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

  She took it, delighting in the feel of his hand in hers, and pulled herself up, careful not to destabilise him.

  He seemed so calm, so strong and determined, forcing his body to obey, even after being so distressed such a short while before. She could, she supposed, see how some might see his affliction as weakness, but all she saw was a man of great courage, who overcame all challenges through sheer force of will.

  They walked to the horses, his stride becoming steadier with each step, and the wind swirled around them, battering them with leaves, twisting her hair into a tangle that whipped across her face. As they reached the horses, the groom peered from in the stable, and went to come out. She waved him back, to get his mount, and mounted Ghost as Lord Barton held her steady in the wind. She was glad that she wasn’t one of those women who could not get themselves onto a horse without a mounting block. She settled into the saddle as Lord Barton mounted Templar, and they moved towards the gate, the groom emerging from the stable as they did.

  ~~~~~

  Bart’s mind was in turmoil. For the third time, she had completely rearranged his world. He had demonstrated his weakness, at full force, right beside her, and she had not immediately recoiled in horror, she seemed to be treating him as she always had. He could not comprehend it, was afraid to even believe it. Perhaps he was mad, perhaps he was still locked in the attack, and all of this was a delusion. He could not tell, but the wind that howled around them like a mad thing seemed real enough, as did the darkening storm clouds above.

  She had held him, spoken to him, stayed with him as he relived the horrors – he was sure of it. He had come back to himself in her arms, his head and shoulder across her lap. That much he could piece together from the confusion that always followed an attack, for at least the first few minutes. And he thought – had he imagined it? – that she had kissed his brow. Surely he had imagined it. What woman would do such a thing, when presented with such a display of failure and weakness in a man. Still, even if he had imagined it, he would treasure it.

  Inside he was still shaking, but his legs held him, and he thought that he managed a creditable mount onto Templar, without too much inelegance. The groom emerged from the stables as they rode towards the gate and Lady Sybilla shook her head, flicking her hair back from her eyes, the wind taking it and making it stream out behind her.

  She looked like a wild thing – magnificent, and made for the storm. The first drops of rain struck them, and the wind redoubled its force. She looked at him, her face alight.

  “We had best hurry. How fast can we get back to the Abbey, do you think?”

  She did not give him time to answer, she simply urged Ghost forward. The mare went willingly, full of the wind and impatient after the long wait at Gallowbridge House. A different kind of madness took him, the kind of rash, joyous craziness that he had felt, long ago as a youth, before he had ever seen war. Templar leapt forward at his command, and he gave himself utterly to the ride – to the wind and rain, to the speed, and the exhilaration of the moment. The panic and the horrors were forgotten, blown away on the wind.

  He was gaining on her, but the mare was fast. They splashed across the flooding stream, side by side, and her laughter reached him as she urged the mare to greater efforts. The rain was in earnest now, soaking them, half blinding them, yet still they raced on, until the buildings of the Abbey rose out of the grey wall of rain in front of them.

  They pulled the horses back to a steadier pace, and entered the stableyard together, flushed, laughing and utterly exhilarated.

  They slid from the horses, and took them into the warm stables, where the grooms would rub them down and keep them walking up and down until they cooled without chilling.

  He gave a thought to the poor groom that they had left so far behind, in the driving rain. He would make sure that the man was well cared for when he finally reached the Abbey.

  Once inside the house, they looked in on the library, to let Miss Millpost know that they had returned. Her expression said that she thought them quite mad, and her words were almost as direct.

  “You both look as if you have been drowned and come back from the deeps. Lady Sybilla, I do not think that I have ever seen you look less like a Lady!” They laughed at her reaction, still caught up in the energy of their ride. She sniffed. “Well, if that’s the way you want to be, I’ll just go back to these nice dry books. They don’t laugh at my opinions.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Millpost. I’m not laughing at you, exactly. I am laughing because I just had more fun than I have had for some years. I think that we should go and dry off before the parlour fire, with some tea.”

  Miss Millpost, with a longsuffering expression, put down the book that she held.

  “Then I had best do my duty as chaperone, and come with you.”

  “Of course.”

  Bart wished, in that moment, that Miss Millpost were not so dutiful. He would be happy to spend more time alone with Lady Sybilla, to extend the sense of intimacy that their shared joy in the wild ride had created. He had much to think on. Lady Sybilla’s reaction to his attack had raised the tiniest flame of hope in him. Was it possible that a woman might see past his brokenness to the man inside?

  No matter what the answer to that question was, in the instant, he was happy – happier than he had been since… happier than he had been in almost ten years, since before he went to war. And that within an hour of an attack! Miracles were happening. And he knew at whose door to lay them.

  Her face was still alight with energy, and she seemed more bright and alive than he had ever seen her – perhaps the wild ride had lifted some of the sadness for Lady Sybilla too – the sadness that he sensed in her at times, as if there was something unresolved, something that she was not willing to talk about.

  In time, perhaps she would trust him enough to share her concerns, as he had rashly shared his.

  ~~~~~

  The storm passed, leaving the afternoon clear and cold.

  The warmth of the fire dried them, their clothes steaming as they sat close to the heat, and they told Miss Millpost of what they had found. Sybilla could see, by the glint in Miss Millpost’s eye, as she described the headstone in the graveyard, that Miss Millpost would be as enthusiastic in researching this mystery as Sybilla would.

  Although Sybilla wanted to stay, for she did not want to lose the sense of connection that she had with Lord Barton, after their wild ride in the storm – a sense of shared enjoyment in such a thing, which she had never felt with anyone before - there really was no excuse to stay, now that she was at least mostly dry.

  As they took their leave, with polite platitudes, all the while, she was possessed of a desire to throw her arms around him, to go further than that gentle kiss upon his brow.

  She did not. That would be foolish. No matter how much they might have in common, with their wildness on horseback, she could never allow it to be more, to believe that it could be more – for, once she told him of her terrible actions, of the guilt that she carried, he would turn away. She knew it, for any reasonable man would do so.

  Such thoughts took away, a little, from the giddy happiness that she had felt, when they had arrived back at the Abbey. In the carriage as they returned to Greyscar Keep, she distracted herself by considering, again, the puzzle of Gallowbridge House, and the grave of Ella Kentworthy.

  “Miss Millpost?”

  The gentle snores were interrupted suddenly.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think that there will be something at Greyscar Keep which might help us find out about Stanford Barrington and Ella Kentworthy? Or perhaps Mrs Westby will know something?”

  “Mrs Westby can be a close one. I’m not at all sure that, even if she knows something, she’ll tell us. But I’ll see if I can get her gossiping.”

  “At least we can ask. And we can look in the library, and other parts of the house. Now that we know what we are looking for, or, rather, who we are looking for, perhaps it will be easier t
o find something – for surely, only a few generations back, and with a Barrington involved, there must be some information, somewhere?”

  Chapter Eight

  Sybilla and Miss Millpost were sitting in the small private parlour, which was shared by their suites at Greyscar Keep. The day was cold, and the feel of winter was strong in the air. The fire in the grate only just managed to warm the room.

  “This past week, I think that I have asked all of the staff here about Gallowbridge House and my ancestors. They all say that they know nothing. The maid and the footman, I can believe, they are quite young. Mina says that they haven’t even lived in the district very long. I think that she’s sweet on the footman, actually. But I am quite sure that Mr and Mrs Westby know more than they are telling.”

  “I agree. When we first got here, she was all gossip about the district, but now, when I asked her about Gallowbridge House – well, she went as white as a ghost, and got all busy. She suddenly had no time to talk.”

  “How annoying! I am not getting as much writing done as I had hoped – I keep getting distracted, and searching through the library here in the hope of finding something.”

  “Hmm – well you have the best reason to be in there, and digging through things, with your writing to do. Not that you should need a reason – it’s your brother’s house, after all! I think that I shall develop an absolute fascination with seeing every inch of the place. Mrs Westby already thinks me nosy, so I will just confirm that. Who knows what old papers might be in desks or drawers in other rooms in this huge old house?”

  “Thank you, Miss Millpost. I simply have to know what happened. That gravestone has made me aware of how little I know about my family history.”

  ~~~~~

  ‘Bless Miss Millpost’s orderliness’ – Bart’s thought was the same, each day that he attempted to search further through the library of Dartworth Abbey. He had soon concluded that there was nothing to help him discover more about Gallowbridge House, or Titus Kentworthy, in the parts of the library that she had sorted. Therefore, if there was anything, it was in the rest. Which was still a lot to sift through, but he was determined.

  If he were to eventually own Gallowbridge House, as he was determined to do, he wanted to know about its history – to know the story behind that gravestone. He should also ask the vicar – if he could ever get him to stay out of the crypt long enough. The crypt, it seemed, had actually been sealed up for 500 years – since the time of the Templars.

  The vicar was slowly cataloguing everything down there, with the assistance of a secretary, provided by Bart, and an inordinate number of candles and lanterns. What he had found so far was quite remarkable. And, whilst it was extremely likely that he did know much of the history of Gallowbridge House and the more recent generations of Kentworthys, getting him to focus on that, rather than 500 years ago, was going to be a challenge.

  The last few days, Bart had felt lonely – more so than he ever had before. Between the cold wet weather, and the search for information about that gravestone, at both Greyscar Keep and the Abbey, they had not seen each other, had not been out riding, for days on end. He missed Lady Sybilla’s company. His time with her had become the high point of his days.

  He knew himself for a fool, knew that it was dangerous to allow himself to feel that way. For what woman would want to spend her days buried in the country, with nothing to focus on but horses? She might seem perfect to him now, might say that she only desired a quiet life, to write, and to ride good horses, but really, was that likely?

  It was probably only a passing phase, which would last until the novel was written, and that was ticked off as an accomplishment. Even if she truly did just wish that quiet life, what woman would tie herself to a damaged man like him?

  No, letting himself become attached to her was not a good idea at all. Yet he yearned for her company. And his mind kept replaying what he remembered of the attack of the terrors that he had suffered at Gallowbridge House. She had seen it all, and she had not turned away in disgust. Or… was that why he had seen less of her since that day?

  Once a thought was thought, it could not be unthought. The idea wormed its way into him, leaving sadness in its wake. If that were the case, so be it. He would squash his hopeless yearnings before they could become too painful. He would focus on the mystery that was Gallowbridge House, simply because knowing more would make him happier about buying the place. And, of course, because knowing more about her ancestor would please Lady Sybilla.

  On his fifth day of searching, fruitlessly, in the library, another idea occurred to him. He wondered why he had not thought of it before.

  There was a section of the building, close to the part in which he was living, that had been repaired, but was closed up, as he did not need that much space. It contained, if he remembered aright, the room which had been Oliver’s father’s study. The room had been, when he had seen it some time ago, much as it must have been when Oliver’s father was alive. Nothing had been touched. The furniture had been covered with dust sheets, and the roof and walls checked for damage, but nothing had been required to be done.

  It was, almost certainly, still exactly like that. What if there were records of family history in there?

  Taking a candle with him, for the day was grey and dim, and that part of the house was dark and closed up, Bart let himself into the unused wing, and made his way to the old study. The room was dark – the window shutters had been closed, and the cloth shrouded furniture hunched in the darkness like a herd of ghostly monsters waiting to pounce.

  He laughed at the concept, even as he thought of it, and set his candle stick down upon the desk. Where to start?

  The desk itself held nothing of import, just a collection of scribbled notes and a cancelled chit for a gambling debt. There were no secret drawers or cavities that Bart could detect. He moved on to the sideboards and bookshelves which stood against the walls. As he turned in place, deciding which set of shelves to examine next, he looked back towards the door. On the wall beside it, in a large gilded frame, hung what appeared to be an illuminated family tree.

  With an exclamation of pleasure, he went to it, and lifted it carefully down from the wall. With the candle close to it, he could see that, whilst the parchment like paper was aged and yellowed, it did show the generations right down to Oliver’s father. And there, two generations before that, was Titus Kentworthy, married to Ella Cholmondley, and their son, George, who was Oliver’s grandfather.

  There was no other child shown for them. Which meant that Genevieve…

  Leaving it lying on the desk, he continued his search, but found nothing else of interest. Still, the family tree was a significant find and confirmed at least part of what they had interpreted from the gravestone. And, it gave them Ella’s maiden name – which might allow other avenues of research.

  Excited, and wishing that Lady Sybilla was there, so that he might show her immediately, he gathered it up, and made to leave the study. Looking up at the wall above the desk, he stopped, caught by the eyes of the man whose portrait hung in pride of place. It was as if the painted man stared at him, condemning him for removing the family tree from the room. A chill ran through him, and he stepped forward, around the desk.

  A small plaque below the painting declared it to show Titus Kentworthy. He stepped back, chilled again, and rapidly left the room, feeling as if the painted eyes followed him all the way.

  ~~~~~

  At Greyscar Keep, both Sybilla and Miss Millpost had had some degree of success in their investigations. Not in getting anything from Mrs Westby, who remained stubbornly close lipped about the topic of Gallowbridge House, but in finding items of interest, related to Ella and Stanford.

  Sybilla had found, quite by accident, a book, inscribed by Ella to Stanford. She had been looking through a section of shelves containing poetry, idly leafing through various volumes, as a break from working on her novel, as the particular passage that she was writing was simply not working
out as she wished.

  The volume she had selected was The Complaint; or, Night-Thoughts on Life, Death and Immortality a collection of poems by an unnamed poet, which much focussed on life in what seemed to Sybilla a rather morbid and negative fashion.

  At first, she had simply flicked through a few pages, but then had turned back to the start, and discovered, there on the first blank page, before the title page, was an inscription, in an elegant hand. It read:

  For S.B, my heart and soul – that we should ponder fates unfairness, and not, as declaimed here, allow procrastination to be the thief of what time we have.

  With love, Ella.

  She had gasped, and stood, holding it, her thoughts tumbled. Her ancestor had held this book, Ella, his lover, had written in it, her feelings made clear. What had he thought? Obviously enough to have kept it, for it to have found its way onto these shelves, to survive for her to find.

  And, as she had turned towards the library door, to seek out Miss Millpost, that same lady had come through the door, a find of her own in her hands.

  “I found…”

  They both spoke at once, then stopped, laughing a little. Sybilla waved Miss Millpost to a chair near the fire.

  “Tell me what you have found, Miss Millpost – what have you there?”

  “Letters. From Ella to Stanford. A whole collection of them, sent over almost five years. I’ve not had time to read them all yet, but I am sure that they will be fascinating.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  “They were on a high shelf, behind some books, in one of the oldest bedroom suites. Rooms that I think were often used by the previous Dukes when they lived here at times, from the look of it.”

  “Ah yes – I remember that my father hated the old rooms – he said that they were gloomy and old fashioned. He had another suite redecorated to suit his style.”

  “So, the room where I found these was simply left as it had been, I assume. I was poking about, and saw the books. I thought that I would get them down, as they should be in the library, not up there.”