saved because she fell against my father, then tumbled around against the seats – but she did not face the full force of the impact. If I had not argued, he would never have driven so recklessly. I killed them.”
She met his eyes, hers desolate, and he saw in them a reflection of his own fears. She expected, in that instant, rejection. Yet she was not responsible for her brother’s hot-headedness, any more than he was responsible for the canon shot which had landed near him, scarring his mind, if not his body. He could never reject her for such a thing.
He reached for her, and pulled her against him, as close to in his lap as possible, without tumbling them both into the snow. She stiffened, sobbing, and he waited, stroking his hand over her back, gently, until she relaxed, and let herself be held. The sobs came harder then, and he kissed her forehead where it rested against him.
Sybilla cried for some time, emptying years of guilt and self-recrimination. When her sobs slowed, he extracted his handkerchief, and wiped her face dry of the tears, kissing the path they had followed as he went, until his lips met hers. The kiss was a gift that they gave each other – full of the love that had not yet, truly been put into words.
When their lips eventually parted, her eyes were filled with wonder.
“Sybilla… I love you. My heart aches that you have carried the burden of that feeling of guilt for so long, but it is certainly nothing that could make me turn aside from you. You did not kill them! It is not your fault. From what Hunter has told me of Richard, he was always hot-headed, always more confident in his abilities than perhaps they warranted. He was quite capable of being a fool, with no help needed from anyone else. If anything, what you have just told me makes me love you more, for it shows your courage, and the depth of your care.”
“How… how can you say that? I have been the biggest coward, unable to speak of this, convinced that I would always be alone, for no-one would want someone who had done something so terrible. I do not understand how you can say that you love me, knowing that.”
“Because I do love you. It is as simple as that. You are wonderful – you are the light in my days, you have dragged me out of my blue devilled isolation and given me hope. Can you see yourself as I do? Can you try to believe that you are good, that you bear no guilt in your brother and father’s deaths?”
“I.. I am not sure that I can so easily believe that. I will try, but it will take some adjusting to, after more than two years of feeling this way.”
“I will be there – whenever you need me. Whatever I can do to help you change that belief, I will do. For I know that kind of fear, the fear of being forever alone. I am still afraid – afraid that I am only part of a man, and that I may never be whole. But I could not go on not knowing how you felt about me. Even being rejected outright would be better than not knowing.”
“I could never reject you for such a thing. Never believe that you are broken. You are strong – there are things that are difficult for you, but they are the scars of your meritorious service – wear them with pride – you are a better man for having the ability to deal with life regardless. You have strength, humour, kindness and courage. There is no courage without fear – courage is what happens when we overcome fear. I have just learnt that – and I learnt it from you. I love you – all of you, for you would not be as you are, if you had not suffered as you did.”
Bart felt tears begin in his own eyes, for those were the first words of true acceptance he had heard, since his return from Spain. He knew that the other Hounds accepted his issues, but they had never spoken the words. To hear it said, and from her lips, was almost more than his heart could encompass. He gathered her against him again, his lips finding hers, and they lost themselves in each other for quite some time, exploring what had previously been forbidden, full of the new knowledge of each other’s love. They broke apart with a sigh.
“I think that we will both need time to adjust. Can we… keep our feelings to ourselves, until I, at least, have tried to change how I see the world? I will return to Greyscar Keep once the last of the Christmas season is done, to finish my novel. But also, if you will have it that way, to allow us to spend time together, discovering how we truly feel, without your fears or mine colouring everything that we do. I would like us each to be sure of ourselves, before we let others see what we have
between us.”
“If that is your wish, it is my command. Any time that I may spend with you is a gift. I believe that you are right – for whilst I am certain that my feelings for you will only grow stronger, I will also need time to change how I feel about myself.”
“Then we are agreed. We should return to the house. The others will likely be awake by now, so best not to arouse their interest too much, if we are to keep this between us for now.”
They slipped down from the fence, and mounted the patient horses, turning to ride back, close against each other, with their hands entwined. The poor groom, who had lingered, back in the trees, out of earshot, looked relieved to be moving again.
Bart was grateful for his discretion.
The warmth of her hand in his was eclipsed by the warmth in his heart. She had not rejected him. It did not feel real yet. But they had time – the coming months, with Sybilla back at Greyscar keep, would allow him to learn to trust that it was real.
~~~~~
The following few months were a time of delight, discovery, and recurring doubts. Sybilla surprised herself by how much returning to Greyscar Keep felt like a kind of coming home. This time, as they drove up the valley, the light of the late afternoon sun seemed to paint the stone of the Keep gold, making it glow warmly amongst the greys and whites of the snow-covered landscape.
In her luggage, apart from all of her precious writings and research notes, was a most important small chest. Charles had managed, even with the Christmas Season, to have all of the papers drawn up, which transferred ownership of Feltonbury Manor to Isabel and John. Sybilla looked forward to presenting it to them.
Even Miss Millpost was happy to be returning – for three libraries awaited her attention. As they had driven past Gallowbridge House, the changes were already apparent. The trees around the house had been trimmed, no longer scraping against the building, and the repairs to its roof had been completed. The sign on the gate hung straight, the name newly repainted. Its renewal was a symbol to her – of the renewal that was happening inside her, and, she hoped, inside Lord Barton.
Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9) Page 12