Sybill (16 page)

“Spanish?” she cried. “The Spanish have attacked?”

Condescendingly, Owen smiled. Taking her hand, he patted it in a motion meant to give her solace. It failed. She was not a child to be coddled. She had a right to know what was happening beyond Foxbridge Cloister. When she glared in Trevor's direction, his shoulders lifted in the most minute shrug. Like her, he had not heard whatever was the latest news.

“The battle began on Sunday.”

She pulled her hand away from him and put it over her mouth as she fought to keep her stomach from embarrassing her. Swallowing roughly, she stared at the men. Trevor's mouth was drawn down in a scowl, but both Owen and Reverend Sears were smiling broadly. Their expressions gave her the courage to ask the question she must. “Who won?”

“It is not conclusive as of the latest dispatch.” Owen recaptured her hand and drew her to him. His arm around her trembling shoulders did not ease her fear. “The news we have is sketchy, my dear, but don't worry your pretty head with details of state.”

Twisting away, she cried, “Details of state? Is that all you consider this?”

“Now, now, Miss Hampton,” soothed the minister.

“Our queen's enemies are attacking our coastline!” she continued as if she had not heard him. “If God's will and the sea winds are against us, soon we will be bending our knee to a Spanish king. It isn't just details of state which concern me. I don't wish to see Elizabeth forced to marry a man she does not want or to see my country subservient to the Inquisition!”

Hands on her shoulders calmed her as she recognized Trevor's loving touch. “Don't, Sybill,” he said quietly. “The Cloister is far from where the English ships have been amassing at Plymouth.”

“Plymouth isn't that far,” she protested.

“Not by land, but all of Wales and Cornwall sit between us and the Armada. 'Tis not us they want, but London. Toward the Channel and the Thames is where they will sail.”

Her face became even more pale. The house where she had lived for most of her life overlooked the reeking waters of the Thames. That house and its neighbors could become embroiled in the warfare and be razed by the mighty cannon of the Spanish ships.

“Listen to Mr. Breton,” urged the minister, trying to remain in the conversation. “Drake and his men will sink Philip's ships to the bottom. Once they taste the wile of the English seamen, the Spanish will turn their tails and flee back to their home ports.”

“But what is happening?” she demanded. It was to Owen she turned. She knew he had the information she craved.

He smiled, but there was no humor on his uptilted lips. Going to the table, he picked up a goblet of the ruby wine awaiting them. He placed it in her quaking hand and closed her fingers around its stem. “Drink, Sybill. Calm yourself. The word out from Plymouth is mixed and confusing. There have been losses on both sides, but the English have struck strongly against the crescent formation of the Armada.”

“But they continue on toward the Channel?”

With a nod, he said, “That is so. Like the bull, they pay no attention to the bees swarming about its massive head. When they step into the hornets' nest, they will pay the price of overconfidence. God is on our side. Don't you agree, Garth?”

The reverend's head bobbed enthusiastically. “Of course! Hasn't He proven that with the bad luck which has befallen the Armada? One ship, the
San Salvador
, blowing up without a shot from the English. It must be a sign the hand of Providence is on our cause.”

“I hope the Spanish share your feeling, Reverend.” Trevor smiled as the blustery clergyman stared at him, his mouth working while he tried to think of a suitable response. “I'm afraid they feel this most holy crusade against their heretic cousins is blessed by God. It continually surprises me that men dare to call down blessings on the thing which is the bane of heaven. Did you ever think that perhaps both the English and the Spanish fight with the blessing of Satan?”

When he laughed, Sybill began to smile. Trust Trevor to put the grandiloquent Reverend Sears in his place. Beneath his good humor, she could hear his concern with the situation that might even now be over. News traveled so slowly to this part of England.

Owen chuckled, but the sound rang falsely. When he urged them to sit at the table, he changed the subject easily. During the serving of the food, he listened with apparent concern as the minister listed the needs of the parish.

Sybill said nothing as she pushed her food around her plate. At the earliest possible moment, she excused herself, saying only that she would leave the gentlemen to their wine and conversation. When Trevor tried to catch her eyes, she shook her head to let him know she did not dare to meet him.

As she climbed the stairs to her rooms, Sybill wondered if she should have accepted his invitation. He wanted to comfort her, and tonight she could use that strength he had in such abundance. If her world was coming to an end, she could think of no one she would rather spend the last hours with than Trevor.

Now she was alone. Fear sifted into her. All over England on this summer's eve, people felt the same terror as they waited for the herald to announce the outcome of the battle which would change their lives, no matter who won.

Chapter Eight

The next morning, Sybill's panic seemed silly. As the sun rose to brighten the sky, her spirits lifted as well. That Kate did not come to help her dress was no surprise. After the argument, she would have been shocked to see her maid. Instead Clara answered the tinkling sound of the bell.

“How is the weather?” Sybill asked as she washed in the tepid water from the ewer.

“'Twill be very hot, Miss Sybill. I think it may storm later in the day. Mac said the cows were lying down at the base of the hills. Surely a sign of rain.”

“Mac?” She took the towel Clara held out. Thinking of how seldom she and Trevor could find time alone, she asked, wistfully, “When do you two get to see each other? You seem so busy here all the time. If you ever want time—”

Clara laughed easily, love adding music to her voice. “Don't worry, Miss Sybill, but thank you. I'm glad you understand. It's not surprising you do. What with you being courted, too.” She was drawing the dress Sybill wanted from the cupboard and did not see the other woman's startled expression. “Of course, you don't have to leave the Cloister to see the lord. So romantic it is!”

“Yes … yes, it is.” Sybill sat on the bench by the foot of her bed. Her brow striped with concentration. She did not want to think of Owen. She wanted to think of Trevor. More than that, she longed to be with Trevor. Looking up, she said, “Clara, I think I would like my riding clothes instead.”

“But, Miss Sybill, it's so hot! You will cook in that dark wool. How about this one?” She reached into the cupboard and selected a gown much simpler than most of Sybill's gowns. It was made of light paisley material which had come from India. The bolt had cost Owen dearly, for it was very rare. The rose-colored fabric had traveled on a Dutch ship around Africa and then across the Channel.

Sybill smiled and complimented Clara. The neckline dipped in a deep arc to reveal the lace at the top of her chemise. Like the butterfly wings it resembled, the skirt floated over her petticoats. Small sleeves ended at her elbows in a wide band of ribbons. As lovely as a summer morning, it was perfect.

The young woman flushed at the praise. “La, Miss Sybill! I only think which one I would choose. There is no great mystery.”

Dressing quickly and brushing her hair into place, Sybill raced down the stairs. As she walked past the drawing room, she paused guiltily. She had an appointment to pose as she did each day. She peeked into the room. As she expected, the painter was working. It was seldom that M. Sievers could be found anywhere but with his beloved box of colors.

“Excuse me?” she called tentatively.

His head snapped up, and he swore imaginatively in his native language as the painting rocked on its easel. Once he had righted it, he turned to see who had startled him. He smiled. “Mademoiselle Hampton, come in. Is it that late?” He regarded her with confusion. “But where is your blue gown?”

“Could we cancel this morning's sitting, Monsieur?”

“Cancel?
Mais oui
, if you wish.” His smile returned. “It will give me a chance to mix the color for your dress. I am determined it will be exact.”

“If you wish to see the gown, ring for Clara. She will bring it down for you.”

He bowed his head toward her. “You are gracious as always, Mademoiselle. Shall I see you on the morrow?”

“I am planning on it.” She waved as she walked toward the door. The skip in her step was more appropriate to a child than the lady of Foxbridge Cloister.

Even the wind smelled hot as Sybill rode across the fields burdened with summer crops. She did not hurry her horse. Not only did she want to keep the animal from overheating, but she longed to savor the beauty of the day. Inland the scene shivered in the haze, but toward the sea, a breeze refreshed the air. Glancing with longing at the ceaselessly moving water, she smiled. She heard Trevor's often repeated warning about the danger along the cliffs. She did not know how much longer she could resist its siren song luring her to explore the narrow beach.

She turned her back on temptation and rode toward where Trevor would be. Owen had kept her in the cool halls of the Cloister with him the past few days, and she was glad she had eluded his ever more vigilant eye. There was a freedom on horseback which had been missing in her life.

“No!” she shouted to the empty fields stretching on a gentle roll to the horizon. “I won't do what others want! Today and every day is for me! My life belongs to Sybill Hampton!”

With a laugh at her own silly behavior, she hummed a light tune that fell into the cadence of her horse's hooves. As she passed the hedges edging the road, the squeal of the bugs drowned out the gentle sound of her voice. Beads of sweat clung to her forehead, and she felt a trickle along her shoulder blades. Even in her lightest dress, she would suffer if she stayed too long in the sun. Today was a day for relaxing by the sea instead of riding through the dust rising from the road.

She heard the farm workers before she saw them. Coming around a bend, she waved to the men and women who had been toiling in the field since the first gray of dawn. They were reclining beneath the few trees to take advantage of any shade as they took a break from their laborious tasks. When they waved to her, several pointed to a spot farther up the road.

A smile stretched across Sybill's face as she acknowledged their help. By now, no one could be unaware that, if she rode this way, she came specifically to seek out Trevor. From beneath the brim of her hat, she glanced back at the laborers. As she expected, they were conversing together as they watched her ride away.

Those who lived in Foxbridge Cloister exchanged anonymity for the prestige they enjoyed throughout the shire. She was not sure the trade was an even one. Remembering the speculative gossip of London, she was positive there was much talk about her frequent chats with Trevor. Either Owen had not heard it, or he believed her when she told him that she had spoken solely of business matters with his aide. She squared her shoulders. The idle chatter of others could not be allowed to ruin the sweetness of the time she shared with Trevor. After their traumatic beginning, she savored the chance to laugh with him rather than throw insults at him.

“Hello, Trevor,” she called when she saw him in the middle of a field ripe with wheat. It did not surprise her that he had continued working in the hot sunshine while the others rested.

He waved, but continued talking to a man. From his broad motions, she guessed they were discussing when to harvest this abundant crop. Everyone on the estate respected his good sense. Even the old-timers deferred to his judgment on what to plant and when to reap.

While she waited, Sybill slid off her horse and tied it where it could crop the sweet grass. She sat on the top board of the stile. Her eyes glowed in the shadows as she regarded the smooth strength of Trevor's bared, upper body, which glistened in the sunshine as if jewel-covered. Although his position in the Cloister should have kept him from doing any physical labor, he enjoyed the long hours he spent with the farmers.

When, after dismissing the worker, he came toward her, her smile widened. He urged her to remain seated on the steps of the stile. Easily he leapt over the stone wall. Dropping to the ground, he leaned against the uneven surface of gray stones. He wiped perspiration from his forehead, leaving a residue of dirt along his skin. “How did you get out of the Cloister?” he asked. “Isn't this the time for your sitting with M. Sievers?”

“Yes, but I convinced him today was not a good day for portrait painting.” She grinned mischievously.

Looking up at her twinkling eyes, he laughed. The sound set her heart to beating at a tremendous rate. She busied herself with untying the ribbons of her hat. “I am sure you were very persuasive,” he drawled as he picked a blade of grass and twirled it in his fingers.

“I have been told that.”

He chuckled again. “So you escaped Foxbridge Cloister?”

Her smile faded. “No, Trevor, not today. Today is too perfect for that.”

“For what? Sybill, I was simply joking with you.”

“I know,” she said softly, but the joy had vanished from her voice. She sighed and stared across the sun-washed greenery. Moments ago, the day seemed infinitely vibrant and as luscious as a drink of well-cooled water. Now all was oppressively hot.

The tightness of her lips told him exactly what she meant. Lord Foxbridge had been demanding her company again. He recalled the conversation last night in the dining room. Owen Wythe had made it clear that he wished to spend the day with Sybill after her morning with Mr. Sievers. Why the older man could not see that his commands were driving Sybill away and urging her to spend more time with his estate manager, Trevor could not guess. He silenced his laugh. If Owen Wythe insisted on being so foolish, his assistant would not complain. Having Sybill here was a wonderful way to spend the early hours of a torpid day.