Page 92 of Never Love a Lord
It was near the end of the meal when the king’s messenger arrived with a missive for Julian, as well as one for Graves, who was standing, ever ready, behind Lucy’s chair. Julian could not help the frown on his face as he split the seal and unfolded his own small square.
Lord Griffin,
Lady de Lairne is dead. I shall remain in London while she is readied to accompany me to Fallstowe. Graves will see to the details of her interment. Any plans for the future must be postponed indefinitely.
S—
Julian’s frown increased, and he was at once seized by a sadness for Sybilla’s loss, when the de Lairne woman had only just been found to her. But he was also unsettled by her statement referring to future plans. Certainly she was alluding to their wedding. But, postponed indefinitely? He looked over his shoulder to find Graves, but the man had already slipped from the dais unnoticed. Julian wondered what the old steward’s message had said.
He read the missive through twice more before folding it away inside his tunic. Then he stood, waving away the servants with an apologetic thank-you as they approached the table with dessert. He disentangled Lucy from her throne and left the hall, intent on seeking his tower chamber once more.
Sybilla was not coming home tonight.
She had not been so long and so far away from Fallstowe in years. It was such an odd feeling, Sybilla considered not going back at all as she stared out the carriage window, her head rocking on her fist as the large wheels rolled over the rutted road. People whom she passed in the conveyance, and those who passed her, did not know her identity. They didn’t know who she was or where she was from. Even if she chanced to meet other travelers face-to-face, the likelihood that they would recognize her was almost nonexistent. On this road, she was just a nameless, homeless woman.
Perhaps that’s what she was, any matter.
Sybil de Lairne’s wooden coffin followed Sybilla’s hired carriage in a tarp-covered wagon. Sybilla had encouraged both Cee and Alys to return to their homes at their husbands’ sides, although both of her sisters had protested vehemently and Sybilla thought it possible that Alys was entertaining the idea of a physical altercation in order to personally accompany Sybilla to Fallstowe. In the end, though, Sybilla had flatly stated she did not want their company, no matter how much she loved and treasured them. She did not want anyone’s company. She needed time to think, and think she could not do with Cee’s fretting or Alys’s endless questions, Piers’s stoicism and Oliver’s outright discomfort with the whole lot of them. She couldn’t fault any of them.
Cee and Alys would first go on to Bellemont and Gillwick, respectively. But they would likely arrive at Fallstowe only shortly after Sybilla, as she had instructed the drivers to travel at an easy pace, with orders to overnight at two inns between London and Fallstowe. The leisurely journey would give her more time to think.
All the questions she thought had been answered remained unanswered. And more questions had grown in the compost of convoluted facts and allusions between the time of Sybilla’s trial and the moment the ghosts of Amicia and Sybil de Lairne had departed the royal guest apartment. Alys and Cecily had questions, and Sybilla had her own, of course. But no one had any answers. Least of all the woman who was slated to marry Julian Griffin.
The vision of her mother’s spirit upon Sybil de Lairne’s bed haunted her still—the plain woolen gown, her simple, unadorned plait alongside a youthful and scrubbed-clean cheek. The look of love and protectiveness on her face.
My lady sleeps.
Sybilla had known in that very instant that Lady Sybil de Lairne had perjured herself before the king of England.
And so Sybilla was still the illegitimate daughter of an illegitimate daughter.
She was still a traitor.
She was also now a patriot.
A coldhearted matriarch.
A stepmother.
A sister.
The mistress of Fallstowe, but entitled to nothing.
Who was the woman Julian Griffin wanted for his wife? Sybilla did not know, and so she was certain that Julian could have no inkling. How could she ever agree to marry him, to undertake those roles so foreign to her—the roles of mother and wife—when she had not yet come to a polite agreement with who she had been her entire life?
Who was she? What was she?
The carriage rumbled over the road, drawing ever nearer to that place which had for so long been her reason for existence, and which now seemed a stone enigma, housing the whole of the riddle of the woman who had once been Sybilla Foxe.
On the fourth morning, Julian knew that Sybilla had returned when he saw the packages on the lord’s table as he and Lucy came down to break their fast. A small, cloth-wrapped bundle tied with flaxen string and decorated with a tiny brass bell, the little vellum tag reading simply L in Sybilla’s light, flowing script. Next to it sat an even smaller wooden box with a similar tag labeled J.
He frowned at the gifts, and at the realization that he’d not seen Graves all the morn. Sybilla had likely returned in the night or the small hours of the morning then, but no one had alerted him, and it made him quite cross all around.
Lucy had already voiced her desire for the bell, and was now leaning down to the table even as Julian seated himself. The baby flicked her chubby fingers back and forth over the delicate fixture, letting its dulled tinkle echo in the strangely vacant hall. He pulled the package toward her and slipped the tie from the cloth.
Inside was a gorgeous miniature sleeveless robe in scarlet velvet, the full length of it and also the hood lined with white rabbit. Ornate silver clasps laddered up the front of the white fur trim. It was an outrageous gift for the child, but Julian couldn’t help his smile as he slipped Lucy’s little arms through the embroidered side slits and fastened the closures. It fit her perfectly and suited her more than humility warranted.
As his daughter continued to play with the little bell, Julian pulled his own gift toward him. He unhooked the little leather strip wrapped around a bone peg and lifted the lid of the box. Inside on a bed of boiled wool lay a silvered quill and ink pot, with an additional slip of vellum.
