“Not so well as I had hoped, although, yes, I have woven all of the character of these places into it, for the better, I think. There is still more to do, but I cannot complain too much.”
“And when it is done…? What will you do?”
She looked at him, and her eyes glittered, as if filled with unshed tears, then she looked away. Her voice, when she spoke, was steady, yet lacking in emotion, as if she held it that way by force.
“I will, I suppose, return to Meltonbrook Chase. I must be there, anyway, over the Christmas Season. If I have not finished writing before I go, then I will likely come back here after Twelfth Night, to write the rest. Although I am quite certain that my mother will try to dissuade me. And then, once it is finally done… my mother will insist on me going to Town with them, and will drag me around to all of the Balls and soirees, with Alyse, desperately hoping to marry me off.”
The words were like a knife to his chest. However much he might tell himself that he could not ask any woman to take a broken man, the thought of her married to another was beyond painful. He must have made some sound, for she turned back to him, her expression concerned. He suspected that his face clearly revealed his feelings, in that instant when the pain of her words had left him unguarded.
She reached for him, and he for her, with no conscious thought of doing so. His arms went around her, and his lips found hers. All of his love for her rose up in him, demanding expression, and he deepened the kiss, unable to stop himself. She did not push him away, she did not hesitate, she met him, passion for passion. Time slowed, measured only by the beat of her heart, where she pressed against him. When their lips finally drew apart, she looked at him, a kind of despair in her eyes, then laid her head against his shoulder while he held her.
“I…”
She raised her head, and met his eyes, then lifted her hand and laid her finger across his lips, silencing him.
“Do not speak. Do not say words you may regret. There are so many things you do not know of me, things that I cannot bring myself to speak of. Better that neither of us put words to things, for words cannot be unsaid. There is comfort in touch, and in silence, even if this is the most that we have.”
He nodded, his heart torn in two. He could not imagine what she meant, except perhaps his worst fear – she would not allow him to declare his feelings, knowing that she would then have to hurt him by rejecting him. That must be it – for he could not imagine that there was anything terrible about her, which could not be spoken. She was being kind – but in a way which destroyed his dreams.
Still, he held her, could not bring himself to remove his arms, any more than she seemed able to remove hers from where they curled around him. Minutes passed, and he treasured them, imprinting upon his mind the feel of her in his arms, lest he never have the chance to hold her again. A sound from outside brought them back to themselves, and they moved apart, suddenly awkward, unsure.
He drew himself up, wrapping around himself the pride and determination that had carried him through this last year, through the doubt of his own sanity, and the judgement of his family, and offered her his arm. They walked back into the winter sun, as if nothing had changed. Perhaps nothing had, on the outside, but inside, his worst fears seemed to have been realised.
They mounted, and turned to the path up to the ridge, not needing words between them for that decision. Up there, the air was clear and crisp, the view clear into the distance, and everything sparkled, where the sun found the ice, and the melting water pooling on every surface.
It did not matter, he discovered. Whether she rejected him or not, she held his heart. He would honour her request, and not say the words, but he would not stop loving her. And he would take whatever time she would give him, be it riding or elsewhere. He would hope – hope that, one day, she would be able to speak of it – that he might hear the rejection from her lips, and whatever else she held close, and too painful to speak of now. She was right – the words had power – but so did their lack. Until they were spoken, nothing was absolute.
As so often before, they rode side by side, so close that their knees brushed. She reached for his hand, and he took hers. Nothing was spoken. It was as if, in that moment, she did care. He did not understand. He chose to simply accept.
As always, as they approached the path down through the trees, they needed to split apart. Then, as she slid her fingers from his, she did turn to him, her eyes full of deep sorrow. He could not let it pass, even if it was the height of foolishness to ask.
“Tell me.”
“Perhaps, one day. That day is not today.”
The unshed tears glittered in her eyes again, and she turned away, riding down through the trees, back into the harsh reality of daily life. A bird spiralled through the clear sky above them, leaving only its mournful cry.
~~~~~
Sybilla swallowed her tears, forcing herself to accept reality. Whatever he might have said in the stables, had she let him speak, it did not matter. For she could not allow anything between them, if she could not be honest with him. And, if she were to be honest with him, he would turn away in horror. But she wanted it. She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life.
He had courage, and dignity, no matter what challenges he faced. He had been honest and open with her, about his own challenges in life – why could she not be as brave? Because she was flawed, it was that simple. But still, she was fool enough to treasure these moments, and want them, even though it only extended the pain.
It was not possible, she had discovered, to choose not to love, once one’s heart had committed itself.
“And that’s what we discovered – we have second cousins, born on the wrong side of the blanket, that we never knew existed – one of whom has been working for our family for years!”
Hunter, Charles and Alyse gaped at Sybilla, shocked.
“It’s like something out of a novel – not the sort of thing you expect to discover in real life.”
Alyse was obviously taken with the ‘romantic tragedy’ aspect of the whole story. Charles was thoughtful, saying nothing – but he had that expression which Sybilla recognised – the one that meant he was trying to remember something significant. Hunter looked a little sad.
“I am rather disappointed in our great grandfather – to have simply left his lover and their child, to marry and carry on the family line… I can understand his need for an heir, but to simply leave them, with nothing, and never see his daughter again… I cannot imagine how a man could do such a thing.”
“I have wondered, from the point where we had both Stanford and Ella’s letters, what really did happen after Stanford married. We have no information – no other letters, nothing to tell us if he ever thought of them, or tried to do anything to help. It seems that at least Titus Kentworthy had the decency to provide his estranged wife an allowance to live on – but not a large one, by everything that we have seen. Do you suppose that there might be anything of Stanford’s still here, at Meltonbrook Chase, which might give us some insight?”
Hunter shook his head.
“I’ve not found anything amongst our father’s papers from Stanford’s time. If it was there, then father either disposed of it, or stored it away somewhere – which means that we might never find it, even if such a thing exists.”
Charles leapt from his chair.
“I may actually have something, I knew that I’d seen something related to Stanford, and I just remembered where. I’ll get it from my office.”
They sat in silence, impatient, wondering what Charles had remembered. Charles could generally answer any question about Hunter’s estates, for he managed everything to do with them, and had for some years now, but Sybilla did not see how that might have presented an opportunity to find private letters of something else of Stanford’s – for surely Stanford would have left all of the estate things to an estate manager or a man of business?
After a few minutes, Charles returned. He was carr
ying an old looking leather-bound chest. He set it on the table before them, and opened it.
The key was on his keyring with all of the others – it was small, and rusted, its age obvious. Inside the box were some papers, and a small journal.
“It took me so long to remember, because I never read the whole journal. I just opened it, saw that it had been Stanford Barrington’s, from after he had inherited the title, and put it aside – for what impact could a personal journal written forty or fifty years ago have on estate management today? The papers are the deeds to the smallest of our estates – one Feltonbury Manor, which is not a great distance from Greyscar Keep. I don’t think that anyone in the family except me has been there for many decades – there are two tenant farmers who keep the land productive. I check on them every so often, but they are good and honest men. The wife of one of them sees that the houses stay clean – there are two – the main manor and another, which may once have been a Dower House, and they put some time to caring for the gardens too.”
Sybilla reached out and picked up the journal.
“But why would the journal be in a box with those deeds? I hope that reading it will tell us.”
All eyes were on her as she read. Alyse fidgeted, then came to stand behind her, and read over her shoulder. Eventually she looked up.
“Oh, how sad! Once great grandmother died, Stanford went looking for what had happened to Ella, and Genevieve, for his wife could no longer be hurt by knowing of their existence. But Ella was dead, and Genevieve had married, and left the parish. The villagers and the vicar of the time closed ranks against him, and refused to tell him where she had gone.”
“So, they all blamed him? Even after thirty years or more?”
Alyse seemed incredulous at the concept that a whole district would be united in that kind of attitude.
“It would seem so. But here is the interesting part. He bought Feltonbury Manor with the intention of giving it to Genevieve, an apology, thirty years too late, for not having been there. It would seem that he regretted completely cutting off contact.”
“Which would explain why no-one in the family has used the place – it was never bought with us in mind. I always thought it an odd property for us to own, with no particular purpose to recommend it.” Charles looked thoughtful again, and a little chagrined, now, that he had never read the journal.
Sybilla looked at Hunter.
“Could we… could we give it to John and Isabel? Could we fulfil Stanford’s wishes, in the next generation? It is yours now, Hunter, so it is your decision.”
Hunter considered, looking to Charles who nodded.
“There is no reason to keep it, within the plan for all of your estates. If you wish to give it away, there is nothing to stop you.”
“Then yes, Sybilla, I think that would be a reasonable thing to do. I do feel uncomfortable with the fact that Isabel has worked for us for seventeen years, when but for an accident of timing, she might have been part of our direct family. There is nothing we can do about the bare fact of her descent, but this would provide some closure to the whole sad story.”
Hunter smiled, pleased to see Sybilla happy with his words. This last two years she had been far too reserved.
“I feel rather foolish, in a way,” Charles shook his head at his own unthinking behaviour, “For I should have asked myself – ‘why would the journal have been locked in the box with that one property deed?’. But I did not. It seems obvious now, that Stanford hoped that we might, someday, find his daughter, and complete what he had set in motion. And so we shall.”
That decision made, they turned to talk of other matters, having exhausted discussing what Sybilla had been doing for the past months at Greyscar Keep – or at least exhausted discussion of what she was willing to tell them. They had all been impressed at her progress on her novel (she suspected that they had rather expected her to give up, and never finish it – she would not give up!), and a little disconcerted when she stated that she was going back to Greyscar Keep, once Twelfth Night was past, to finish the last of it. Had she really seemed so devoid of persistence to her siblings, in all that she had done before, that they would expect her to fail at this?
What she had not mentioned was her interactions with Lord Barton, beyond ‘we went riding at times’ and ‘he helped with investigating Ella and Genevieve, when I became intrigued’. She had told Hunter of Lord Barton’s pleasure in being away from his family, and a little of his plans for horse breeding, but she had intentionally not mentioned, at all, how close they had become. For to do so would open the door to conversations that she could not ever face. If she was not brave enough to bear Lord Barton’s probable reaction to the terrible truth about her, she was even less likely to allow her siblings to discover it – for how could they not revile her if they did? Yet she hated keeping secrets from them. She suspected that she would feel dirty and dishonest for the rest of her life, as well as guilty.
But no matter what choices she had made, Sybilla missed Lord Barton, every day. She missed their rides in the clean cold wind, she missed the gift of his silent acceptance, she missed his quiet courage and kindness. Her heart ached more, each day that they were apart. She tried to put the feeling aside, to be joyous for the Christmas season, here amongst her family and friends, but she feared that she failed, most of the time.
Her dreams were still haunted, her father and brother still accused her most nights, yet, occasionally, those dreams would fade, to be replaced by dreams of Lord Barton – dreams in which they kissed, as they had in the stables at Gallowbridge House. And then she would wake, to the cold harshness of the reality that she would always be alone.
At least, on Twelfth Night, she would see him again – he would be here, as would all of the Hounds for a few days. How she would go about talking to him here, amidst her family, she did not know – they knew her too well, and would see things that she did not wish them to see. But she would weather it, simply to be in his presence.
~~~~~
Ghost whickered as he led Templar from the stable, stretching her neck over the stall door – looking for Lady Sybilla. Once again, he wished that people could be as honest with their feelings as animals. He missed her too. Every day. There was an aching void in his life, where her brightness had been. He was not certain how he had come to love her so utterly, but he had. Her absence had proven that to him, thoroughly.
He still rode each day, but it was not the same.
The ridge was not the same, for she was not there to share the wind and the silence. Still, he rode there, taking the same path, stopping at the top to stare out across the valley to Greyscar Keep, wishing.
As Christmas approached, he steeled himself for the few days that he would spend at Hawkford Park, with his family, before escaping them to go to Meltonbrook Chase – to those whom he considered more family than family – the Hounds. And to Lady Sybilla. He was not sure how he would cope with seeing her, surrounded by a family that she loved, who accepted her for herself, when he so desperately wanted to be a part of her family – in the most intimate way possible.
The thought gave him pause, and he considered it. He knew how much he loved her, but he had not really thought past that until now. He had been too caught up in his own self-pity, too sure that he could never offer any woman himself, a broken and damaged man. But the thought was there – were the path open for it, he would wish to marry her. Could it be possible? He did not know, but part of him was no longer so utterly certain that it could not.
The idea refused to leave him be, and over the week before he departed for Hawkford Park, he drove himself mad with thinking of it. He was beginning to think that, whatever she had hoped to forestall, when she had stopped him from speaking in the stables at Gallowbridge House, he needed to speak regardless. He had reached the stage where he needed to know, absolutely. To hear her rejection of him, in her own words, or to know that there was hope. And there was but one way to make that happen – to tell her, in the pl
ainest language possible, how he felt about her, and accept her response, whatever it may be.
The thought of doing so was terrifying, yet freeing – doing so would release him from this eternal limbo, where hope was possible, but certainty unavailable. He went to Hawkford Park lighter of heart for having made the decision to speak to her, either at Meltonbrook Chase, or after, when, he hoped, she would return to Greyscar Keep to finish writing her novel.
Two things surprised him, at Hawkford Park – firstly, his family were more welcoming, and less overwhelming, than he had expected. And, secondly, when he stepped into the chaos that was his family, all in the same place at the same time, surrounded by sudden movement and sound, he found himself calm and steady, not on the verge of an attack. He realised, with a start, that he had not had an attack for many weeks – and the last few had been minor, compared to many in the past. Was it possible that they could continue to get better? He did not know, but he prayed most fervently that it was.
He actually enjoyed the time with his family, in the end – knowing that he now had a home of his own to retreat to changed things dramatically. But as the day came closer when he would depart for Meltonbrook Chase, he found himself filled with nervous anticipation, such as he had never felt before.
Twelfth Night was two days away – guests would begin to arrive tomorrow. Sybilla’s heart sang at the thought of seeing Lord Barton again, but she was deeply conflicted. In an attempt to clear her head, and prepare herself for the following day, she took Windwish out for a long ride. The day was crisp, after a light snowfall overnight. The woods of Meltonbrook Chase were beautiful, but they were manicured, tamed. They were not a high ridge in the wild wind. She added another layer of guilt to her load – guilt for being disloyal to her home, for wishing herself elsewhere. For wishing herself with someone else…
Tomorrow, he would be here. What was she going to do? Would she pretend that all was ordinary between them? Could she manage that? And did she want to? This few weeks away from him had made her acutely aware of how strongly her feelings were engaged.
Healing Lord Barton: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 9) Page 11
