The Music Box (16 page)

He’d promised to thoroughly review all the books Chaunce had given him, to make sure Nevon Manor was in good running order. He’d also agreed to look over Averley’s notes and suggestions as well as familiarize himself with the accounts of all Hermione’s other properties.

And that only covered the less important concern of her monetary assets. Then there was her biggest worry: her family. He’d vowed to her that he would take the time to get to know them.

Staring into the darkness, Bryce contemplated the endearing residents of Nevon Manor, for whom he was already developing an affinity, people who understood the meaning of devotion, cooperation, and family. With an ironic shake of his head, Bryce wondered who the true misfits were—the denizens of the manor or the foolish people who shunned them.

The question was moot. He already knew the answer.

With a fond smile, Bryce recalled his return from Whitshire two hours ago. Goodsmith had followed him from the carriage, finishing his colorful yarn about the time he’d been rushing to Town to visit his sister who was ill, and wouldn’t you know it? He’d sped past the carriage of none other than Queen Victoria, who not only acknowledged his apologetic tip of the hat but, upon seeing his agitated state of mind, gestured for him to pass. Bryce had to agree that Her Majesty was a most gracious lady. Still grinning, he’d turned to find Chaunce hovering in the entranceway, wearing a look of unspoken but nonetheless evident concern over the evening’s outcome with Thane, his astute gaze darting from Bryce to Hermione in an attempt to assess what had transpired. And then came the culmination—and in some ways, the high point—of the evening: Bryce had climbed the stairs to his bedchamber only to discover Peter asleep in the hallway outside, huddled so contented and still that Bryce had nearly tripped over him
and
the legal text that lay beside him. Upon being awakened, Peter had rubbed his eyes and hobbled to his feet, stammering that he’d come to return the volume he’d borrowed, but that he’d marked a dozen legal phrases he’d tried hard to understand, but couldn’t—and could Mr. Lyndley possibly take a few minutes to shed some light on them for him?

Bryce had sent him off to bed, along with the assurance that tomorrow right after breakfast they would have a professional chat.

And those were but a few of the fine staff members with whom Bryce had vowed to become acquainted.

Also, after tonight he had another welcome responsibility—that of getting to know his half brother, an objective that could potentially enrich not only Hermione’s life but his own and Thane’s as well.

In addition, he had yet to begin working on the other two aspects of Hermione’s request: revising her will and establishing a trust for Gabrielle.

Gabrielle.

Even her name elicited a smile. Softhearted, frank, and fiercely loyal, Gabrielle was an enchanting entity unto herself, a charming combination of wisdom and innocence. She’d endured an evening of hell just to ease his way with Thane, and Bryce would be forever indebted to her for that unprecedented show of support.

Now it was
his
turn to help
her.

His smile vanished, as he considered Gabrielle’s precarious state of mind. She’d been as white as a sheet when she went up to bed, her brilliant blue eyes shrouded with frightened memories. She’d been in torment at Whitshire, a torment that, Bryce knew, had embedded itself deep inside her, accompanying her from the estate and remaining excruciatingly present despite the fact that they’d left behind the spot where the tragedy had occurred. Her reaction had been too powerful, too emotional, to be fleeting. Clearly she’d been carrying this pain around for years. It was only now emerging, prompted by her visit to the place where her parents had died.

And during that hour in the music room the look on her face had been devastating, the dread of reliving the past too much for her. What had she seen when she stared out those windows? What ugly picture had surfaced in her mind? Was it the fire swallowing up the servants’ quarters, destroying those she loved? And what in the name of heaven was Bryce to do? He had no experience at helping someone through this kind of trauma. His own emotional hurdles had been difficult enough to overcome, and they paled in comparison with Gaby’s. How in the name of heaven did one recover from something of this magnitude?

Leaning against the window frame, Bryce set down his goblet and rubbed his eyes. He knew what he had to do—what he wanted to do. He would send Lucinda a note, telling her he was detained at Nevon Manor on pressing business. She would accept it with her customary grace and breeding, and await his return with her customary patience and composure. They’d been apart before, when a particularly compelling case kept him working long hours or when she traveled abroad with her family. The separations never seemed to hamper the compatibility that marked their relationship.

And it had to be done.

Bryce folded his arms across his chest, dismissing Lucinda from his mind, his thoughtful gaze sweeping the grounds of Nevon Manor. He wasn’t sure what was troubling him more at the moment, the enormity of his own challenges or the enormity of Gabrielle’s.

As if in answer, a flash of white caught his eye, making him blink and focus more intently on the cluster of trees just outside. Something was darting about, a stark figure that was not nearly small enough to be Crumpet but that was frantically making its way across the grounds.

That something was a person.

Straining his eyes, Bryce stared more closely, watching the jerky movements of the ethereal creature that was maneuvering rapidly between the trees.

Gabrielle.

The instant he recognized her, Bryce was on the move. Snatching up his coat, he raced down the stairs and out the door, heading directly toward the area in which he’d spied her.

He stopped, his breath coming in short pants as he scanned the grounds, searching and listening all at once.

A twig snapped in the distance, and Bryce’s head jerked toward the sound.

She was pushing away, from an oak about thirty yards away, regaining her balance, and stumbling on with a muffled cry.

“Gabrielle!”

If she heard him, she gave no sign, just continued to shove her way forward, her linen nightgown catching on branch after branch.

Bryce reached her in seconds. “Gabrielle.” He seized her arm, but she yanked it free, her slender body trembling with cold, shaking with sobs.

“No!” she gasped, shaking her head wildly from side to side. “Oh, no.” She pressed on.

“Wait.” Bryce reached for her again, only to hear her cry out in pain as she tumbled to the ground.

“Gaby.” He knelt beside her, genuine fear knotting his chest. Tousled waves of hair draped over her shoulders like a dark curtain, shielding her face from view. But the reason for her cry was obvious: her feet were bare and badly cut by the twigs and acorns that covered the ground. “You’re bleeding,” he murmured, smoothing her hair away as sobs racked her body. “Why in God’s name are you—” He broke off as she stumbled to her feet again.

“Mama … Papa … No!” Her words were garbled, but chillingly recognizable:

“Gaby.” He caught her by the waist, dragging her against him.

She was clutching an object to her chest. The glistening alabaster color, the size, the shape—Bryce knew immediately it was her music box.

“Mama …” she whispered brokenly.

Gazing into her face, the vacant look in her eyes, Bryce realized with a sickening sensation that she was asleep. “Gabrielle.” He touched her cheek tentatively, unsure how to calm her, less sure how to awaken her. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

“Please, no …” she choked out, striking his shoulder with her small fist in an attempt to free herself. “Papa …”

“Gabrielle, wake up.” Abandoning his experimental attempts, Bryce shook her—hard—gripping her arms and holding her firmly against him. “It’s Bryce. Open your eyes, please.”

She gasped, then blinked, the emptiness in her eyes replaced by bewilderment. Like a lost child, she stared up at him, trying to establish her whereabouts, to regain control of reality. “Bryce?” she asked, her teeth beginning to chatter.

“Yes.” He sat back on his haunches, cradling her against him while he tugged off his coat, wrapped it around her quaking shoulders. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

“Where are we?” She gazed about the grounds. Abruptly, her head snapped down and she took note of her attire, the music box she clutched. “Oh, God,” she choked out before Bryce could even begin to formulate a credible and soothing explanation for the past few minutes. “I was walking in my sleep. Again. After all these years. Oh, no.” She bowed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, drenching his shirt.

It had happened before, he realized with a start. Not recently but a long time ago. And it didn’t take a scholar to guess when—or why.

“You were reliving the fire,” Bryce said softly. “Trying to save your parents.”

Mutely she nodded.

“Was this the first time this has happened since just after they died?”

“No. I walked in my sleep over and over for months after I came to Nevon Manor.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Aunt Hermione and Chaunce used to take turns keeping vigil outside my room, stopping me before I could run outside and hurt myself. Finally, after nearly a year, the sleepwalking stopped. It never happened again. Until now.” More broken weeping.

“Shhh.” Bryce stroked her hair, wrapped the coat more securely about her. “It was the visit to Whitshire. You never should have gone.” He gritted his teeth, berating himself for persuading her to accompany him. “You’re shaking. We’ve got to get you into the manor.”

“No.” Gaby sat upright, her quivering mouth set in determined lines. “Please. Don’t let Aunt Hermione see me like this. Not when she’s been so weak. It will destroy her.”

“You’re scarcely clothed. You’re also freezing. And your feet are badly cut. They need attention.” Bryce rose, taking Gaby with him, walking purposefully toward the house. “I don’t want to upset Hermione either, but it can’t be helped. We’re going to your chambers.”

“Bryce, wait.” Gaby gripped his shirtfront. “Listen to me. If you insist on taking me inside, please use the servants’ entrance. It’s around back. No one ever uses it other than delivery men, since no one here is considered a servant. Everyone will be asleep. We can use one of the other staircases in this maze Lord Nevon built; I’m familiar with them all. Please.”

“All right.” Bryce relented. “You direct me.”

“I can walk.”

“No, you can’t. And don’t bother arguing—I’m carrying you.”

A shaky sigh. “Very well. Follow that path over there.” She pointed.

Five uneventful minutes later Bryce carried Gaby into her room and placed her carefully in the center of the bed, setting the music box just as carefully on her nightstand. Then he turned, seeking and finding a basin, crossing over to fill it with water. Scooping up a towel, he returned to the bed. “I’d suggest immersing your feet, but I’m afraid the sting would be unbearable. So I’ll wash the cuts with this.” He frowned, seeing the stream of blood that trickled on both feet, one on her toes and ankle, the other along the entire length of her instep. “I’ll be as swift as I can.”

Gaby winced at the first contact, but she bit her lip, silencing any cries that might awaken someone. Bryce worked quickly and efficiently, finally completing his task, pleased to see the bleeding had stopped.

“Good. Now let’s get you warm.” He glanced uncomfortably around the room. “Where do you keep your nightgowns?”

“In there.” Gaby pointed at the chest. “I can fetch one myself.”

“Stay off those feet. I’ll get it.” Bryce opened the chest and removed a clean nightgown, which he placed in Gaby’s hands. “I’m going to start a fire. My back will be to you. Change.”

She nodded, her cornflower-blue eyes still wide with trauma. “All right.”

A quarter hour later the fire was blazing and Gaby was tucked beneath the bedcovers.

Bryce stood beside her, rubbing his palms together and watching her worriedly. “Would you like to sleep?”

“No.” She looked positively stricken. “Please stay with me for a while.”

“Very well.” Normally he would never have agreed to such a scandalous suggestion. But how could he leave her when she’d just endured such a harrowing experience and when she still looked so utterly terrified? “Would you like to talk?” he asked, pulling up a chair and lowering himself to it.

“About what just happened?”

“Not if it upsets you. We could discuss any topic you choose.”

The fear in Gaby’s eyes banked. Settling herself beneath the blanket, she studied Bryce from beneath wet, spiky lashes. “You and Thane truly liked each other.”

He took her cue, relaxing in the chair and crossing one long leg over the other. “Yes, we did.”

“When do you intend to visit him again?”

Not “if,” Bryce noted with an inner smile, but “when.” “Soon. After I’ve had a chance to review Hermione’s papers and get to know her staff a bit.”

“You’ve already won most of them over. The rest should take no more than a few hours.”

Bryce chuckled. “I appreciate your faith in my congeniality.”

“It isn’t your congeniality,” Gaby said softly. “It’s your heart.”

The absolute conviction in her claim was humbling. “It doesn’t take heart to care for such fine people, Gabrielle. In fact, it would take effort not to.”

“I agree. But then, I love them. They’re my family; the only family I …” Her voice broke, her own words triggering a painful resurgence of the past. “Whenever I relive that night, I can’t help thinking that I should have yelled louder,” she confessed abruptly. “I should have gotten help. I should have found a way to stop the flames from spreading.” Tears gathered in her eyes, slid down her cheeks. “But it all happened too fast. By the time I got out of the shed, it was already too late. There was nothing I could do … nothing to save them.”

Bryce moved across to Gaby’s bedside, gathered her gently in his arms. “You were a child,” he murmured, his fingers sifting through her hair. “And even if you’d been grown, you would have had no way to combat such a rampaging fire.”