Love in the Moonlight: A Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Collection: 7 Delightful Regency Romance All Hallows' Eve Stories (Regency Collections Book 6) Page 4

  They rode on, losing themselves in the wind again, until he spoke.

  “All I have come to want is an ordinary life. To breed horses, to never see death and destruction, to, perhaps, have companionship.”

  “All I want is to lead a quiet life, to write, to read, to ride, and to have companionship of the kind that can respect my silences, and leave me to write when I need to.”

  “It seems that we are in accord on the matter of a quiet life that includes horses.”

  “Indeed. But is that what we have here – in this place that seems so steeped in gloom and the ghosts of the past?”

  They were nearing the end of the ridge, where the trail wound steeply down amongst the trees towards the creek, and their conversation paused of necessity as they moved to ride single file down the narrow trail. The trees broke the wind to some extent, although it howled through their branches, and the leaves whispered – dry and rustling, like the ghosts of summer, as they clung to the branches before the wind tore them, golden and dying, away.

  At the foot of the hill, they forded the stream, and the wide flat pasture spread out before them towards the Abbey. Without sparing a thought for the poor groom’s attempts to keep up, Sybilla cast her melancholy thoughts aside, and urged Ghost to a gallop, feeling as if they both rode the wild wind as they raced towards home.

  Bart watched her a moment, holding Templar back as he sidled about, keen to run. With her dark hair and charcoal skirts blowing wild in the wind, and the fleet grey mare beneath her, she almost faded into the grey toned landscape, as the first drops of rain fell about them. A ghost on the wind indeed, he thought, as he gave Templar his head and committed himself to the wild wind too.

  Chapter Four

  “No! I didn’t mean…”

  Sybilla’s voice trailed off, as she realised that she was alone. The room was dark, the fire burnt down to embers, and the faint moonlight silvered the edges of everything, rendering the room a ghost of itself.

  The same dream. Again. Her guilt ate at her – they were right – it was her fault.

  For two years now, she had dreamed, over and over – it was always the same, with only one variation. Either her father, or her brother Richard would be standing in front of her, telling her that she had killed them, that everything was her fault, that they would be alive now, if she had been more ladylike, and less prone to stating her inappropriate opinions. This time, it had been her father.

  It seemed so real, and she shivered, sitting up in her bed and staring about the room, as if he might appear before her, even while she was awake.

  Perhaps in this house, he might. Here, the thought that her father’s ghost might haunt her did not seem so far-fetched. Always, in the dream, she tried to explain – but they never listened, they just berated and accused her, and she would wake with tears on her face, and desolation in her heart.

  This time, something, some sound, had woken her in the middle of the dream. She shivered again, as loud creaks and groans sounded from the walls around her, and the wind shrieked as it passed through the ill-fitting window frame in her dressing room. It was almost as if the house was joining her father in accusing her.

  Sleep would not be easy to find, now. Sybilla pushed back the covers, pulled a warm wrap around her, and lit a candle from the embers of the fire. She could not just sit here, the dream replaying in her mind, and the house conspiring to make it seem more real. She would go down to the library. This situation called for a book, and a brandy. Definitely a brandy. Perhaps that would help her get some more sleep before morning.

  As she slipped down the stairs, she felt as if she had gone back in time somehow – the house seemed ancient, and faded to black and white in the feeble glow of her candle. The paintings on the walls, most likely some distant ancestors of hers, stared accusingly at her as she dared to disturb their darkness.

  In the library, she lit more candles, and poked the fire to life, adding more wood from the pile set to one side, ready for the morning. With more light. She felt better. She went to the cabinet where the brandy decanter stood waiting, and poured a rather large glass.

  “Don’t be silly, Sybilla. The way you are thinking, you might just as well be the heroine in your own novel, starting at the slightest thing, and seeing ghosts in every corner. It was just a dream.”

  Her voice sounded odd in the empty room, and she sipped the brandy, (yet another unladylike habit of hers…) appreciating its warmth, as she wandered along the shelves, seeking a book to read. The library was marvellous – a huge collection of books, many of which were very old, yet in excellent condition, and she had barely begun to explore its possibilities.

  What to read? Certainly not a gothic novel! Nor anything dark and serious. Something light was called for, after that dream. Perhaps one of Shakespeare’s comedies, if she could find them here.

  Finally, she found them – on a shelf below a collection of books on Alchemy and magic. She shivered a little, wondering what ancestor had collected those. Selecting a comedy, she went to sit by the fire and read.

  But she could not concentrate – the dream still nagged at her – it had seemed so real. She found herself wishing that Lord Barton was beside her, that she might talk to him about it, might admit her terrible sin, her abiding guilt, and find relief in sharing the burden. She was sure that the simple pleasure of his conversation would ease her mind.

  But… if she told him what she had done, surely he would turn away from her in horror, as any reasonable man would. She was not so brave as to risk that, for she treasured his company too much to risk losing it. She was not good. She should be fair to the man, and let him know just what sort of woman he was spending his time with. But she could not bring herself to do so.

  She was disgusted with herself – it felt dishonest to not reveal her faults to him, when he had been so open with her, about his own problems. Perhaps she would be braver later. The branch in the fire popped as it burned, startling her, and the library door moved, groaning as it did so.

  Just the wind, she told herself, firmly, ghosts are not real, they are stories to scare children. Still… in this house… she was not quite certain of it. She tried to read again, with no more success. Eventually, she finished the brandy, left the glass on the side table, and took the book back to her bedroom. Perhaps, if she read in bed, she might manage to fall asleep again.

  ~~~~~

  Bart woke suddenly, as a thunderous crash echoed through the house. In the dark, coming from sleep he had nothing to anchor him to now. The panic took him, and he curled, shaking, into the smallest ball that he could, a whimper of fear escaping him. The wind howled around the house, rattling the window shutters, and in Bart’s panicked state, it seemed like gunfire.

  Some time later – which might have been minutes, or many hours, for all that he could tell – he came back to himself, slowly becoming aware that he was still alive, that he lay on a comfortable mattress, between clean sheets, not on a muddy battlefield in Spain.

  He wondered what had caused the crash that had triggered him – or had it even been real? Had he, perhaps, dreamed even that? He could no longer tell. Perhaps, after all, he was a little mad. In a sense, ghosts haunted him – of men dead in battle, far from here.

  But when they surrounded him, it seemed so real, and in those moments, he could not tell the difference. The wind howled again, the shutters rattled, and the old building groaned in response. It would be easy to believe in ghosts, surrounded by such sounds, in the middle of the night.

  He forced himself to get out of bed, and stand, on legs that still shook a little, before wrapping his banyan around him, and lighting the candle that stood ready on his bedside table. He would go down to his study, have a glass of brandy, and give himself time to reconnect to the here and now.

  In the candle’s feebly flickering light, the halls seemed longer, and the paintings seemed almost alive, as the light moved across them. He shuddered, especially at the ones depicting men in uniform. In
the study, he lit more candles, and built up the fire, before pouring some brandy.

  As he sipped the brandy, he still felt odd, detached, as if he were not quite here, even though he knew that he was not back in a battlefield. The house was eerie at night, with everyone but him asleep, and the creaks and groans of the old timbers seemed all too similar to the moans of the dead and dying on the battlefield. He refused to let his mind take him back there.

  As he had since his return from France and Spain, he wished for someone to talk to, someone who would not ridicule him for his weakness. But now, when that thought rose in his mind, a face came with it. He thought of Lady Sybilla, and how she had not rejected him as a person, when he had revealed his brokenness to her. He savoured the memory of the simple pleasure that her conversation brought him, and the shared joy of rides in the wild wind on the hills.

  That same wild wind that now howled and moaned around the house, like a demented soul.

  He wished she were beside him, there in the dark house, for her presence soothed him. He had not realised, until she came, how lonely he had been, here at Dartworth Abbey. He was glad to be away from his family, but he had missed company. But that was foolishness, to think of her here.

  She may not have rejected him when he had spoken of his troubles, his marginal sanity, but she surely would do so if she saw him when the full force of it overtook him.

  For that reason, thinking of Lady Sybilla brought him bittersweet comfort – for truly, what woman would want a broken man like him? She might be wonderful to talk to, might ride better than most of the men he knew, and might even care about many of the same things that he did – but she was a gently reared woman, of some considerable beauty, with the chance to have, most likely, any man of the ton – why would she ever look at him as more than a friend, to keep her company whilst she stayed at Greyscar Keep and worked on her novel?

  Whilst she had spoken of not liking any of the men she had met during the Season, that did not mean that she would not find an agreeable suitor – one who was whole of mind, as well as body. He would not delude himself. He would appreciate her friendship, but not look to ever have more.

  He was not yet ready to seek his bed again, yet he could not simply sit, indulging in wishful thinking about Lady Sybilla. He needed to distract himself. He turned his thoughts to Gallowbridge House. Tideswell’s news had not been good, not when he had first asked about the house, nor yet, months later.

  Bart wanted the place – it was as simple as that. Christmas was soon approaching, and somewhere then, or in January, Oliver would return, and perhaps wish Bart to move out of Dartworth Abbey – perhaps not, for Lady Georgiana was at Casterfield Grange, so they might stay there somewhat longer. Still, he would prefer to own his own property, before that point.

  And Gallowbridge House was perfect. Large enough to be a good house to live in, with, from what he had seen, adequate stables for his purposes, and with a large area of land as its estate. Land that was mainly beautiful pasture, with a number of creeks and streams running through it. For his horse breeding program, he could not imagine a better location – especially as Oliver seemed happy for Dartworth Abbey land to be used as well. It was well located, between Dartworth Abbey and Greyscar Keep – so that his neighbours would also be his close friends. In addition, it was empty – apparently had been empty for many years, according to Graves.

  Which made it all the more frustrating that the owner apparently did not wish to sell. Tideswell had enquired of the magistrate of the area, and of the vicar, who had put him in contact with the person they believed to be the owner’s man of business. Mr Greeve had confirmed that one of his clients owned Gallowbridge House. He had also been absolutely certain that they would not sell.

  So far, Tideswell had pursued it, but the answer was still no. there was no reason for the refusal, that they had been able to discover. It grated on Bart, that he should have found the perfect location for his breeding enterprise, only to have it denied him for no more than the whim of a wealthy man.

  He was at a loss – how could he change that decision? But he would persist – he did not give up easily, and he wanted this, perhaps, more than anything he had wanted before. It certainly wasn’t a matter of money, for he had offered far more than the property was worth, because to him, its worth was not measured in coin. Yet still they had refused. The puzzle of it chafed at him, ever-present.

  He sighed, tossing back the last of the brandy, and decided to go back to bed. The wind had dropped, and perhaps sleep would be possible. It would certainly be of more benefit to him than sitting here, wishing for a woman he would never have, and a house that perhaps he would never have either.

  He dropped into sleep with surprising ease, and dreamed – of dark hair, storm dark eyes, and kissing the woman he could never have.

  Chapter Five

  Dartworth Abbey was full of surprises. As the workmen progressed to the most run-down parts of the building, having first restored the roof to a waterproof state, they began to uncover things that they had not expected. Whilst the roof had been broken, there had been considerable water damage in many areas – to the extent that the timber panelling on the walls of many rooms had to be removed, as it had warped and rotted beyond recovery.

  But behind the timber was not plain stone, as they had thought. There was plaster, and, in many cases, murals and decoration painted onto the walls. There were niches – some bricked up. Now, each day, everyone was eager to see what might be uncovered next. Bart supposed that it should not have been such a great surprise – after all, the oldest part of the building had been constructed at least 600 years ago. Fashions in interiors had changed more than a few times across the years.

  The revelations made Bart more curious than ever about the history of the Abbey.

  Whilst the library was extensive, he had not yet found any part of it dedicated to the history of Dartworth Abbey. It was, in fact, rather alarmingly haphazard in its placement of books. That had improved a little of late, for, whilst he and Lady Sybilla rode most mornings, Miss Millpost was very pleased to allow a groom to go with them for propriety’s sake, and to immerse herself in the library.

  Which had resulted in her beginning to organise it. Whilst she would eventually discover any history stored there, he was not willing to wait that long, now that his curiosity was aroused.

  It seemed best to seek another source of information. On the few occasions that he had visited the local villages and towns, he had heard multiple mentions of the vicar’s obsession with the history of all of the oldest houses in the district. Therefore, a visit to the church seemed in order.

  ~~~~~

  It was a beautiful church – although plain in style and fairly small, it was almost as old as Dartworth Abbey, and the cemetery behind it occupied a large area, with gravestones large and small scattered about, shaded by a huge yew tree, and slowly being overrun by the grasses and vines. The vicarage was beside the church, but when he knocked at the door, Mrs Bell, the housekeeper, informed him that Mr Godfrey, the vicar, was over in the church.

  When Bart entered, pausing to appreciate the colours cast on the interior through the delicate stained-glass windows placed high in each wall, he initially did not see the vicar.

  “Achooooo!”

  Bart stepped forward, seeking the source of the sneeze. He discovered the vicar, on his knees, just backing inelegantly out of a rather large cavity in the altar. The vicar saw him and rose, dusting off his garments, with the result of causing himself another sneeze.

  “I do apologise. Every so often, I must clear the dust from inside the altar, and make sure that the Saint’s holy bones are still as they should be. I must confess to the sin of delaying doing so as long as possible, because I always sneeze so very badly. Now, my Lord, what can I help you with today?”

  Bart moved forward further, from the shadows near the door, to where the coloured light fell full on his face.

  The vicar, taking in his appearan
ce, paled dramatically, and gasped.

  “Good day to you vicar. I must also apologise, for I have now been residing in this district for four months, and, whilst I have attended your excellent services, I have not previously introduced myself. I am Lord Barton Seddon. I am currently staying at Dartworth Abbey, to oversight the repair work whilst the Marquess is travelling.”

  The vicar had pulled himself together whilst Bart spoke, and seemed more composed, although he stammered a little when he next spoke.

  “I am glad to see you my Lord. And glad to see Dartworth Abbey being restored to its former glory. It is a fine building, and a key part of this area’s history. I was most distressed when the previous Marquess let it fall into disrepair.”

  “The history of Dartworth Abbey is exactly why I have come to see you today.”

  “Oh – how can I help?”

  “I have heard mention that you are a dedicated researcher into the history of the oldest estates in the area, so I felt that you may be able to assist me. But tell me, forgive me if I seem rude, but I must ask – when you first saw me clearly just now, you looked rather shocked – almost as if you had seen a ghost, you were so pale. Why did my appearance draw that reaction from you?”

  The vicar looked rather embarrassed, and a little sheepish.

  “Ah, to explain that, I must show you something – something which is also related to the history of Dartworth Abbey. One moment.” He turned, and tidied the area, carefully closing the panel to the altar cavity, so that, once more, it looked a simple carved structure, before turning back to Bart. “If you will follow me.”

  The vicar led him through the vestry, and to a small door. He lit the lantern that stood waiting on a shelf beside it, and unlocking the door, led Bart through, and down steep narrow stairs. The chill was palpable, and the air was musty and faintly tainted with aged decay.