Chapter Fifty-one
Perched nervously on the edge of her chair, Sylvie was fretfully whispering as she looked over her shoulder for some reassurance from Betsy.
“It’s unconscionable. I mean, I always thought the whispers about Lord Southerby…
his supposed dealings in the shadowy depths of danger and intrigue…
were utter claptrap. Yet how could he possibly know of our plans?
I took his eccentricities for harmless, though I suppose I have only really met him the once, at the wedding…
and he was exceedingly charming then too!
Oh, Betsy,” she gasped wide-eyed, “what danger lurks beneath that charm? What peril belies that smile? I once heard it said he dabbles in the dark arts. What wicked sorcery has brought him to our door?”
“Sylvie, calm yourself,” hissed Betsy. “Honestly, this obsession with the Westland Curse is addling your brain and allowing that fantastical imagination of yours to run away with you. I may be superstitious, but, really? Lord Southerby conjuring himself to our door through sorcery!”
“You’re right, sorry,” Sylvie whispered, breathlessly. “I’m just panicking, tis all.”
“I can see that.”
“I know, I know. I’m being ridiculous. I have nothing to fear. I am doing nothing wrong, and whatever his reason for being here, it will not alter my plans. And besides,” her tone softening, “I… I found him quite personable, didn’t you?” then snapped her mouth shut as the door opened.
Standing quickly, she bowed her head, “Lord Southerby.”
Smiling warmly, his voice was equally as agreeable. “If we are to be allies in this quest, Lady Westland, I must insist you call me Valentine.”
“Oh,” she peeped, startled. “What quest?”
With an amused tilt of his head, he studied her for a moment. “Forgive me, mayhap I am mistaken in thinking you were planning to visit Lady McDonald. Oh, well, no matter.” He gestured towards a chair. “May I?”
Flustered, she nodded. “Yes… yes, of course. May I offer you tea?”
“Tea? Mm, no thank you,” he said with a cheeky glint in his eyes. “But if you have no objection, we might avail ourselves with a splash of Westland’s best malt, hey, Eddie?”
Further flustered, only now noticing her husband’s loyal valet hovering behind Lord Southerby — staring at Betsy with the look of a betrayed man — she stammered, “Oh, of course, yes, yes, please…”
“Oh, would you like one?” asked Southerby, holding up the decanter after pouring two sizeable amounts into crystal tumblers and passing one to Eddie.
“Um, oh, I’ve never really… I mean it’s… well it’s a gentleman’s drink, is it not? And I…”
“I find it’s a matter of one’s palate, rather than one’s sex,” mused Southerby as he watched the amber liquid swirl around his glass as he languidly rolled his wrist. “Admittedly, it has a bold, determined flavour, unapologetic in its strength of character, and certainly, not for the faint-hearted. Yet shared among friends, not rushed in solitude, it can be surprisingly satisfying. And, I daresay, soothing to frayed nerves.”
Sylvie’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“So, Lady Westland,” said Southerby smoothly as he elegantly arranged himself in a chair opposite her, his exotic green eyes fixed on hers, “may I see it?”
Stunned, she instinctively clamped a protective hand to her chest and instantly realised her mistake as she saw the corner of Southerby’s mouth twitch momentarily upwards.
Shooting to her feet, in a fit of reckless defiance, she darted to the drinks trolley.
Without thinking, she sloshed a heavy measure into a glass and took a gulp.
The whisky burned her throat and made her eyes water, but she forced down another.
Then, coughing through the fire, she shot him a defiant look.
“You,” she coughed again, “you are mistaken, my lord…. if you think this fire water is in any way soothing.”
“My Lady!” implored Betsy from behind.
Sylvie waved her off. “It’s too late, Betsy. He knows. And he threw down a challenge… to, to test my mettle!”
A ghost of a smile crossed Southerby’s face. “Did I?”
“Yes, well, well tell me this…” panted Sylvie, nerves fraying into bravado.
“Ask whatever you will,” he said lightly, “and I will answer, so long as I am able.”
“Or willing,” interjected Eddie under his breath and received, not only an amused smile from Southerby, but a warning look from both the girls.
Unperturbed, Southerby raised a questioning eyebrow to Sylvie, “So, my dear lady?”
“Well,” began Sylvie, “well, what I want to know is…”
“Is?”
“Is… is why a man, reputed to be all dark and dangerous, plays with his horse and calls him Lark!”
Southerby’s eyes widened, then roared with laughter. “Ohh, Lady Westland,” he said between chuckles, “you really are quite something. Now, now I can see why…” then, shaking his head, still chuckling, he added, “because the fool of a horse is always skylarking around.”
“But… but you trained him to do that hat trick, yes?”
“Absolutely not. He’s a natural prankster.”
“Yet,” said Sylvie, dropping back into her chair, leaning forward, “moments before, he was a fearsome beast?”
“Appearances, my dear, can be wholly deceiving. He is young, exuberant. He had just had the ride of his life, and was simply punching the air in triumph.”
Sylvie wrinkled her nose. “How can you possibly know that?”
“As with most things,” said Southerby more seriously, “it takes time, patience and trust. For any kind of relationship to work, one must learn the other’s nature — what sparks joy or fear, and most importantly, understand what provokes certain reactions.
I once had a mare with the sweetest disposition imaginable…
patient, gentle, utterly calm. My younger sisters had been begging for their own ‘grown-up’ horse, so I thought Buttercup the perfect choice.
But the moment they stepped into her stall, the creature went wild…
ears back, eyes white, snapping at the very air beside them, until they ran screaming.
And the moment they were gone…” he smiled faintly, “she was calm again, contentedly munching her hay.”
“Oh?” Sylvie gasped. “Why ever would she do that? What happened?”
“I had no idea at first, and scarcely believed the girls when they came running to tell me, but Ella was so adamant the horse had gone for her, and her alone… so,” he said with a grin, “I sent them back in to see for myself.”
“You didn’t?” Sylvie breathed, now wide-eyed, hanging on every word.
“I did, and lo and behold, Buttercup reacted just as the girls had said… with one slight difference.”
“What difference?”
“Well, this time it was Freya she was nipping at.”
“Were they not frightened?”
“Not really, they were just as curious… so, I entered the stall and all was as it should be until the moment the girls stepped back in. This time, it was Ella she took a dislike to again. Mm, I wondered… So, I sent Ella in on her own, and would you believe, Buttercup nuzzled her neck and buried her head against her chest.”
“No?” breathed Sylvie. “I, I don’t understand.”
“Nor did I at first, though what I did understand was her reaction was born from fear, not malice… a fear of whoever stood on the left.”
“Fear of what?” whispered Sylvie, totally mesmerised.
“Well, a fear of the unknown, you might say. Ella and Freya are identical twins, and back then, they dressed alike, wore their hair the same, sometimes, even I had trouble telling them apart. Poor Buttercup couldn’t understand why she was seeing double.
I don’t know exactly, but the poor thing probably thought she was going mad… or… seeing a ghost!”
“A ghost!” giggled Sylvie.
“Well,” smiled Southerby teasingly, “whatever it was, it scared her.”
“So, what did you do? Did you have to get rid of her?”
“Goodness no, we played dress up,” laughed Southerby. “One bonnet, one no bonnet; one light, one dark. By day’s end, Buttercup started to see the truth of what was in front of her and not the distorted perception she had first believed.”
“And?”
“And,” said Southerby, leaning back in his chair, “once she faced her fear, and learned there was nothing to be afraid of, I’d more often than not find her following the girls around the grounds… even into the house, at their encouragement.”
“Really?” laughed Sylvie, totally delighted.
Shaking his head in feigned exasperation, he said, “Of course, I had to put my foot down and forbid poor Buttercup from entering, so those two little hellions just upped sticks and moved into the stables. It was a terrible time.”
“What a delightful story…” Sylvie sighed. “I’ve never really thought of horses having such personalities before. I’ve always been a bit fearful of them I suppose, always had a palfrey for a mount, sweet but no more energetic than an armchair…”
“Then, my dear Lady Westland, once we return from Scotland, mayhap you will allow me to help you overcome your fear.”
Looking enquiringly across at Southerby, Sylvie asked, “So, you are not here to stop me?”
“On the contrary, my dear, I am here to accompany you…” said Southerby languidly as he placed his empty glass gently on the table by his side, “… and hopefully rid ourselves of, um, shall we say, another unwanted ghost?”
“A ghost!” gasped Betsy from behind, frantically crossing herself as Eddie blustered, “Seriously? A ghost!”
But Sylvie wasn’t listening, already nodding her head, “And rid him of his fear of the unknown… and prove he isn’t going to go mad,” she whispered, locking eyes with Southerby.
At his slight nod, she brightened. “Good…” she chirped, bouncing excitedly to her feet, “and, um, how do we do that exactly?”
“We carefully consider what we have… and then we plan.” Southerby’s gaze drifted briefly downward, then he raised an enquiring brow. “May I?”
Betsy gasped, but Sylvie just laughed. “He’s talking about the thing, silly,” and turned away as she dug her hand down the front of her dress.
Pulling the diamond necklace from her bodice, she tugged a bit harder to dislodge the pendant at the end from its hiding place.
“It was becoming rather uncomfortable, truth be told,” she said with a little wiggle to ensure everything was back in place before she turned.
Southerby, still seated in his chair, stared for several long moments, as if hypnotised by the pendant gently swinging before him, the sparkling lights refracting off the jewels reflecting in his unblinking eyes.
“My Lord, are you quite well?” murmured Sylvie.
Rising to his feet, he took a hesitant step towards her, his eyes still fixed on the sapphire as his hand reached out to touch it, then suddenly withdrew and looked sharply across to Eddie. “Show me where the duelling pistols are kept. There should be a commemorative set.”
“Duelling pistols?” squeaked Sylvie, as Eddie stepped forward, shaking his head. “I don’t know of such a set, milord.”
“Then, find me someone who does,” commanded Southerby. “They were on display when the late marquess was alive.”
“Duelling pistols?” continued Sylvie, becoming fretful. “Why ever do you need duelling pistols? I, I don’t understand?”
Turning to Sylvie, he looked deep into her eyes and softened his voice. “Do you trust me, Lady Westland?”
“Yes.” Her voice was small but steady. “I… yes, I think I do.”
“Then trust me when I say, we need to find those pistols if we are to lay Charles Westland’s ghost to rest.”
Sylvie blinked uncertainly. “Then… then we should talk to Mrs Manning.”
“Mrs Manning?”
“The old housekeeper, she, she is probably having a cup of tea downstairs, she usually visits at this time of day, but why…?”
“Take me to her, and Eddie, have the coach readied. We leave as soon as I have what we need.”