Chapter Four
Sybil
Hours later, Sybil rode the path oft taken between her home and that of her neighbor, the first stop of several for the day.
While her neighbor required a willow bark tincture for her headaches, Mr. Cooper needed some nettle tea for his gout, and
some feverfew for the Daniels’ boy. Even after all these years, her mother’s herbal aids for fevers, agues, and everything
in between were sought by the community. While Henry hadn’t been a lord, his vast fortune put Sybil in a position to help
those in need. These days, there were many.
Cloth manufacturing had once been plentiful in Bury St. Edmunds. Before taxes and regulations devoured profits. Before the
Dutch came in with the lighter, more modern new draperies that turned everyone’s heads.
In times of such strife, Henry’s family made wise investments that withstood the test of time. Following his death, Sybil utilized the profits from those investments to ensure his employees remained cared for and well paid.
Her horse’s head bobbed aggressively as he walked, riled by her disquiet. But then, Brixton was always in tune to Sybil’s
moods. He had been ever since she saved him from slaughter after his final failure at the Newcastle racing grounds the king
had established not far from Bury St. Edmunds.
Were it not for the lashing scars upon Brixton’s pale glossy coat, one would never know how easily life had once discarded
him. He was powerful, muscular, and had a fine, superior attitude to match his outward demeanor. At least to all but Sybil,
whom he trotted to meet like an adoring pup.
She patted his strong neck. “Don’t let my nerves vex you.”
A woodlark landed in the middle of the path.
Brixton’s ears went back, and he picked up his pace. The poor little bird was forced to hop up and flutter back several paces
before returning to the road once more.
“Be kind,” Sybil chastised.
Brixton immediately stopped and she dismounted, mindful of her skirts, and approached the familiar little bird.
Behind her, Brixton stamped his hoof with impatience, as he was wont to do when she gave her attention to anything but him.
The bird held a fragrant honeysuckle blossom in its beak—a summons from the other women.
They too must be plagued by the threat of danger.
“Anon,” she replied softly.
The little bird dropped the flower and fluttered off.
Brixton grunted out a huff behind her but was too late with his warning.
A steed rounded the corner and she went stiff. The horse’s coat was as black as the robes of his rider, both immediately recognizable. They traveled too quickly to allow Sybil time to sweep onto Brixton’s back and so she remained standing helpless in the road.
She squared her shoulders, invoking the stoicism of the Roman women in Plutarch’s Lives. Women who refused to be intimidated by men. Or even by their own fear.
“Good morrow, Magistrate.” Sybil kept her tone civil, without warmth.
A man like him needed no encouragement.
“A gentlewoman such as you should not be alone, Mrs. Brantham.” His lips curled in an oily smile that made her flesh want
to peel away from her body. “Is there something amiss with your steed?”
Sybil tipped her chin with pride for Brixton. “There is not.”
“Then I can assume you stopped for some provincial matter.” He lifted a brow. “Rustic learnings you acquired from your mother,
no doubt.”
Ah, he was bringing up her past.
How he would hate if she did likewise. For she recalled the many years when he did not stand a head taller than everyone else,
before he acquired that glint of hatred in his eyes. When he was diminutive, and weak, and cowed by the boys who threw mud
upon him—and the girls who laughed.
They did not laugh now.
But she would use his excuse to her advantage and approached a silver-green plant rising from the earth like a sharp-petaled
rose. “Mullein.” She plucked a few velvety leaves. “A simple salve made of this, and a bit of nettle can do wonders for a
sore back.”
The magistrate’s eyes darkened. “It is not my back that is sore.”
Sybil clenched her teeth, willing the rise of bile to ebb.
“I seek a wife, as you are well aware.” His gaze slid down her body, as if penetrating the layers of cloth and linen. As if
he could touch her as easily as he could see her.
Panic sliced through her stoic determination, shattering her resolve with memories of the last time she’d been alone with him. “Doubtless there are many women who would be honored for such a role.”
She backed toward Brixton. This far from Brackenmere Manor, there would be no one to hear her scream.
Not that her screams had enlisted help before.
The memory clawed at her throat.
Brixton’s tail flicked.
The magistrate’s cheeks splotched red beneath the black stubble of his beard. “You know I want you.”
She tensed in preparation for a conversation they’d had far too many times. Yet with each rejection, he returned, as if planning
to wear her down.
Sybil propped a foot in the stirrup and swept into her saddle. “I will never marry another.” Brixton’s strong body beneath
her was all the assurance she needed that she was safe. For now.
“Because you loved that decaying old man?” The magistrate scoffed in disgust.
She took the reins. “I will not stand idly by as you insult my husband.”
“Henry is dead.”
The very mention of his name lanced through her chest, his loss as sudden and hot as the fever that had claimed his life.
The magistrate hopped from his saddle and Sybil flinched.
She hated the reflex, but her body reacted on its own accord.
Worse still—the magistrate clearly witnessed her reaction, that one show of weakness. He approached, his boot crushing the
honeysuckle blossom into the dirt.
Though Sybil was on horseback and he was not—though she was in a position of protection and power—the moment held breathless
terror.
His nostrils flared, as though catching the scent of her fear. He reached for Brixton’s bridle, but the horse snapped his head round and bit the hand that meant to grab him.
The magistrate’s howl pierced the air.
“Leave me be, Robert.” Sybil clicked her tongue and Brixton tore off, but not before she caught sight of the magistrate glowering
after her.
A gust shoved at her back, making the leaves tremble overhead, the pitch of warning heightening.
Whatever danger approached, she had just made things worse.