Sybill (15 page)

In the drawing room, M. Sievers arranged Sybill and the dog as he wished them. Although Sybill had concerns about Goldenrod remaining motionless, he seemed to understand immediately what the painter wanted. Instead of galloping around the room as he normally did, Goldenrod waited patiently by her side. Satisfied with the way they were posed, M. Sievers explained he would be doing some preliminary sketches. Later, after studying them, he would begin the actual painting.

That first sitting established the pattern that they would enjoy during the weeks as M. Sievers painted every day when the sun was bright enough to ooze through the windows of the drawing room. He bounced about the room like the brown wren he resembled as she tried to hold still whatever part of her he was working on that day. By her side, Goldenrod puffed his warm breath on her hand.

The quiet hours slowed to a snail's pace as she struggled to sit as unmoving as a statue. She hated having to grant two hours of her morning to posing. It forced her to be busy catching up on her chores when she wanted to steal a few moments alone with Trevor.

Her thoughts centered on him. He was growing impatient with her vacillation, although he knew she feared to make a decision which might destroy all they were building together. Quick kisses in the dusky hallways, a brief stroll in the gardens, the lightning fast caress of hands that should not touch. These did not satisfy him any longer. Nor did they satisfy her. She could not fight the truth. What once had been an attraction had matured. The frustration of not being able to show him her feelings gnawed at her.

Somehow, sometime soon, they must talk. If he cared for her as much as she did for him, then it was time to decide if they would steal away to be together as she longed. Too often she found herself daydreaming of a life with him, far from the madness infecting Foxbridge Cloister.

Sybill smiled as Kate took the heavy gown and hung it in the wardrobe. Although her shoulders cramped from supporting the dress and her neck itched from the scratchy lace of the ruff, she was pleased with the whole process of the portrait. In the time she had been posing for Mr. Sievers, she had grown to appreciate his quick wit, which lessened the burden of the long hours.

She pulled a wrap around her and tied the sash. Sitting at her dressing table, she took the pins from her hair and began to brush it. She scowled at the heavy mass which tangled along her shoulders. When Kate said she would be back in a few minutes, Sybill nodded absently. Having the maid gone would be no burden. Somehow Kate had convinced Marshall to give her an assistant. Clara had been recruited to do the tasks Kate once did. The only thing Kate did without grousing was eat.

Sybill watched in the mirror as her maid waddled from the room. Kate always had been round, but she was becoming obese. Each time she came into the suite, she found the maid enjoying some sort of treat. That Kate had begun to drink, as well, Sybill knew by the thickness of her breath. When she suggested subtly that Kate might lose her position if she continued with these bad habits, the older woman had laughed.

Angered, she had gone to Owen. Her face flushed as she recalled the scene. He listened quietly and promised to look into the matter. If Owen spoke to Kate, she saw no signs of it. Things continued exactly as they had before.

“Damn!” she whispered as an extraordinarily stubborn snarl caught in her comb and brought tears to her eyes. A mischievous smile crossed her lips. From the top drawer, she drew a pair of scissors. Lifting a handful of her thick hair, she held the shears up to it.

For a second, she hesitated. Her father had insisted she wear her hair long. It was time to break with her past. She was not simply Alfred Hampton's daughter any longer. She was Sybill Hampton, a woman ready to make her own decisions. If she could do as she wished with her hair, perhaps she would find the strength to do what she longed to with her life.

The snip sounded loud in the silent room. An arm's length of dark hair dropped over her hand. She shook it off so it fell onto the pale carpet. “Good-bye,” she murmured, feeling a sudden sense of liberation. Eagerly, she continued until a deep mound was heaped at her feet. Taking her brush, she arranged what remained around her face. It took her only minutes to even the sheared locks.

Delighted, she touched the soft curls which framed her face and dropped to rest on her shoulders. She laughed, for she never would have guessed the recalcitrant waves in her waist length hair would become these gentle twists. Shaking her head, she wanted to shout her joy with the release from the burden she had worn at the nape of her neck. Her eyes dulled as she wondered what Trevor would think of the change. Whenever possible, he enjoyed caressing her hair. More than once, he complimented her on it.

“I don't care!” she announced to her reflection. “I like it this way!”

“Miss Sybill! What have you done?”

A touch of vindictiveness was in her smile as she faced Kate. “I've cut my hair. I think it looks simply grand.”

The maid put her hands up to cover her colorless cheeks. “By all the saints, Miss Sybill! How could you be so foolish? Now you will have to be painted that way.”

“This way is fine,” she retorted. “I have wanted to look more stylish for a long time. Now I will.”

“But what will Lord Foxbridge say? Did you consult with him?”

Shock halted her response. When she could speak, she asked, “Why should I ask Owen?”

“Under the circumstances—”

“Under what circumstances? I don't understand, Kate. I owe a great deal to Owen, but he does not own me.”

Kate did not remove her eyes from her charge as she sank onto the padded bench by the window. Miss Sybill's words were correct to a point. Perhaps Lord Foxbridge did not possess her, but he controlled her life. If she had not learned that yet, the lesson could not be long in coming. Angrily she muttered, “I suppose this was Mr. Breton's idea.”

“Trevor's?” Sybill laughed lightly as she rose and brushed the cloying hair from her. Unlike the other servants, Kate refused to call the estate manager by his given name. “Why would Trevor be interested in something like this? He has more important matters to consider than how I wear my hair.”

“He is interested in all you do, Miss Sybill.”

She froze as she was reaching for her gown. With her hands fisted, she fought to contain her retort. She must not betray her feelings for Trevor. Even to her own ears, her chuckle sounded false. “Of course he's interested in me. He is my friend.”

“Friend?”

As she heard the sarcasm, she spun to face Kate's superior smile. Like a thick slug, Kate made Sybill's skin crawl with disgust. “Yes, although I know you would love to have such a wonderful tidbit of gossip to share with your cronies in the kitchen, Trevor and I are not lovers. We are friends. Only friends.” Viciously, she snapped, “I'm sorry to disappoint you, Kate.”

“Miss Sybill, I—”

“Oh, be quiet. Go away, Kate! Send Clara to help me dress.”

“Clara?” She laughed derisively. “That youngster doesn't know anything about helping you dress.”

Sybill walked to the door and yanked it open. “I said, ‘Go!' You have not been averse to making Clara do the rest of your chores. Send her in. Let her learn all your tasks, and I won't have to see your fat face. Go, Kate!” she repeated as the woman stared at her. The rancor in her maid's eyes astounded her. Since their arrival at the Cloister, Kate had become insolent, but this was the first time she had shown that she despised her mistress. A shiver raced along Sybill's spine. She did not like making enemies, but it seemed she had one who shared her rooms. In a calmer voice, she said, “Don't force me to make your banishment permanent, Kate.”

“It's not you who makes such decisions.”

“I know Owen pays your wages, but do you think he will allow you to remain if I ask him to find you another position far from Foxbridge Cloister?” Only bravado strengthened Sybill's voice. She did not know if Owen would let Kate go. He had done nothing the last time she talked to him.

Kate started to retort, but, clamping her lips closed, thought better of it. Hate burned inside her. Let Miss Sybill revel in her victory. Her time was coming, and she would discover exactly how the power in this house was distributed. With a bitten off “Good night,” Kate flounced out the door, the epitome of wounded dignity. When the door crashed closed, she knew Miss Sybill was not interested in her feelings. Just like her father she was. So blinded by love that she could not see the signs of her downfall. It was coming, but not soon enough for Kate.

Sybill fumed. How dare Kate take those pompous airs with her! Even if she and Trevor were lovers, that certainly was not Kate's business. She was going to have to speak to Owen again, but she hated to do it. When she told him about this, it would sound silly. She sighed loudly. Perhaps it would be just as easy to continue to train Clara and ease Kate out of the position.

When the door opened, Clara peeked in myopically. “You sent for me, miss?”

Accustomed to the young woman's guileless stare, Sybill smiled. “Yes. I was wondering if you would help me dress tonight.”

“Oh, miss, I would be delighted.” Chirping like a starling on a summer morning, she went about her duties with enthusiasm.

Astonished by the young woman's innate skills, Sybill found her ire fading. She listened to Clara's bits of innocent gossip and was pleased to hear of marriages and births instead of the sinister tales of illicit affairs and jealous battles that Kate preferred. While Clara hooked up the back of Sybill's dress, she spoke in a shier voice of her own impending betrothal.

“To Mac Beckwith?” Surprise put a squeak in Sybill's voice.

Instantly Clara was defensive of the man she loved. “I know what they say about the Beckwiths, that they are no good and lazy and always looking for trouble, but that isn't true of Mac and his family. They—”

“I know.” Her soft words interrupted the maid. “I have met Mac, his sister, and Mrs. Beckwith several times. They are fine people.” She smiled. “And think how lucky you will be to have the shire midwife as your mother-in-law! When is the wedding?”

“Before Advent. We haven't decided yet.”

“Will you be staying on at the Cloister?”

She dimpled. “If I may, miss.”

Sybill placed her brush on the table. Her eyes remained on the silver inlays of its handle. Whether she was Owen's wife or not, she was the lady of Foxbridge Cloister. Only for dismissals did he want her to consult with him. She could hire whomever she wished. “Of course you may stay, Clara,” she said slowly. “Your work is always more than competent. We don't want to lose you if you wish to stay.”

“I do.”

Smiling, Sybill watched the young woman place a clean chemise on the bed. If all problems could be solved as easily as this one, life would be such a joy. Mac Beckwith and Clara Pekins. It was an excellent match.

Her happy expression disappeared as she descended the stairs. She paused to look at the stained glass window, which continued to catch her eye each time she passed it. With no sunlight beyond it, the colors seemed tired. She shared that feeling, for she was exhausted from playing games for which she could not guess the rules. When she entered the dining room, she paused. A third man stood near Owen and Trevor. Forcing a smile back onto her face, she recognized him as the Reverend Sears. She had forgotten he was joining them. Something about a donation he expected from Foxbridge Cloister.

Some sense must have alerted Trevor. His eyes moved to capture hers. The surprise he felt at her changed appearance stabbed at her until a lazy smile spread across his face. It was impossible to keep her lips from leaping upward in response. She had told herself it did not matter what anyone thought, but she wanted Trevor to continue to admire her. His eager gaze caressed her enticingly. With difficulty, she kept herself from flinging her arms around him and offering her lips for his kisses. Since the day in the monk's cell, they had not had a chance to be alone. Always as they talked or worked together, they were conscious of unseen eyes.

The other men noticed his expression and turned to see what he was looking at so avidly. Owen's face creaked into a broad smile as he walked toward where she stood. She forced her eyes to her guardian's face. “My dear Sybill, how lustrous you look tonight. So happy, so alive. You must be enjoying your time with M. Sievers. It is a delight to see your lovely hair loose.” He frowned slightly. “You shortened it. My dear, do you think that was wise?”

With a soft laugh, she said, “It will grow long again.” She was unconcerned with Owen's opinion. Her heart had taken flight when Trevor smiled at her. That had been as intoxicating as his sweetest kiss.

“Yes, my lord,” came the ingratiating voice of the minister. “You know how young people are. They must follow the dictates of fashion. I understand this is how all the young, London ladies dress their hair.” He bowed toward her. “Good evening, Miss Hampton.”

“Good evening, Reverend. I'm so glad you could join us this evening.” She did not particularly like the clergyman, who could not be many inches taller than he was round. The buttons on his doublet appeared resigned to their task of keeping it closed, although it might be a worthless battle. His bald head was littered with the remains of his once black hair. With his hearty laugh and rigorously enforced Christianity, he was a force not to be ignored in their small community. She respected his position, but avoided his company whenever possible. Tonight she must endure it.

When she turned to greet Trevor, the lilt of happiness was more pronounced in her voice. “Good evening, Trevor. Did the fieldwork go well?”

“It is progressing well.” With no more warmness than etiquette permitted, he raised her fingers to his lips. Hunger in his eyes holding hers brought an answering surge of yearning from deep within her. Although she was shocked Owen did not rush to interrupt them, she savored the brief moments she could have with Trevor. While she spoke of the day's work, her heart sang with a joy she was sure he must hear echoed within him. Only when she heard the word she despised did she note what Owen was saying.