Chapter 7
Two days later
Sybil closed her account book and wiped her pen, wondering whether the documents Lang had slipped to her late the night before truly meant she was free of Crofton’s demands.
The dastard had been taken to Horsham to face the next assize court; not many people in Normanton and surrounds were mourning his absence.
Lang had assured her she wouldn’t be called to give evidence. She prayed that was true.
The clacking of wheels outside drew her to the window. A coach was wobbling down the lane, followed by a rider on a dappled gray horse.
A very tall rider.
She watched as two gentlemen stepped out of the coach, the second one offering his hand to the round little lady who followed him.
Their housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Hayward, was in the midst of baking, the maid was outside hanging washing, and Lang had gone to fetch the boys home from their studies, which had resumed once Paul began to feel better.
Sybil glanced in the mirror and sighed. The gown she’d donned in the morning was three years old and looked it.
Still, it wouldn’t do to keep a pregnant lady standing outside while she changed. Tucking a hair in place with a trembling hand, she went to answer the knock on the door.
This visit might be one more step in Sir Westcott’s attempt to woo her. Or it might be him saying goodbye.
To which she would add good riddance. His presence, his kisses, his fisticuffs, none of that would restore her good reputation in Normanton. That would take months, perhaps years, of her good behavior.
She opened the door and at the sight of Sir Westcott’s face, her breath caught. His jaw bore a dark bruise. One swollen eye sat in a circle of purple worse than the bruise below.
His grin, though, never faltered, as he brushed away comments about his injuries and made introductions.
Mrs. Honoria Kellborn was a pleasant-looking lady with hair that was either light brown or dark blond, and eyes that radiated good humor and kindness.
Major August Kellborn was a handsome man of middling years, dark-haired and shorter than Sybil.
The man with them was Gus’s friend, Lord Edward Greely, a wealthy baron who owned the yacht that carried the Kellborns home.
He’d come along to join the party at Highcross Keep for a few days while his yacht went on to Southampton for repairs.
The scent of baking cakes and bread filling the air, Sybil assembled a tea tray. Sir Westcott’s stepmother had insisted on following Sybil into the kitchen. She’d settled happily at the plain deal table where Mrs. Hayward had only recently been rolling out dough.
Far from being put out by the invasion, the servant had, after the initial shock, happily compared recipes for apple tarts.
When the water had heated and Sybil had piled a tray high with cakes and biscuits, they moved back to the parlor to await the men, who’d gone to look over Sybil’s Essex pigs. She wondered if Sir Westcott’s stepmother had arranged this chance to interview Sybil alone.
While they made small talk about the Kellborns’ travels, Sybil couldn’t avoid a spark of envy, wondering whether that was how her brothers felt when they watched the ships sailing past Brighton.
“You have a fine kitchen here,” Mrs. Kellborn said. “I fear my new home, Whitlaw Grange, might not be quite as modern.”
“You haven’t seen it yet?”
“Not as yet. Major Kellborn whisked me off to the Continent a few weeks after our marriage.” She reached for a portfolio that Sybil hadn’t noticed. “Come and sit next to me. I’ll show you some of the drawings that Wes always teases me about.”
Sybil moved next to her, conscious of the lady’s mild floral scent and the swell of her abdomen under her modest carriage gown. There were sketches of the cathedral in Palermo, others of Paris and York, and some of a large Tudor-style manor house of gray stone.
“Twisden Manor,” she said proudly. “It’s a fine old house.
Larger than this one, but not so grand and stately that one can’t find a warm room in the winter.
After Wes’s father’s death, we gave it a most thorough cleaning from attic to cellar.
He was excessively fond of dogs. We also installed a marvelous bathing chamber, which Gus has promised to replicate for me at Whitlaw Grange. ”
Sybil’s stomach churned with a rising discomfort. Sir Westcott had brought this kind lady to tempt her.
I’m not going to marry him. She wanted to shout the words.
But had he actually asked her to marry him? He talked about courting. He talked about moving her pigs there. He kissed her.
“I fear…” Sybil cleared her throat and began again. “Your son has told me he’d like to court me. I don’t know if he still holds that wish, but please know that I have no intentions of marrying. I have great responsibilities here with the farm and my brothers, especially the younger ones.”
“And boys can be such a challenge,” Mrs. Kellborn said. She went on to tell stories of Sir Westcott’s childhood, his peccadilloes, and his attention to Twisden Manor and to her, both before and after his father’s death.
The lady’s description of Sir Westcott’s appearance on her doorstep in York with Major Kellborn and the Major’s dog in tow made Sybil laugh.
“Yes, he can be impetuous,” Mrs. Kellborn said. “What young man isn’t at times? Like when a young man is defending a lady’s honor.” She tilted her head, studying Sybil and finally smiling. “At his core, he is steady. And good. Like my Gus.”
The steady and good men entered then, escorted by her three brothers whom they’d met near the stable. While Sir Westcott and the boys attacked the cakes, Sybil poured tea and answered the major’s questions about her pigs.
Without looking, she could feel Sir Westcott’s attention upon her, so much so that instead of calling for Mrs. Hayward to bring more tea and cakes, or sending the boys, she went off to the kitchen herself.
Sir Westcott caught up with her there.
“I’m to help you carry things,” he said, standing too close.
The servant cast a curious glance their way, her mouth dropping open at the sight of him.
“Ignore the, er, bruise,” he said, and complimented her baking, and while Sybil busied herself with filling the tray, Mrs. Hayward chatted away with him.
“Your mother’s a dear lady,” the servant said.
“She is indeed.”
“Here now, Miss Sybil, you and your young man leave that. I’ll finish and I’ll carry it in.”
“He’s not…” Sybil bit down on the rest of the sentence and allowed herself to be shooed out of the kitchen.
Once in the outside passage, Sir Westcott pulled her aside.
“I’ve been worried about you,” he said. “I ought to have come sooner, but this is the first day I can see out of this eye.”
She scoffed. “A brawl, Sir Westcott. I fear you’ve made matters worse.”
“Then let me fix them.”
Before she could find words, he’d tucked her hand over his arm and towed her along to the parlor.
All heads turned their way. Wes’s mother beamed her a smile. The men’s eyes twinkled, and her brothers smiled slyly.
“Well?” Lang asked.
Her breath fled her on a sudden attack of panic. Sir Westcott clamped a hand over hers.
He turned to face her. “My dear Miss Dunsford—”
“Sir Westcott,” she hissed quietly, “let me go.”
He went on, ignoring her. “I dare not kneel lest you try to scarper in the midst of…”
With a deep breath, he smiled a nervous smile. Perspiration sheened his high forehead, illuminating another bruise that she hadn’t noticed.
Heart pounding, she looked up at him.
Up. That was certainly a consideration.
“Miss Dunsford,” he said in a strong voice, “marry me. Make me the happiest of men.”
Warmth rushed into her cheeks, draining all the blood from her brain, rendering her speechless. She looked straight ahead at his lips—spotting another healing battle wound there—fearful of what she might see in his eyes. Triumph? Oh, that would make her spit nails.
One of the twins giggled.
The chill of his hands made her look up again and her breath caught on what she saw there. Not triumph, but vulnerability in Wes’s eyes, the eyes of a steady and good man who was offering his heart and tempting her beyond her wildest imaginings.
Quickly glancing away, she saw that the major had taken a seat next to his wife and was holding her hand.
Affection between a man and wife. Might she have such a marriage with Wes?
Wes. She was thinking of him as Wes. What was wrong with her?
Ducking her head, she cleared her throat, finding some moisture.
The big booby watched her with his black eye, bruises and that open-faced look of expectation and worry.
Moisture threatened, and she blinked it away, mustering some dignity.
“You do me a great honor, sir.”
That was true, she realized. He could do better than a farm girl on the lowest rung of the gentry.
Instinct and her own common sense told her he wasn’t a fortune hunter. Not that she was in possession of a fortune.
They shared a passion for farming. He was amiable, slow to anger, and loved his stepmother. He was quite handsome. And so very tall. And he kissed so very well.
Was that enough to pledge the rest of her life?
In all their interactions, he’d been kind, to her as well as to her brothers.
Her brothers. The boys whom she’d raised and promised a home forever. Her only family. She must think of them.
She shook her head. “You do me a great honor sir, but… Devil’s Dyke Grange… the farm… this is our home. Mine and my brothers’.”
“Sybie,” Lang said, reminding her that they had an audience and sending another rush of heat to her cheeks. “Cass, and Paul, and I, we’re not farmers. It’s not in our blood like it is in yours. Our da was a merchant trader. You’d never have found him chasing pigs or overseeing a harvest.”
“We don’t begrudge you getting the farm instead of us,” Paul said.
“Yes.” Cass picked up the thread. “Why not marry Wes? He’s a trump fellow. Besides, you’ll never meet anyone as tall as him.”
Before she could answer, Mrs. Hayward bustled in from the kitchen with a tray.
“How delightful,” Sir Westcott’s mother said, “won’t you stay a moment Mrs. Hayward and tell me your recipe for these delicious lemon cakes?”
* * *
Wes watched the color that had drenched Sybil’s cheeks drain away, and her hands were trembling. Or maybe he was the one trembling.
She was going to say no, if for no other reason than out of pure embarrassment.
Taking advantage of the cook’s distraction, he led Sybil out into the hall, and all the way to the warm kitchen.
“You don’t have to decide now,” he said, turning her to face him.
Eyes shining, she shook her head. “That night, Sir Westcott, I… The rumors will die down. It was only a kiss. Or two. There’s no reason to think you must marry me, and I won’t be forced into it.”
“No. I wouldn’t want that either. I’d want you to marry me because we share things. A love for the land. And our families.”
He eased in a breath, watching a new blush tint her cheeks and her eyes grow shiny. He wasn’t the most persuasive of fellows, but he must find a way.
“I… I would hope that you might, someday, see how much I admire you. And care for you. If you don’t care for me now, I’d hope that I might someday win your love as you have won mine.”
The astonishment on her face made him huff out a laugh and nod. “Yes. It’s true. I love you.”
He’d rendered her speechless, and he gave into temptation, touching his lips to hers—tenderly, given his injuries—and then he pulled her closer. His hand trailed down to her waist, and then instinctively moved lower.
She pulled away quickly and ducked her head, resting her forehead against his cheek. “Crofton. Is it truly over with him?”
“It will be soon. Butley’s turned on him. Besides that, there’s a magistrate in Brighton looking into the loans Crofton bought. Lewis might even get his farm back.”
“How?”
“Seems someone got hold of all of Crofton’s records, not just yours.”
“How… what did you do?”
“I’ll tell you later. After… well, you know a wife can’t give evidence against her husband.”
Sybil laughed and shook her head. “The farm—”
“I have an idea about that. If you say yes.”
She eyed him speculatively. “And then you’ll tell me? Well, I won’t have a husband who brawls. You mustn’t go to blows on my account.”
“If I’m not your husband, I needs must defend my own reputation as well as yours, at least until I leave Sussex. But if I am your husband, as the luckiest man in the world, I’ll be above all of that.” He swept a thumb along the smooth skin of her cheek. “Say yes, Sybil. Put me out of my misery.”
Eyes shining, she nodded, and with a whoop, he picked her up, swung her around, and then kissed her.
Ever so gently.