She reached for the lantern, impatient. He drew it back.
“Whilst manners suggest ladies first, in this instance, I believe that I should have that honour, for your sake.”
“For my sake?”
“Yes – unless you enjoy walking into spider webs?”
She took a step back, waving him ahead.
“You are quite right, I do not enjoy that concept at all.”
He stepped into the doorway, and the darkness wrapped itself around him, the lantern’s light seeming feeble in the face of it. The idea that there had been no light here for centuries made the darkness seem somehow stronger, deeper, almost palpable. He eased down the stairs, careful lest they crumble beneath his feet like the bricks that had sealed the door had crumbled.
But the stairs were blessedly solid, and, even better, there seemed to be no spider webs. Perhaps the spiders were all centuries dead, and crumbled into oneness with the dust.
He could feel Lady Sybilla behind him, a warmth amongst the dark chill.
He felt ridiculous, as if playing the hero in a melodrama. Very ridiculous, given that, should anything untoward happen, he was probably more likely to end up curled up in a ball, screaming, than Lady Sybilla was.
After what felt like an hour, but was most likely minutes, the stairs ended in front of a door, of thick timbers banded in iron. He pushed it, tentatively and, with what sounded like a groan of agony, it opened.
The air that shifted the dust between their feet was colder, dry, and oddly metallic smelling. He stepped forward, holding the lantern high. And stopped, gasping in awe.
“What is it?”
He was blocking the opening, and she could not see. He moved forward, and she came up beside him. And stopped, and gasped in awe.
“A crypt? But it’s enormous. Where shall we start?”
In the darkness, he grinned. Her determined enthusiasm washed away the creeping chill and uncertainty for the moment.
“Perhaps if we go along one side? From what I can see from here, there seem to be stone tombs with effigies, statues, piles of smaller boxes or chests of some kind, and other things.”
He moved forward and she followed, reaching out to lay her hand on his shoulder, to easier stay with him in the darkness. The heat of her touch flared through him, like no other warmth he had ever felt.
The space widened out around them and Sybilla moved to be more beside him. It was fascinating, and his hopes with respect to spiders were dashed when he saw some festoons of dusty webs hanging from parts of the beams that supported the building above them. Thoughts of the vicar’s words about Templar treasure flashed through his mind, as they edged around a stack of small chests. The floor was cluttered, between the large stone tombs, as if the things had been dumped here, messily, and in a hurry. The side walls appeared to have many niches – he hoped that they were not ossuary niches, but he could not see any bones.
But then, they only had one lantern.
There – just ahead, there was what looked like a sword, lain across a stack of boxes. Lady Sybilla pushed forward, reaching towards it.
“Aaah….!”
She appeared to trip on something unseen, and began to fall. The sword fell from the boxes with a mighty clang, which echoed in the cavernous crypt. To Bart, it all happened in an odd slow suspension of time. He dropped the lantern onto the top of the nearest tomb, praying that it would stay standing, and made a desperate lunge to catch her. Time snapped back to its normal pace.
He held Lady Sybilla in his arms, crushed against him, supporting her as she found her feet again, turning herself towards him, still in the curve of his arms. Face to face, her lips were inches from his, a curl of her dark hair, escaped from her pins whilst they were riding, and never tidied, trailed across her cheek. Her eyes were wide in the glow of the lantern, and her breath brushed his lips like a ghostly touch. He could feel her heart beating wildly where her body touched his. She did not pull away.
Unable to help himself, he brought his lips to hers. She sighed against them, a sound of pleasure, almost, and returned the kiss – tentatively, exploring, their tongues discovering the shape of each other in the near dark. It was exquisite, and his body hardened, heat flushing through him. He groaned, and deepened the kiss. If this was all he ever had of her, it was worth it. This moment would be branded on his soul.
“Hellooooo? My Lord, is all well?”
The cry from above broke the spell, and they pulled apart, flushed, and both embarrassed and unsure. He steadied his breathing, and called out.
“All is well.”
Obviously, those above had heard the clatter of the sword falling.
“I… something rolled under my foot. The way it moved – silly of me, but I thought it was a bone…”
“Not silly at all – down here, it’s hardly surprising that you thought of bones.”
“Shall we continue?”
“Yes.”
He picked up the lantern, and moved forward again, lifting the fallen sword. It was magnificent – beautifully crafted, with a gem decorated hilt. The blade was dulled, with a thin coating of rust, but for a sword, centuries untouched, it was spectacular. The sort of thing that Geoffrey should see. There would be time for that. He laid it carefully aside.
They moved around, carefully avoiding the clutter, and the eeriness of the place began to unnerve him.
Miss Millpost was right – here, one could imagine the ghosts of these buried men, haunting what remained of the Abbey, and the additional building that had been, no doubt sacrilegiously, from their perspective, added on to the original consecrated buildings.
It was silent, save for the noises they made, and soft rustlings that could have been mice, in any other place. There was nothing more to gain, by staying there. This would need time, many lanterns and many people.
It would need to be examined, and all of the items catalogued, the chests opened and the contents explored. The vicar would be ecstatic – this might keep him occupied for years.
Of one accord, they turned back towards the stairs, feeling as if the occupants of the ancient tombs watched them go, as the darkness closed in behind the retreating force of their one small lantern. He found that he needed to speak, to break the grip of his imagination.
“It occurs to me that this is consecrated ground – still, for above it is the family chapel, which I think was a chapel in the original Abbey. We must ask the vicar how best to deal with this – to catalogue what is here, to explore the history, whilst still respecting the burials correctly. It is odd to think that generations have lived in this house, with a tomb beneath their feet, and not known it.”
She felt the chill run over her, at his words.
“Most disconcerting, I agree.”
Her voice was thin and soft, barely heard, even in the silence. He shivered again, as they climbed the stairs to the light.
Chapter Seven
Miss Millpost turned to go deeper into the library, her mind already on what she would achieve that day, whilst Lady Sybilla and Lord Barton were out riding.
“Oh, Miss Millpost…” She turned back, raising an enquiring eyebrow. Lady Sybilla had already gone out into the hallway, when Lord Barton continued “If you happen to discover anything about the history and ownership of Gallowbridge House, whilst you are digging through the library, I’d appreciate it if you would put it aside for me.”
“Certainly, Lord Barton. But I haven’t seen anything related to it, so far.”
“I suspected as much, but it was worth asking.”
He bowed, always the gentleman, and turned to follow Lady Sybilla.
“Gallowbridge House? I have noticed it, but why are you interested in it, in particular?”
“My interest began simply enough – I want to buy it. Its pastureland is the best in the valley – perfect for horse breeding, the place is well located, between Greyscar Keep and here, so I would have neighbours that I know, and I am sure that the house could be made reaso
nable, at least. I need a place of my own, before the Marquess of Dartworth returns to England.”
“But you said ‘began’ – is there more to your interest now?”
“Yes. It has proven impossible to buy. I don’t even know who the owner is – Tideswell, my man of business, has been working through a man of business in the closest town, who acts for the owner. But to no avail. Yet everyone tells me that the place has been empty for many years. So I am intrigued – why would the owner not use it, and not sell?”
“Empty? I thought that it looked rather stark and a little poorly cared for, when we drove past it, but empty for years?”
“Yes, odd isn’t it. One would expect at least a caretaker. But there is nothing, no-one.”
“Could we ride there today, going across the fields, rather than up along the ridge? You have made me curious – I’d like to see it close up.”
“Why not? I must confess, I have never actually gone right up to the house, and looked closely at the surrounds – I was more focused on the pastureland – one can fix a house, one cannot magically change the landscape.”
“A very wise approach to choosing a property. But let us see what clues the house can provide.”
They were soon on their way, the groom following at a distance as always, as a blustery wind began to blow.
The horses danced about, the wind lifting their manes and tails, making them want to gallop with it. The last leaves were stripped from the trees, a gold and red storm that pattered against them as they rode, leaving behind bare branches that reached for the grey wintry sky.
For a while, they let the horses run, until their first energy was spent, and they were willing to walk for a while, steady and calm as they normally were. Soon, Gallowbridge House was visible across the fields. They forded the small stream and rode towards the back of the house. Seen from here, it was quite different from the view from the road.
It had buildings that looked like stables, set to one side at the rear. And against the back of the house was a small structure, which, as they came closer, they could see was a tiny chapel. It seemed that most of these very old houses had once had private chapels.
There was a gate into the stableyard area, which hung on one hinge, creaking in the wind. Riding through, they went towards the house, and saw that, beside the chapel, there was a small graveyard with a few forlorn headstones. Oddly, the grass in the graveyard was trimmed, even though that elsewhere was not.
Riding back the short distance to the stable buildings, Sybilla slipped down from the saddle, and found a spot to tether Ghost. It was a spot where, no doubt, many horses had stood in the past, for there was a dip in the ground worn by their hooves. Lord Barton joined her, tethering Templar not far away from Ghost.
The groom was still some distance away, as usual. She supposed that he would take shelter from the wind in the stable building.
Relying on that, and with an idle thought about what he might find in there, she turned. Of one accord, they walked back towards the graveyard.
The wind whistled through the trees, causing them to scratch and scrape against the old house, the sound seeming overly loud.
The empty house loomed above them, somehow mournful, stark against the grey clouded sky. The door of the tiny chapel stood open, creaking as the wind moved it. Sybilla shivered, then forced herself to walk forward and push the door further open. It was a simple, quite bare chapel, with some carving around the sides, and pale light from the two high windows illuminating the dust and drifts of leaves that had been undisturbed for so many years.
There were no plaques, no memorials inside – just a sense of peace, and sadness. She turned back to the outside, and made her way into the graveyard. Lord Barton was ahead of her, bending down to brush the red and gold wreathing of blown leaves away from one of the gravestones.
“Lady Sybilla – look, this one is quite readable – and not so very old.”
Sybilla bent down to see, conscious of him, so close beside her. Memory of that kiss, in the crypt below Dartworth Abbey, rose in her mind, and she felt warm all over, no longer feeling the sharpness of the wind. Her hair, blown loose from its pins as usual, drifted forward, blocking her view.
She brushed it aside, tucking it behind her ear, and studied the inscription on the stone.
Here lies
Ella Kentworthy
Marchioness of Dartworth
1730 to 1770
Better to love truly than to follow convention.
Wife to Titus Kentworthy, Marquess of Dartworth,
Beloved of Stanford Barrington,
Loving mother of George and Genevieve.
“How strange. Does that mean what it implies, I wonder?”
“I suspect so. It would seem that the Marchioness had an affair that is acknowledged even here – for what else could those words mean? And I must wonder – which man was the father of her children? Surely the title would not have passed to a man whose birth might have been in doubt?”
Sybilla was silent as she considered his words, looking at the stark simplicity of the headstone, here in this forgotten graveyard – which was, in itself, a puzzle – for she would have expected the Marchioness to have been buried in the cemetery beside the vicar’s church, with all of the others in the long line of Kentworthys.
“And… ‘Stanford Barrington’ – I think… if I remember correctly, that Stanford was my great grandfather’s name…”
“If so, then your family, and that of the current Marquess are linked, through whatever happened here. I did not expect to discover a mystery today, but it seems that we have.”
“Indeed. And now that I have seen this, I must know more. It is as if I am living a gothic novel, not just writing one!”
They looked at the other graves, but all were much older, and the inscriptions barely readable.
Leaving the graveyard, they walked around the house, seeing no sign of anyone having been there for a long time – yet… the building seemed in quite good repair, as if it had been given at least minimal maintenance. It was strange – and made the whole place feel more eerie. The wind had risen even more, and the trees thrashed against each other, and the house.
The horses sidled about, but stayed where they were - they were well trained and their calm temperaments helped. As they turned away from the house, there was a loud, sharp cracking noise, and a very large branch from the tree almost directly overhead broke off, and came crashing down beside them. Sybilla flinched aside, just avoiding splintered pieces of wood, but Lord Barton’s reaction was far more violent.
He screamed, and dropped to the ground, curling into a tight ball, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Sybilla was startled by the intensity of it – but he had told her that this was what happened. After hesitating a moment, unsure what was best to do, she made a decision. She lowered herself to sit on the ground beside him, her back against the wall of the house,
Edging carefully as close to him as she could get, she reached out to gently touch him. He twitched away a little when her hand first made contact, then seemed to relax into her touch.
She stroked her hand across his shoulders, over and over, then, ever so carefully, she moved herself, and him, so that his head rested almost in her lap. She slid her arms around him, and held him to her, murmuring gentle reassurance as she did. The words did not matter, for she had no idea what words would be best – but the tone of her voice did matter, she somehow knew.
For it was clear to her at that moment, that what he needed most was contact with something real, here, now, to pull him back from the ghosts of the battlefield. After a little, his voice joined hers, a low muttered repetition of words that she could not make out. That he lived with the possibility of this happening, every day, and still was as strong a man as he was, amazed her. The courage that would take!
Minutes passed, as their voices wove through each other, underlaid by the howl of the wind and the creaking of the trees.
She had no sense of ho
w long they stayed like that, but, eventually, she felt the tightness in him lessen. His eyes opened, and he jerked back against her, surprised to find her face so close to his. She brushed a gentle kiss across his forehead, a little shocked at her own daring, and loosened her arms, giving him the space to ease himself up to a sitting position beside her.
“I… apologise, Lady Sybilla. I had hoped that you would never have to see me like that.”
His eyes were pools of despair, as if he had lost everything that he cared for. She did not know why. She ached to take that despair away.
“There is nothing to apologise for, Lord Barton. It was a most understandable reaction, given the suddenness and the sharpness of the sound. I am glad to see that it has released you, enough for you to converse with me again.”
His face was full of confusion, as if he had expected her words to be far different. That thought filled her, in her turn, with confusion – what other response could he have expected from her?
“Thank you. What did cause the noise?”
She indicated the shattered remains of the tree branch, not far from where they sat.
“The tree. It seems that the wind was too much for these old branches, and a rather large one broke off, and fell, almost on top of us.”
His expression became concerned, and contrite.
“I must apologise again – for I have not enquired about your wellbeing. I hope that none of the falling timber hit you?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think so – at least, not that I noticed. Some small pieces did collide with my skirts, but nothing more.”
“I am relieved to hear that! I believe that I am now capable of standing, so I suggest that we move from this location, before another branch chooses to fall.”
As if to add emphasis to his words, the tree above them creaked ominously, under another onslaught of wind. Templar whinnied, as if calling them to be gone. He rose, carefully, still a little shaky, using the wall of the house for stability, then, gentlemanly as always, held out his hand to help Sybilla rise.
Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 6
