by Sahara Kelly
“Yes.” Gwyneth nodded. “The same year, according to this record. He was—fifteen or so? Not much older, because his marriage follows, dated 1685, to a Letitia…drat this handwriting, it’s so difficult to make out.” She scowled at the page, leaning close.
“It looks like Purr. Or possibly Parn. Or something like that.” She waved the annoyance aside. “And in 1687 Nicholas Markeley was born.” She looked up. “Interesting how the name Nicholas has returned to the family tree.”
“It is indeed.” Royce’s mind was turning over a variety of thoughts. “Is there more?”
“Yes. A little more.” She turned yet another page. “This is the final entry and the one that caught my attention. It is the record of a sale. I’m going to read it for you.” She took a breath.
“April 1712. Pinebridge Mere is to be reduced in size, by…and here’s something that looks like measurements—rods and perches— but I can’t make it out. Anyway, it goes on…this division will result in a property to be purchased by Sir Jerald Wolfbridge, and will be thusly named Wolfbridge upon completion of the deed of transfer. The remaining acreage, also re-titled upon completion of the above deed, is to be henceforth known as Fivetrees.”
Silence fell for a few moments as Gwyneth read the final words.
“By God,” breathed Royce. “Giles was right. Fivetrees and Wolfbridge originally were one piece of land.”
Chapter Twenty
There was no lack of conversation for the rest of that day.
Between the information gleaned during the morning’s outings and the revelations presented by the rescued Bible, everyone found themselves debating, asking, discussing and puzzling over various matters without cease.
Gwyneth herself was eager to learn more, to find out about the Bishop who apparently owned a massive amount of land back in the fifteen-hundreds. A portion of which was now Wolfbridge.
She wondered if anybody was going to tell Giles that his assumption, mentioned so casually, might well prove to be correct.
So when they gathered that evening in the parlour with much needed glasses of brandy at their sides, she asked Royce that question before anyone else could start the discussion.
He nodded. “I’ll be writing him very soon, since this whole business has raised more than a few other questions that must be pursued.”
“Well, I have done some thinking,” she answered. “And reviewing of the dates we now have at hand.”
“Do you need the reference sheet?” Harry waved a piece of paper, grinning at her.
She laughed back. “No, thank you. I think I have most of it memorised. And my conclusion here is just an opinion, mind you…but I am near to convincing myself that this entire family tree began with an illegitimate child.”
The fire crackled in the hearth as everyone digested this comment.
“So you’re saying that the Bishop fathered a child out of wedlock? Back in…” Harry referred to his notes, “in 1565?”
Gwyneth took a breath. “Yes. I think Jonathan Pinebridge Markeley was fathered by Lord Nicholas Pinebridge, Bishop or not. And I have a compelling reason to make this assumption.”
She stood up and went over to the side table, picking up the handkerchief. “Remember this? We discovered the initials P and W intertwined within the lace.” She gently returned it to its place. “Who could P and W be, other than Pinebridge and Wilhelmina?”
“There’s no other mention of her, is there?” Jeremy looked thoughtful. “Only at the very beginning of the family tree.”
“Perhaps by the time they came to put that information in the Bible, they’d forgotten about Wilhelmina?” offered Evan.
“If that had been the case,” argued Gabriel intently, “why would that reference be in there at all? It had to have been important. A meeting between Lord Nicholas and Wilhelmina might well have planted the seed from which the entire family sprang.”
Gwyneth giggled, the muffled sound attracting everyone’s gaze. “I’m sorry, but that was quite neatly put, if you think about it.”
Gabriel blushed.
“Anyway,” she continued, “it’s a tremendous coincidence, don’t you think? The same two initials in the handkerchief now appearing in the very first entry of the timeline?”
“What was the date again?” Harry glanced at her.
“The first entry, where the initials appear, is 1562. It has that comment about some kind of exchange.”
“Oh good heavens.” Jeremy smacked his forehead. “Of course.” He looked around. “I am so forgetful. 1562 was the date of the grand opening of the Royal Exchange. A project of Queen Elizabeth’s, if I remember correctly.”
“So a grand event?”
“Huge.”
“The aristocracy would have been there in force?” Gwyneth continued her questioning.
“Most assuredly.”
“Well then. There it is. Bishop the Lord Nicholas Pinebridge met Wilhelmina there.” She wrinkled her nose. “And if we assume there was some kind of instant attraction, then the arrival of a child in 1565 is not out of the question.”
“A long-term affair then,” said Royce, his gaze distant as he contemplated the possibilities. “It occurs to me that Debrett’s might be of help. Just a minute.”
He hurried from the room, leaving the others thinking about the situation.
“They must have lived near each other. And if, as we believe, Pinebridge was Fivetrees, then that means somewhere around here.” Evan looked at Gwyneth. “Possible, d’you think?”
“More than possible,” she answered. “I’d say highly likely.”
Royce returned with a small book in his hand. “Right then. Let’s see if we can fill out some of the details.”
“Where will you start?” Harry blinked. “We have a lot of information, but nothing as concrete as a definitive title. Nicholas Pinebridge may not be in there at all…”
Royce leafed through the pages, then paused and silence fell as all eyes watched. He cleared his throat and began to read.
“Lord Nicholas Millington Pinebridge, son to Lord Arthur Frederick Pinebridge. Born in 1540, at Pinebridge Mere. Ascended to Bishop, 1560, by the Grace of God and the Duke of Fairefield. Diocese of…we can skip that…Country residence Pinebridge Mere.” He paused. “There’s more, but it’s not of much interest until we get to this…Bishop the Lord Pinebridge established Pinebridge Mere with the status of Mortua Manus by virtue of the ecclesiastical rights bestowed upon him at the time of his ascension.”
“Hmm.” Harry frowned. “I wish my Latin was better…”
“Isn’t it something to do with the ownership of land? Lord, I wish I could remember the details.” Jeremy closed his eyes in thought.
Harry snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Now I remember. I had a case where a father wanted to bequeath a portion of land to one of his sons, but he couldn’t. The land was held in perpetuity by the church. It was under Mortmain status, and the Latin for Mortmain is…”
“Mortua Manus. Of course.” Jeremy leaned back. “I remember now, too. It came up in one of my Classics classes. I have no idea why, but then again, most Classics classes are like that.”
Gwyneth smiled. “So now we have finally discovered what that expression means, exactly how does it affect this situation?”
“That is a very good question, my Lady.” Royce nodded in approval. “And it’s something Harry and I need to review in detail.” He pursed his lips for a moment. “I think Giles should know as well…” He glanced at Harry.
“Agreed. This concerns the land, not only of Fivetrees but also Wolfbridge, since the Mortmain was established to cover land that is now both properties.”
“Oh dear.” Gwyneth bit her lip. “Do you think this could lead to difficulties about ownership, Royce? Harry?”
Both men looked at each other, then back to her.
“I doubt it,” said Harry consolingly. “It’s been several hundred years and the properties have doubtless been re-registered or de-regist
ered. After all, the Fairhursts lived there for quite some time, didn’t they? I’m sure we’ll find that the legalities were taken care of at some point during the history of this place. And it’s likely that Sir Jerald Wolfbridge had legal advice before he purchased what would become Wolfbridge. Or at least a document verifying everything.”
“Or something. We’ll have to find out.” Royce’s voice was firm and confident as he spoke.
Gwyneth wasn’t quite so sure about what she saw lurking in his eyes. “You’re wondering if this might have anything to do with those legal inquiries Giles mentioned.”
He raised both eyebrows in surprise. “A mind reader as well? My Lady, you constantly astound me.”
She simply looked at him. “It was the logical assumption.”
“It was. And yes, to answer your question. That possibility is going to worry me until I hear from Giles.” He sighed. “At any other time of year I’d be on my way to see him in person, but this winter has been challenging and I have no wish to be stuck in some small village for a week because of a storm.”
“I understand,” she agreed. “As long as we can get messages to and from Giles in London, and whoever he is corresponding with about all this, then we must be satisfied, Royce.”
“I know.”
“But you can’t rest.”
“I’ll try, my Lady.” He shook his head. “I’ll probably fail, but I will try.”
*~~*~~*
Plagued by restless thoughts, Gwyneth paced her room that night, walking to and fro in front of the fire.
She’d doused the candles, finding their flickering flames not to her liking. They were too much like the little fires of worry that the day’s events had ignited in her mind, and she wanted to try to put them all to rest.
She was alone, by choice. Although she knew any of her gentlemen would have come to her room had she mentioned it, for some reason tonight didn’t seem the right night for a session of erotic passion.
Her thoughts were just too chaotic.
Anger was uppermost, she knew. An irrational anger that the one place she’d found peace, and happiness, was once again under attack. They had weathered the violence of a disturbed baron and seen another foe incarcerated.
Wolfbridge had thrived, and yet they’d fail to save Susanna Brockford, a shadow on their summer.
And now the threat from Gylbart and the law of the land, which might affect the very foundations of Wolfbridge.
Why did there always have to be shadows? Could there not be a decade or so in her life when she could simply enjoy who and what she was and the gentlemen who loved her so dearly?
It wasn’t fair. She pouted at herself in the mirror like a spoiled child denied a treat. Turning away, she neared the warmth of the fire, and seated herself on a low stool, fighting back tears.
In the months since she’d arrived, barely alive, she’d recovered her health and her heart, both of which she knew had nearly been lost, along with her life.
Memories of that terrible time in the Dowager house at Kilham, the unbearable cold, the hunger, the rats…
Yet here she was, hale and hearty, possessed of a beautiful home, fertile lands, tenants that many landowners would have killed for—and five men who filled her life and her heart with such incredible joy…
Why was she crying? Why had the tears begun unknowns to her, dripping from her cheeks onto her nightgown?
“Oh sweet love, what’s this?” Gabriel stood behind her. So lost in her own misery, she’d not heard him come into her room.
He knelt on the rug and put his arms around her, cuddling her into his body. “Are you ill? Did you hurt yourself? What is it, dearest?”
She shook her head, unable to find the right words. Her throat filled and there was nothing she could do but let go and sob all over Gabriel.
The best thing he could have done was let her, and he did. He simply held her until the tears abated, reduced to an occasional hiccup-filled breath.
“I’m sorry,” she began.
“Silly sweetheart. Do not be sorry. Sometimes tears are great cleansers of the soul.”
She snuggled into him. “And sometimes I forget how wise you are, Gabriel.”
He squeezed her. “I shall make certain to remind you now and again.” He kissed the top of her head. “But you are chilled, love. Time to get you into bed.” He tugged her to her feet as she wiped her cheeks with her hands.
He smiled, a sweet smile that lit up his eyes. In that moment she could well have believed him a faery prince about to pronounce a magic spell and turn her chamber into a garden filled with flowers and light.
“You spoil me, Gabriel.” She sighed as he pulled back the quilt and linens.
“You need spoiling,” he answered.
“Do I? I suppose I do.”
“Tell me why you cried?” He undid her night robe and slid her gown off past her shoulders. “I think I know what will help soothe you. Lie on your belly, love.”
Too bemused by his touch, Gwyneth obeyed. She was exhausted and couldn’t have resisted his tenderness even if she’d wanted to.
Closing her eyes against the pillows, she felt him get onto the bed and straddle her. And then his hands began a soothing slide up and down her spine.
“Oh Gabriel,” she muttered. “That feels so good.”
“Now you can relax. And tell me why you were crying.”
“You’re not going to give up asking, are you?”
“No.” He pressed firmly in between her shoulders and kneaded the bones he found there.
“All right. I will surrender to the terrible torture you’re inflicting upon my person.”
Gabriel chuckled. “I rather thought you might.”
“I think…I think I was angry.” She turned her face to the other side, aware that warm hands were stroking her skin with sensual skill.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t…it seems that there’s always trouble. Worries. Why is that? Why is it when all we’re trying to do is live a good life here at Wolfbridge, something or someone has to try to destroy what we have?”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he said quietly.
“It’s me,” she replied. “I brought trouble with me. Maybe I should leave. I would do that if it meant saving Wolfbridge.”
Gabriel was quiet for a moment, his hands still rhythmically caressing her back. “Without you, Gwyneth, there would be no Wolfbridge to save.”
“There must be other women ready to take over,” she mumbled.
“They’re not you. And this most recent problem? The Fairhursts and Fivetrees? Nothing to do with you at all. Once you regain your common sense, you’ll see that.”
She took a breath and remained quiet, thinking about what he said. The fire crackled, its glow comforting. But not as comforting as the massage she was receiving from Gabriel, one of the men who loved her.
It settled that gnawing fear, the debilitating worry.
“I think…I want to solve all our problems, Gabriel. I want it all to go away so that we can have a wonderful life here.”
“We already do, my love.” His hands slid to her sides now, softer but with the clear intention of brushing the sides of her breasts. “There cannot be another place in England—or even the world—where there is such joy and love and contentment. If I had to leave you, leave Wolfbridge…my life would end.”
His hands rested on her buttocks and he stroked them, gentling them, moulding them with his fingers.
Chapter Twenty-One
Journal of Gwyneth, Lady of Wolfbridge - December 1818
I cried last night. I’m not sure I’ve ever written those words before, but then again there are a lot of words I’ve never written that are suddenly appearing in this journal.
There is still a little confusion in my mind as to what precipitated my distress, which darted from fear to anger and back again, leaving me on the edge of an emotional precipice. Everything became bleak, and I was angry that Fate seemed to
conspire against my happiness. I am afraid of losing what I have, I suppose. How can I not be, when I am surrounded by love and the wonder of the gentlemen who live with me in this beautiful place?
They make it a home for me, the first time I have ever really felt at home. And the thought of losing all of it, or having to give it up for whatever reason - no wonder I was desolate.
But as luck would have it, my sweet Gabriel must have sensed something, because he appeared in my room when I was at my lowest ebb. I should have guessed it would be him - he is uncanny sometimes, understanding me better than I understand myself. Perhaps our similar backgrounds, filled with indescribable pain, have created a unique bond between us.
Whatever it was that drew him to my side last night, I am grateful for it. He held me, just held me, as I cried. The warmth of his arms encouraged me to let go, and I am distressed now to think how long I sobbed, weeping out my troubles on his strong chest.
But, being the man he is, he made no complaint, and afterward he soothed me by rubbing my back in a most pleasing and relaxing fashion. He ran his hands over my bare skin, pressing against taut muscles that eased at his touch. He is very good at finding the places that are locked amidst emotional pain, and even better at unlocking them.
By the time he had finished, I was no longer distraught, or crying. His caresses had eventually turned my mind toward more pleasant avenues and he lay beside me, welcoming my touches in return.
It is hard to describe Gabriel. He shares his heart and his love for me so openly that at times I feel humbled by it. And I am well aware of how very lucky I am that he is one of my gentlemen.
Last night, with his full cooperation, I explored him thoroughly. His thighs are firm, thoroughly muscled, as are his arms and shoulders. Although when clothed one might be forgiven for not realising his strength.
He has, I discovered, a ticklish spot just above his manhood, and I took pleasure in licking it, making him laugh and squirm, and eventually return the caresses to my body, where he licked me in the way he has learned that pleases me most.
His tongue can find my most sensitive places, and then teases and torments me as he laughs and breathes air onto my wet flesh. I cannot help but smile, even as I feel the tide of lust rising within me.
