Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 3

  Lord Barton looked at Sybilla, and raised an eyebrow enquiringly. At her nod of agreement, he smiled again (perhaps, eventually, she would get used to it!), and offered her his arm.

  “A tour it is then. Lady Sybilla?”

  She placed her hand on his proffered arm, and they turned to exit the room, Miss Millpost following, just as a harried looking maid appeared, bearing a tea tray. They stopped.

  “Ah, my apologies, I had forgotten – it takes some time for such things as tea – the renovations have still not fully restored the kitchens. Perhaps we should fortify ourselves before we venture about.”

  They sat, and partook of the tea and cakes, but both Miss Millpost and Lady Sybilla were anxious to move on to their tour. Once politeness had been satisfied, they began again, going from the parlour through the already restored parts of the house – which included a magnificent library, that quite took both Sybilla and Miss Millpost’s breath away, as well as a range of other rooms, and some guest suites.

  Once they reached the areas still undergoing work, they proceeded with caution – it was messy, but Sybilla could see the elegant shape of the place – the great hall, which had been part of the original buildings, and then expanded to create an enormous ballroom, was particularly impressive. She stood gazing across it, imagining it as it might have been fifty or a hundred years before, full of light and laughter. She could almost see the ghosts of the ballgoers dancing before her, so strong was the impression.

  “This… will be beautiful.”

  “It will. The building has been sorely neglected this last twenty years and more, but it has good strong bones – the core of the place goes back to the 1200’s – many of the newer parts are in worse condition than the oldest walls. I have discovered, these last few months, rather a fascination for transforming the building – it is such a constructive pursuit – such beauty can be created from simple materials and skilled hands.”

  “Indeed, it can. I look forward to seeing how it progresses, over the next few months.”

  Sybilla blushed again, as she realised that she had just invited herself to visit regularly, without considering his thoughts on the matter.

  “And I most certainly look forward to showing it to you.”

  Lord Barton’s voice was low as he spoke, and his words resonated through Sybilla, leaving her feeling warm all over.

  As they made their way towards the stables, which Lord Barton had left until last, suspecting that Lady Sybilla would want to spend some time there, Sybilla looked about, wondering, if the Abbey was so old, how old was Greyscar Keep? She had never considered that before.

  How much history did the two estates share, where they sat, each overlooking one side of the valley? What had passed on the land between them, for all of those centuries? It was an intriguing thought. Perhaps the libraries of both estates contained records that might shed light on that history.

  The stables were enormous – a rambling series of buildings, linked into an E shape, where only two wings had so far been restored to order.

  Yet they were still beautiful. Sybilla wondered what it would be like, to see these buildings full of quality horses, and elegant carriages. Again, she had the sense of the ghosts of the past being just outside her sight. A loud neigh from one of the restored buildings disrupted her whimsical thoughts, and she hurried to follow Lord Barton into the dim, hay scented interior.

  There was something so relaxing, so reassuring, about the clean scent of horses, hay and leather. He led her to four stalls at one end of the row, which were all that were occupied.

  “Behold, the beginnings of what I hope will become a renowned breeding establishment – initially here, but eventually on property of my own, once I have managed to purchase exactly the right estate.”

  Sybilla went forward, noting the attitude of the stunning horse before her. He was that colour she had been thinking of, when the sun lit Lord Barton’s hair. How appropriate. Unlike many stallions, who were snappish and difficult, this horse watched her calmly, his ears pricked forward, and his nostrils flaring as he scented the air. She extended her hand slowly, allowing him to sniff at her before attempting to lift her fingers to stroke his velvety nose. He whickered softly, a welcoming, inquisitive noise. Sybilla laughed, sliding her fingers up to scratch gently above his eye ridge, and he closed his eyes and lowered his head to her hand.

  “His name is Templar. I chose him specifically for his temperament, as well as his bloodlines and conformation. I want to breed horses that will work with their riders, and enjoy life, not ones that you have to fight every time you touch them.”

  “He is magnificent.”

  They stood a minute, as Sybilla continued to softly scratch the horse in the spot that he enjoyed, before she slid her hand gently from him, and followed Lord Barton to the next stall. Templar whickered again as she moved, obviously hoping to convince her to stay. She laughed gently again.

  “Never fear, Templar, I promise that I will do that for you as often as I visit.”

  She looked into the next stall. Where he had found horses of such quality, she did not know. The mare was as superb as the stallion. She was a reddish mahogany bay, the colour of the best polished timbers from the East Indies. She shone as if polished too. Someone obviously spent many hours caring for these horses.

  “Her name is Shadow, and this,” he indicated the next stall, where a chestnut mare stood, her dark red-gold coat shining with health, “is Spirit. And here, in the last stall, is Ghost.”

  The grey mare was even more beautiful than the other two, and came immediately to the door to sniff at Sybilla, bunting her nose gently against Sybilla’s hand, seeking attention. Sybilla obliged.

  “They are all remarkable. I envy you.”

  “Perhaps you would like to ride her,” he indicated Ghost with a casual wave of his hand, “I could show you the estate lands and the rest of the district, if you like.”

  “I would like that more than anything. That was the thing I hesitated most about, in coming to stay at Greyscar Keep – I could not, practically, bring Windwish with me. And I am used to riding most days, so I miss it dreadfully.”

  “Then we are agreed. There is but one side-saddle here, so I hope that it fits you. I know that it suits Ghost best of the three mares.”

  “I am sure that it will. Thank you, so much!”

  “I am delighted that I can make you so happy. But, more seriously, you will be doing me a favour as well – they need exercise, and I am but one man, with one groom to assist. It will be a great pleasure to ride with someone who rides for the joy of it, not just for transport, or to hunt.”

  As he said the word ‘hunt’ he gave a slight shudder, as if the very concept were abhorrent to him – Sybilla wondered why, if that were the case. Or perhaps a chill breeze had just touched him at that moment, and she was imagining things.

  ~~~~~

  Bart walked back to the main house with them, feeling rather as if he were dreaming. He had just had an entire conversation about horses without the words ‘hunt’ or ‘hunting’ occurring once, until he had mentioned it himself. He could not remember the last time that had happened. His father and brothers, whilst happy to ensure that he had a suitably large allowance to do as he wished with his life, could not comprehend that what he wished to do was not the same as they wished to do.

  They were dedicated hunters – whether it was foxhunting with a pack of hounds, or shooting grouse, or some other hapless creature, they would be hunting every day if they could.

  Just the thought of joining them made Bart feel physically ill.

  He had seen more than enough of death during the war, had seen too many kind and giving horses blown apart by cannon shot, or falling broken on the field. He never wished to see another animal killed, unless it were a mercy killing for a badly injured beast. That his family killed for sport sickened him. But then, they had never been on a battlefield. He forgave them, for they truly could not comprehend his feelings. But t
hey harassed him – in the name of helping him reintegrate with civilian life.

  The chance to escape that terrible freight of their care had been wonderful, even though he felt, in part, guilty for that relief. He had begun to believe that he would never meet a person who could understand how he felt. He was, he knew, broken, in a way. The overwhelming terrors that sudden loud noises and movements caused were not normal. But they were now part of him.

  He had not expected to ever find a woman who might tolerate him, who might care in the least about horses, although his well-meaning family had introduced him to enough society misses in the hope that he might marry one. They grated on him. They were shallow, and insensitive to everything. He had resigned himself to a lack of female companionship, in fact, to a lack of companionship completely, apart from occasional times when he might meet with the other Hounds.

  And now, something remarkable was happening. Lady Sybilla wished to go riding with him – and he was not horrified – he wished it too. His world had just upended itself completely.

  Chapter Three

  The breeze was crisp, and Sybilla’s hair had, as usual, escaped some of its pins as she rode. She did not care.

  “From here, you can see Greyscar Keep. In the distance, there – you can pick it by the scar that the rock outcrop makes on the scarp. That’s how the Keep got its name, I believe.”

  Lord Barton pointed, and Sybilla squinted a little in the weak morning sun, eventually making out the Keep, made small by the distance. The sun lit its stone face, making it seem paler than it was, and cast its shadow huge on the scarp behind it, like some dark monster looming above the house.

  Sybilla shivered. Was it because of her novel that she had such morbid whimsical thoughts? Or was it this place? She didn’t know.

  “You seem to know every inch of the Abbey lands and beyond – you must have spent much time riding here since you arrived.”

  “Yes. Every day, unless the weather is unbearably bad. It… it frees me. There is peace in it. With no-one but my horse to deal with, I am never expected to make small talk, or to enthuse about things that revolt me.”

  Sybilla was silent, considering his words. They rode on, along the top of the ridge, the wind tugging at her hair, whipping wisps into her eyes. The groom was far behind. Lord Barton looked sombre, as if he too was thinking about his words.

  “I would not wish to disturb your peace. Am I intruding by my presence?”

  “No!” His response was quick, sharp, and held a tone almost of desperation. “You add to my peace. For you do not expect anything of me, but talk of the land, and horses, and the history of this place. I…,” he hesitated, as if unsure whether he should speak, and she wondered what deep emotion moved him. “I no longer cope well with most people, or going about in society. I especially do not cope well with my family.”

  “To me, you seem the most amiable of men. You are, from what I have seen, excessive in nothing, and you do not question my choices. Most men that have heard of my desire to write have mocked it, as if a woman would not have the wit to produce anything of worth. And you indulge my unladylike passion for horses. I cannot imagine what might make society difficult for you.”

  “Ah, but perhaps that is because you are not like them. My family care for me – I do not question that – but they cannot imagine a man not enjoying the same things that they do. And I do not. War changes you. It changes each man differently. But it always changes you somehow.”

  “Yes, I understand that. Hunter was so very changed when he returned – so full of grief and a kind of distance. He has only come back to being the brother I remember slowly, so much better since he married Nerissa.”

  Bart let the wind roll over him, washing his emotions away, as much as anything could. He envied Hunter, for having found a woman who accepted him as he was, a woman that he could make a new life with. He doubted that he would ever have that comfort – for he was far more broken than the others, and in ways that were far too visible if he spent much time around people.

  The wind blew on, and they rode, seeming detached from the world below, high on the ridge line. The wind drew things out of him, and he found himself speaking them, and allowing Lady Sybilla to hear them. He did not know why, but speaking to her felt safe.

  He almost laughed – there was no true safety in the world.

  “Some come home from war inured to death and killing. I came home abhorring it. In all forms. I accept that some animals must die for us to have meat – that is the way of the world. But I can no longer accept the concept of hunting for enjoyment, of shooting and killing something living, just for the sake of doing so, not through any kind of need. Yet my father and brothers love to hunt. And they want me to go with them. I tried. I was physically ill. They saw that as a terrible weakness. Perhaps it is. They do not say it, but they think me less of a man for it, and cannot reconcile that with the idea of a ‘war hero’.”

  “How can they judge? They have not been where you have, nor seen what you have seen.”

  “That is exactly why they can judge. They know nothing else than their small world – for it is small, now that I have seen more. And society is the same. The ton live in their own world, with their own rules and prejudices, and I no longer conform to what they expect of a man.”

  “Surely, disliking hunting is not such a grave crime in their eyes?”

  “Ah, but it is more than that. Much more.”

  He took a deep breath, and Sybilla watched as emotions played across his face, flickering and gone, like the patterns that the wind made in the long grass. She waited, knowing that she had, for this man, infinite patience. She did not know why, but it was true. “More?” Her voice was quiet, encouraging, barely heard above the wind.

  “More. You… you have seen me, I think, when sudden noises happen? Have seen that I… flinch?”

  “Yes. But to be startled is not such an uncommon thing.”

  “Ah. But it is not just startled. If the noise is loud enough, sudden enough, close enough, then I do more than flinch. I… panic. I curl up like a terrified child, and I am, in that instant, no longer here. I am back on a battlefield, with cannon balls falling around me, with men and horses torn to pieces beside me. I cannot prevent it from happening. After a time, somewhere from minutes to hours, I come back to myself, and know that I am not on a battlefield. But knowing does not prevent it happening again, at the next sudden sound.”

  The trees moaned in the wind, and his soul cried with them.

  For he was certain that he knew what would happen next. She would look at him in horror, knowing that he was broken, perhaps mad, and pull away. She would no longer want to ride with him. What foolish thing had he done, to tell her this?

  But she did not recoil. She simply rode on beside him, thinking, calm as always, in tune with Ghost and the world around her. Her voice surprised him, for he had not really expected her to speak to him again.

  “That seems an understandable reaction to me. It is a horror that I am most grateful I have never had to see. That you continue in your life, with plans for breeding horses, and for doing non-destructive things, is a good thing, come from the horror of war. But I can see how not knowing when you might react that way could make moving in social circles difficult.”

  For the second time in a matter of weeks, she had turned his world upside down. He gasped, as if unable to breathe, as the enormity of it struck home. She had not rejected him when he had admitted his brokenness. Eventually, he found words.

  “I wish that there were others in the world who might conceive of it the way that you do. Even I, as I live this, am not really certain of my sanity. The renovations at Dartworth Abbey have been a double-edged sword. For I find a kind of joy in seeing the damaged parts removed, and restored to their rightful state. The destruction is so that restoration can happen, renewal, of a sort. But… restoration work is necessarily full of loud noises, thumps and bumps, all of which happen without warning. The old place creaks an
d groans, and the wind whistles through everything, like the ghosts of past inhabitants bemoaning their fate. That I am sane seems an unlikely thing, some days.”

  “Perhaps you are more sane, and certainly more courageous, than those who would discount your concerns and reactions. Greyscar Keep is a little like that. It is so old that everything creaks and moans, and the wind howls around the building, passing between it and the scarp. As a child, I was sure that it must have hidden passages and ghosts and terrible secrets buried away. As an adult, I find that I may still believe that, especially when I wake in the night to odd and unexplained sounds.”

  He looked at her, astounded yet again. Perhaps it was possible for someone else to understand, at least in part.

  “Yet you chose to come here, and to write a novel based around a heroine experiencing that very sort of thing. Why would you do that, if it makes you uncertain of what is real?”

  “I, like you, do not much enjoy going about in society. My mother laments the fact – for my first Season was cancelled, when my father and brother died,” her voice caught, and a momentary expression of pain crossed her face, “and this year, I was totally overshadowed by Hunter, as far as the ton’s view of our family was concerned. He was a much better catch than I. But my mother still hoped that I would find someone to marry. At twenty, I am almost on the shelf, and she despairs for me. Perhaps I despair for me too. For all of the men that I met horrified me – they wished me to be pretty, and not intelligent, to not write, not read, and certainly to not rush about the countryside on a horse, with my hair blowing wildly in the wind.”

  He reached for her hand, unthinking, and held it a moment, a connection of simple human warmth. Yet it was warmth that threaded through both of them with surprising strength.

  He released her, as if only then realising what he had done. She spoke again, her voice barely audible.

  “My mother would have me be a married woman soon, and Alyse too. In a way I agree, for it is time that Alyse and I stepped out into living our own lives, and gave Nerissa space in the house to grow into her role as Duchess. I love her dearly, and would not impose upon her too long. Life at Meltonbrook Chase is no longer comfortable for me.”