Lacybourne Manor

by Kristen Ashley

  But it was a way.

  She couldn’t believe she was going to do it, this man was loathsome, hideous.

  But she was going to do it.

  If he agreed.

  How many people had fifty thousand pounds to throw around, especially for something like this?

  Thinking (more like hoping), he’d never agree to it and would be so disgusted he’d walk out the door, out of her life, leaving her in peace (forever and ever), Sibyl announced, “I want fifty thousand pounds.”

  That would buy the minibus, the driving lessons for Kyle, petrol, insurance and maintenance for several years, if they were frugal.

  And it would buy peace of mind for Meg and Annie and all the other oldies who depended on the minibus to get them out of their homes so they could have a good meal and a few hours of companionship.

  “And what does that buy me?” His eyes betrayed both a disappointment so extreme it was tangible and a desire so strong she felt her body heat. Her stomach twisted inexplicably as he looked at her with that strange expression on his face.

  “You tell me.” Sibyl shot back, trying for bravado. She felt like she was on the edge of a sharp, dark precipice, just about to jump over into the blinding abyss and it scared the living daylights out of her.

  If she became this man’s whore, she would never find her true love. She would never be the same again.

  And she couldn’t shake the constant feeling she had when she was with him that there was something else, something missing between them, something she didn’t understand, couldn’t put her finger on but it was something vitally important.

  And, because of that, because he, too, had to feel it, she couldn’t imagine he’d say yes.

  “It gets me anything I want for two months,” he declared.

  Oh dear goddess, he said yes.

  She blinked at him and felt the world falling away as she toppled into the abyss.

  He stared down at her, his clay-coloured eyes burning into her and she realised it wasn’t done, she could take it back, order him out of her home and tell him she never wanted to see him again.

  It was the moment of truth, could she do this vile thing?

  But, her heart sinking, she knew she could.

  No, she had to.

  For Annie and especially for Meg.

  And she felt a pain slice through her stomach.

  And she decided she hated Colin Morgan (at the same time she hated herself and her stupid temper which she vowed never to lose again).

  Having come to her decision, Sibyl pressed her lips together and forced her body to relax.

  It was done, it had to be. Two months of his despicable attention would mean years of safety for her oldies. It was, she tried (and failed) to convince herself, a small price to pay.

  She’d gotten herself in many pickles, nothing this bad, of course, but in the past, it had been bad. And she’d also lived through it and got to the other side.

  She could live through this too.

  She probably should have negotiated but she wanted him to let her go and she wanted all of this to be over, for now. She’d think about it again, later, after she learned how to kick herself in the backside.

  “Done,” she snapped.

  Then she watched as Colin smiled, it was slow and it was lethal.

  “Except –” she started to say, the panic overwhelming her.

  His arms tightened painfully.

  “No exceptions.”

  She ignored him and stated, “Not on that table. My father rebuilt and refinished that table, you’ll not…” she paused, not knowing how to put it.

  He was ever-so-helpful in a way she was beginning to realise with great annoyance was so very him. “Fuck you on the table?”

  She thought she might just burst into tears.

  Somehow she felt in her very soul that this was all wrong and she knew it was the dreams. They were just dreams but she felt, even hoped, deep down inside that they meant something more. That they meant her years of searching for her dream man, her knight, the other piece of her heart, were over.

  Apparently, they did not.

  “Yes,” she hissed and controlled, with a mighty effort, her rampaging emotions.

  “Fine,” he relented, the pressure of his hands gentling but he did not release her.

  “I want the money tomorrow,” she told him. If she was going to do this, she’d better do it now or she’d chicken out. Her mind was racing, two months yawned before her, filled with blackness.

  “Then you’re in my bed tomorrow night.”

  Her stomach clenched at his words but she nodded, her hair annoyingly falling all around her face and, with her hands held behind her back, she could do nothing about it.

  “How shall we seal this bargain?” he asked, his voice had turned from edgy and intense to something else entirely and she could just not believe that her stomach actually did a mini-flip.

  She didn’t even chance a look at his face.

  “Mr. Morgan, you don’t touch me…” She had to stop because she was pressed up against him from toe to chest and his arms were wrapped around her. “Anymore… until tomorrow.”

  “The name is Colin,” he clipped.

  She tossed her head and glared at him.

  “Tomorrow,” she snapped.

  Surprisingly, he let her go.

  She took a quick step back but her pride would not allow more. She was not going to let him know how terrified she was. Nor how devastated.

  “My jewellery,” she held out her hand, palm up. This position was familiar and it seemed, now, Colin Morgan would always be holding something of hers she wanted back.

  She had to gulp down her tears again as he deposited the jewellery into her hand.

  Her fingers curled over it slightly and she dropped her head and poked at the precious pendant with her finger, cursing, for the millionth time, her absentmindedness that caused her to forget it in the first place.

  This action also served to hide her face from his view.

  She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t know what she’d do if she looked at him. Probably run from the house and never stop running.

  And how was that going to get a minibus?

  She could taste the vile disappointment in her mouth that Rescuer Colin was not the real Colin.

  And in that moment, Sibyl Godwin let go all of her wondrous dreams of finding her fated one, true, beautiful love. They flew away from her and she felt the acute pain as if they’d been torn from her physically.

  His hand came out and he used the side of crooked finger to lift her chin so he could look into her eyes.

  His were completely and utterly blank.

  And that scared her most of all.

  “I’ll be here with the money tomorrow night at seven,” he told her in a surprisingly soft voice.

  She jerked her chin away from his hand.

  Then Sibyl replied, “I’ll be ready.”

  Chapter Eight

  Consummation

  “Oh dear,” Marian Byrne said as she looked in her crystal ball.

  It was milky but she could still see the shadows of two forms in its depths.

  Years ago, when she first saw it, Marian had been drawn to the clairvoyant orb, even though the crystal was flawed (which often made it difficult to see), but she bought it anyway. It never gave her a hint of trouble. It lay on its pillow of royal blue velvet atop the spindly legged, tri-footed round table in her magic room.

  That night, it showed her something she did not like to see.

  She turned and carefully touched the precious book, her hands wearing clean, white, cloth gloves. She, nor her mother, nor her mother’s mother (and so on) ever touched Granny Esmeralda’s Book of Shadows without using the greatest care.

  The book was nearly five hundred years old and it was precious.

  She read the ingredients of the potion Granny Esmeralda used on Royce and Beatrice (even though she’d read it hundreds of times before and had
it memorised).

  The protection charm was fierce, half of the ingredients you couldn’t get anymore unless you visited the darkest shops.

  Marian saw, however, that using the flesh and blood of the dark soul and the death blood of the lovers may now be causing a bit of havoc for Beatrice and Royce’s descendants.

  She knew (as every witch did) that bad things came from bad blood, violence, mayhem or simply (as was the case for Sibyl and Colin) misunderstanding and distrust.

  Nevertheless, to make the potion as strong as it needed to be, Marian knew Granny Esmeralda needed all the magic she could get.

  It should have been strong enough, the residual love of the wedded Morgans that lasted in the atmosphere for five hundred years. Everything was perfect, Colin and Sibyl were both direct descendants (of this Marian was certain intuitively rather than with any real knowledge). Colin lived in Lacybourne. Sibyl, for some deliciously fateful reason, lived in Granny Esmeralda’s old cottage. Then there was the dog, named for Royce’s horse. Marian didn’t know why the lovers had exchanged hair, but she found it very touching.

  But something, obviously, was wrong and it was likely that potion.

  “Well, Granny Esmeralda, there’s nothing for it. I’m just going to have to keep my eye on them,” Marian told the book. “And maybe meddle, just a wee bit,” she finished.

  She knew it was dangerous to meddle but if she didn’t it would likely be another five hundred years before their descendants could start again.

  The book, not unusually, said nothing in return.

  Marian stood and felt some pain in her knees.

  “I’m too old for this,” she complained to one of her cats.

  The feline blinked at her.

  Without further hesitation, Marian went to her vials and drawers.

  She had work to do.

  * * * * *

  What did a woman wear when she became a whore?

  Sibyl would have never thought in a million years, with ignorant bliss at her own eventual stupidity, that she would be asking herself that question.

  Now, for fifty thousand pounds and peace of mind for the well-being of several dozen old people she really didn’t know all that well, she was asking herself that question.

  At least, she told herself, she hadn’t sold her body to the devil, better-known-as Colin Morgan, for, say, just the price of petrol.

  However, she found herself obsessing about whether she should have asked him for twice that, they needed work done on the stage too. And rewiring. And decent heating. And new furniture.

  Of course, that may have meant four months of anything he wanted which was an idea not to be borne (not that her current predicament was easily tolerated, it was just a bargain she’d made and, regrettably, had to keep).

  That might be the worst part of it all (in a situation where it was very difficult to assess what exactly was the worst part). Considering that he was a raving lunatic with a multiple personality disorder, “whatever he wanted” could be very much not worth getting paid fifty thousand pounds.

  Staring in her wardrobe and not seeing anything that was “Become a Whore” worthy, she did what any girl would do in her situation.

  She called her little sister.

  “Little black dress,” Scarlett replied instantly when Sibyl asked what to wear on a “date” (her sister didn’t need to know any details) that she knew, at the end, would be a sure thing.

  Sibyl didn’t have a little black dress so, mainly out of curiosity, she asked what Scarlett would wear on a “date” that she was certain would not be a sure thing.

  “Little black dress,” Scarlett repeated.

  “Scarlett, you do not wear little black dresses on every date!” Sibyl snapped, beginning to allow the niggling feeling of panic she’d been harbouring for over twenty-four hours to bud out-of-control.

  “Yes I do, my entire wardrobe consists of scrubs and little black dresses,” Scarlett retorted.

  For some reason, Sibyl believed this.

  “Well, I don’t have a little black dress and he’s going to be here in…” She looked at the clock on her bedside table. Then she gulped before she finished, “Thirty minutes.”

  “That’s okay, keep him waiting,” Scarlett retorted airily.

  Sibyl didn’t like the idea of what might happen if she kept Colin Morgan waiting. She didn’t like it at all.

  Her sister, like her mother, could read her mood from thousands of miles away.

  “Jeez, Billie, this guy sure has your knickers in a twist,” Scarlett noted and finally finished helpfully. “Just tell me what you have in your closet.”

  Sibyl didn’t want to think of twisted knickers either.

  Therefore, she focussed on Scarlett’s offer of help and in great detail she recited her wardrobe to her sister.

  Luckily, she had already done her hair (pulled it up in a severe twist at the back of her head) and her makeup (dramatic, it suited her mood).

  She’d also bought a bottle of red wine; a bottle of white wine; three different types of beer; champagne (did one toast their entrance into the World of Whoredom? Sibyl was not up on the etiquette). She’d also bought brie, apples, water crackers and made shrimp cocktail. Further, she’d prepared platters of these as nibbles, just in case.

  She might be careening quickly down the low road (the very low road) but she was not going to lose her hostessing skills in the process, her mother would never forgive her.

  He would not be getting a plate of tasteless cheese and a sad ham sandwich, although, he deserved a big bowl of ashes.

  “What was that? The last thing you said,” Scarlett interrupted Sibyl’s recitation and her culinary reverie (Sibyl was frantically, and possibly hysterically, multitasking).

  “Silk camisole with some sequined beading,” Sibyl repeated.

  “What colour?” her discerning sister enquired.

  Sibyl fingered the soft material of a top she’d bought last year when a girlfriend from Boulder was out in England for a visit. She’d never worn it. She didn’t go clubbing or out to dinner very often and it wasn’t the type of thing to wear to the Community Centre. The top was too fancy and bared too much skin; she didn’t want to give the old men coronaries. She had enough trouble with the damned minibus.

  “Kind of a deep violet,” Sibyl answered.

  “Wear that,” Scarlett declared decisively, “with a nice pair of jeans. Now, let’s talk shoes. What’ve you got?”

  And thus, ten minutes after she hung up the phone with her sister (the call had unfortunately included the third degree about “the guy”), and five minutes after Colin Morgan was meant to arrive, Sibyl stood in the dining area of the cottage wearing a dark violet, silk, sequined camisole, her best jeans (that had gone a bit snug due to a day of stress-eating which was now turning her stomach sickeningly) and a pair of high-heeled sandals that consisted solely of a strip of rhinestones across her toes and a daring rhinestone ankle strap. They were shoes she had purchased to wear with a bridesmaid dress and she hadn’t worn them since. She walked on them down the aisle and immediately kicked them off at the reception because they killed her feet.

  Which they were doing now.

  She thought, with fervour, that she just might hate her sister.

  But then again, at that moment, she hated the entire world.

  Most of all, she hated herself (and, of course, Colin Morgan).

  And she couldn’t shift the feeling that something, far beyond the fact that she’d sold her body to a man she didn’t like, was terribly, terribly wrong.

  She just thanked the goddess that she had a decent pedicure, complete with pale pink nail varnish. She’d hate to enter the World of Whoredom with chipped toenails.

  And she thanked the goddess that her mother insisted she start taking birth control at the age of eighteen (regardless that it was unneeded at the time).

  She’d chosen a scent of peony with a hint of grapefruit and put in the dangled amethyst earrings one of her
ex-boyfriend’s had given her.

  And now she decided she was definitely hysterical because she was standing in her dining room wondering if she should light candles and put on music. She didn’t exactly have to strike a mood, the seduction was a given.

  Bran sauntered in, his tail twitching, then stopped and looked up at her.

  Sibyl looked down at her pet and (undoubtedly hysterically) could have sworn her cat was watching her with grave judgement in his yellow feline eyes.

  “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

  Bran flicked his tail once then sat down and blinked his eyes.

  “Yes, well, it’s only two months. That’s it. He’s young, all right looking…” Bran blinked again, this time in disbelief. “Okay, he’s quite good-looking. He also has all of his teeth and –”

  A knock sounded at the door and Sibyl emitted a frightened, muted scream.

  Then she whispered, “Oh my goddess.”

  And the immediate feeling flooded through her that her whole life was going to change, not just the next two months. This thought bubbled up and nearly exploded into panic. Luckily, Sibyl had just enough strength left to tamp it down.

  Bran got up and wisely ran up the stairs.

  Mallory, on the other hand, was already up the stairs and after a clamorous descent, he skidded on his paws at the bottom to take the sharp turn towards the door. In the process, he slid across the braided rugs covering the wide-planked floors, bunching them in huge messes. She saw him stop (because he crashed into the door) and then he barked loudly over and over again.

  She took a deep breath then exhaled and in doing so expelled some of her panic and walked forward.

  You can do this, you can do this, you can do this, she repeated to herself over and over again, using her feet to right the rugs that Mallory had dishevelled.

  “Mallory, out of the way. Go sit in the living room,” she commanded when she made it to the door (or nearly, as Mallory was in the way).

  Mallory ignored her command and backed up enough for the door to be opened but his big dog body stayed where it was, his tongue lolling, his tail wagging fiercely.

  Sibyl took another breath, thinking what a cruel world it was that her dog, who hated men since she got him as a puppy, absolutely adored Colin Morgan.