Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Now, what herb would you use for a fever that simply won’t break?”
Sybil looked expectantly at the circle of older girls gathered around the wooden table in the orphanage’s makeshift classroom.
At seventeen and eighteen, these young women would soon be seeking positions as governesses or maids, and she was determined they’d leave with practical knowledge that might save lives.
“Willow bark, Miss Sybil,” said Margaret, a serious girl with ink-stained fingers. “Steeped in hot water until the liquid turns bitter.”
“Excellent. And for digestive troubles?”
“Chamomile,” chimed in Sarah then she added with a grin, “though Cook swears by ginger root when she can get it.”
“Both are correct.” Sybil picked up a dried bundle of herbs from the table. “Remember, ladies, knowledge is power. The more you understand about healing, the more valuable you become to any household fortunate enough to employ you.”
And the more likely you are to survive whatever this world throws at you, she thought grimly.
“Miss Sybil,” piped up Jane, the youngest of the group, at barely sixteen. “My cousin works at Vestiaire Castle, and she says the Duke has a garden that’s bigger than our entire orphanage. There are all sorts of exotic plants and herbs from foreign places.”
Sybil’s hand stilled on the herbs. Vestiaire Castle. The Duke.
Stop it. You haven’t thought about him in days.
That was a lie of course. She’d thought about those amber eyes far more than was proper for a spinster dedicated to her work. The way he’d looked at her as though she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. The quiet authority in his voice when he’d promised to repay his debt.
Ridiculous romantic nonsense. He has probably forgotten you exist.
“Miss Sybil?” Jane was looking at her curiously. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine.” Sybil forced her attention back to the lesson. “Now, as I was saying about chamomile…”
“Oh, I heard he’s got roses from India,” Sarah added dreamily. “Can you imagine? Roses that bloom in colors we’ve never seen.”
“And medicinal plants too,” Margaret chimed in. “Plants that could cure anything if you knew how to use them properly.”
For heaven’s sake, why must they keep talking about him?
“Girls, we really should focus on the herbs we can actually obtain,” Sybil said, perhaps more sharply than necessary. “Exotic plants from ducal gardens won’t help you treat a kitchen maid’s burn or a stable boy’s broken finger.”
“But wouldn’t it be wonderful to see such things?” Jane sighed wistfully. “To learn from someone who has traveled the world and collected—”
“Miss Sybil!”
The classroom door burst open so violently that it slammed against the wall. Beverly Carver stood in the doorway, her usually neat hair disheveled, her face flushed with panic.
“Beverly, what on earth—”
“The kitchens!” Beverly gasped, clutching the doorframe. “You must come at once. Marge—the oil—there’s a fire!”
The words hit Sybil hard.
Fire. The one thing every person in a wooden building feared most.
“Girls, stay here,” she commanded, already moving toward the door. “Do not leave this room until I return.”
But even as she spoke, she could smell it—the acrid scent of smoke beginning to drift through the corridors.
Hugo urged his stallion into a steady canter as Vestiaire Castle disappeared behind him. The leather pouch in his saddlebag contained a bank draft substantial enough to fund the orphanage’s operations for months—perhaps years if the woman was as frugal as she appeared.
Lady Sybil Gillies. The name had lingered in his thoughts far more than was appropriate for a man with his responsibilities.
Duty first. Always duty first.
He’d told himself this visit was merely about repaying a debt, but that wasn’t entirely true. Three weeks had passed since Rosalie’s accident, and he found himself… curious about the woman who’d handled the crisis with such calm competence.
She’s nothing like Caroline. The thought came unbidden, followed immediately by guilt. His late wife had been pretty, accomplished in all the ways society demanded. It shouldn’t matter that she’d never shown the slightest interest in healing or helping anyone but herself.
It doesn’t matter. This is about gratitude, nothing more.
But even as he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t forget the way Lady Sybil had looked at him—without the simpering deference most women showed, without the calculated flirtation of silly debutantes or the meddling prodding of ambitious mothers with marriageable daughters.
She’d looked at him as though he were simply a man, not a title or a fortune.
Dangerous thinking. His daughters needed guidance, particularly Rosalie as she prepared for her debut.
At eighteen, she was growing more spirited by the day, asking pointed questions about why young ladies couldn’t ride astride or study mathematics or express opinions about politics.
Leah, at fifteen, was developing an alarming fascination with creatures most people found repulsive—spiders, snakes, and other specimens she insisted on keeping in jars.
And twelve-year-old Melanie seemed determined to climb every tree and explore every forbidden corner of the estate.
They need a mother. A proper mother who can guide them through society’s expectations.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He was considering marriage not for love or companionship but as a practical solution to a practical problem. Exactly the kind of cold calculation that had defined his first marriage.
At least this time I’ll go into it with clear expectations.
The thought of courtship—of enduring the marriage mart’s theatrical displays and mercenary mothers—filled him with distaste.
Perhaps he could find a sensible widow, someone who understood the arrangement would be one of mutual benefit rather than romantic attachment.
Someone like—
Smoke.
The acrid smell hit him a split second before he saw it—a black plume rising in the distance, coming from the direction of the village.
No. Not the village.
His blood turned to ice as he realized where the smoke was coming from. The orphanage.
He spurred his horse forward, racing across the countryside with reckless speed. Let her be safe. Let them all be safe.
The scene that greeted him was chaos. Flames were already consuming the eastern wing of the building, orange tongues licking hungrily at the wooden structure. Villagers stood in scattered groups, some weeping, others staring in shock at the destruction.
But no one was doing anything.
“You there!” Hugo leaped from his horse, his voice cutting through the commotion like a blade. “Form a line to the well, now!”
The authority in his tone snapped people out of their paralysis. Within moments, he had them organized—men passing buckets, women tending to the children who’d been evacuated, older boys running back and forth with whatever containers they could find.
But even as he coordinated the firefighting efforts, his eyes searched frantically for one particular figure.
Where is she?
Then he saw her—a flash of dark blue fabric near the building’s entrance. Miss Sybil was standing with a group of children, her arms spread wide as though shielding them, her lips moving rapidly as she counted.
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…” Her voice carried across the chaos, clear and methodical despite the panic around her. “Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven.”
She stopped, her face going white.
“Where are Emma and Little Tom?” she called out, her voice sharp with fear.
“They were in the nursery when it started,” one of the older girls sobbed. “We couldn’t get to them—the smoke was too thick!”
Hugo saw the exact moment Miss Sybil made her decision. Her jaw set with grim determination, and she took a step toward the burning building.
“Sybil, no!” Beverly Carver grabbed her arm. “It’s suicide!”
“They’re just babies,” Miss Sybil said quietly, shaking off the other woman’s grip. “I won’t leave them.”
She’s going to get herself killed.
Hugo started toward her, but she was already moving, disappearing into the smoke-filled entrance before anyone could stop her.
“Good heavens,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves.
The crowd behind him erupted in shouts of alarm and protest, but he ignored them. He started toward the entrance after her, but a burning beam crashed down, blocking his path and sending him staggering backward from the heat.
Dash it all.
“Where did she go?” he shouted to Beverly over the roar of flames.
“The nursery!” Beverly pointed frantically toward the eastern corner of the building. “Upper floor, second window from the end!”
Hugo was already moving, scaling the ivy-covered wall with grim determination. He reached the window just as it opened from within, smoke billowing out around Sybil’s slight figure.
He positioned himself beneath the nursery window, calculating angles and distances. The building groaned ominously as the fire spread, timbers beginning to crack under the intense heat.
Come on, woman. Whatever you’re doing in there, do it quickly.
Then came the sound he’d been dreading—a thunderous crash as part of the roof collapsed, sending sparks and debris cascading down. Screams erupted from the crowd behind him.
But there—in the nursery window—a figure appeared through the smoke.
Miss Sybil stood silhouetted against the orange glow, a small child in each arm. Her hair had come loose from its pins, her dress was torn and blackened, but she was alive.
Their eyes met across the distance, and Hugo felt something shift in his chest—something primal and possessive that had nothing to do with gratitude or duty.
He scaled the wall with the agility of a man half his age, his hands finding purchase on the stone ledges and ivy that clung to the building’s facade. Years of military training had left him in excellent physical condition, and desperation lent him speed.