Lacybourne Manor (8 page)

Studying the older woman, Sibyl
got the impression that Mrs. Byrne genuinely wanted the opportunity
to let tempers cool so they could sort things out in the morning.
In fact, it seemed for some reason this was very important to Mrs.
Byrne. The woman volunteered for the National Trust and she had,
regrettably, if unwittingly, caused this bizarre fiasco.
Undoubtedly, she wanted the chance to smooth things over so she
wouldn’t get into trouble.

As was Sibyl’s wont (which
always got her into trouble and she knew it but had never been able
to control it), Sibyl didn’t have the heart to deny the older woman
this opportunity.

And anyway, Mr. Morgan may be a
raving lunatic but he didn’t seem to be a violent one just a loud
and angry one.

So she settled in for the
long haul the night would mostly likely be and thought that her
mother had never been very good at reading dreams and Sibyl herself
had read the dream entirely incorrectly. Last night’s dream had not
meant she needed a lover (especially not
this
lover) and it was not
leading her to her dream man. It meant she should not, under any
circumstances, go to Lacybourne because its owner was certifiably
insane.

As Mrs. Byrne
molly-coddled her, Sibyl tried to insist she was well enough to sit
up even though she was definitely feeling a bit woozy and, she had
to admit, she was not at all certain she could safely take
herself
and
her beloved animals home without assistance even
if that opportunity had presented itself when Lady Ice, again,
interrupted their tête-à-tête by bringing in two plates of
food.

“Colin thought you might want
something to eat so I prepared this for you,” she announced, as if
preparing food was akin to cleaning toilets at a roadside stopover
in the depths of the jungles of Venezuela.

Mrs. Byrne took the food and
the other woman walked out of the room again without another word.
Sibyl was left stunned that “Colin” considered their hunger at all
but then, even though she’d never read the document (and didn’t
really wish to), she was still relatively certain that under the
Geneva Convention, prisoners were entitled to sustenance.

Each small plate held a single
sandwich, if they could be called sandwiches considering they were
two pieces of bread which held only a wafer thin slice of ham, no
condiments, no butter, nothing. They weren’t even cut in half.

So much for the Ivana of the
North’s hostessing skills.

Sibyl set hers aside and
when Mrs. Byrne noticed it (she herself tucking into the food like
it was the finest delicacy) she encouraged Sibyl, “You must have
something. Keep your strength up.”

Sibyl shook her head, slightly
alarmed that Mrs. Byrne seemed to be keen on preparing her for
battle. “I don’t eat ham. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Bryne muttered
then her eyes brightened. “Well, I’ll just have to go see if Mr.
Morgan has anything else in the house.”

“
No!” Sibyl cried,
yes,
cried,
desperate and everything.

And she did this because
she didn’t want Mr. Morgan to remember her existence at all. He
seemed ludicrously averse to it. She had to get through the next
twelve hours through most of which she hoped she’d be sleeping and
she did
not
want to rock the boat.

Mrs. Byrne smiled at Sibyl, a
twinkle in her eye, and ignored her, setting aside her plate to go
off in search of different food.

Sibyl sat back on the couch
with a weary sigh and placed the ice on her temple. Bran
reappeared, completely unfazed by the dramatic events, curled up on
Sibyl’s belly and Sibyl idly stroked his soft, fluffy fur.

Sibyl had no idea why the
appallingly-attractive-but-clearly-possessed-by-Satan Mr. Morgan
had reacted so horribly to her presence at Lacybourne. It was
distressing and utterly bizarre. Anyone could see that Mrs. Byrne
had made a simple mistake, it wasn’t worth confiscating Sibyl’s
license (which he had done, he did not give it back and he also
took her handbag with him when he left) and holding them both
prisoner. It was almost as if he expected the old woman and Sibyl
to be conniving to steal the family silver out from under his
nose.

Sibyl could, of course,
get up and walk out (albeit unsteadily). However, that would mean
leaving Mrs. Byrne behind to face the
towering-inferno-also-known-as-Mr. Morgan and that she would
not
do.

She did have the unusual
feeling, however, that Mrs. Byrne seemed somehow pleased at these
events and not simply because Sibyl staying meant Mrs. Byrne might
have the chance get things straight with Mr. Morgan and not lose
her obviously beloved role at Lacybourne. But, instead, she was
pleased for other reasons entirely.

Sibyl put that strange idea
down to her mild concussion.

Mrs. Byrne arrived back in the
room with Mr. Morgan arrogantly striding in on her heels.

Although Sibyl did not know him
very well (and what she did know of him, she didn’t want to know),
she could tell he was still furious. She could tell this by the
muscle leaping convulsively in his rock hard jaw.

“
Is there anything else
we can do for you here at Lacybourne Manor,
Miss Godwin?
” His tone
was impeccably polite but he said her name like it tasted
foul.

For the sake of her sanity, and
her head, Sibyl ignored him.

His strange antipathy to her
was only eclipsed by his extreme dislike of her name.

“A bite of cheese and some
crackers,” Mrs. Byrne explained, proffering a plate on which rested
some rather unsavoury-looking slices of cheese and crackers. Then
Mrs. Byrne sat in a comfortably worn leather chair by the
invitingly worn leather couch on which Sibyl was reclining.

Mrs. Byrne appeared, to Sibyl’s
continued incredulity, to be having the time of her life.

“Thank you, Mrs. Byrne,” Sibyl
replied, taking the plate.

“You’re more than welcome, my
dear.”

Realising that the two
women were not going to address him, Mr. Morgan turned to walk away
but then Mrs. Byrne, who clearly had a death wish, called out, “Oh,
Mr. Morgan!”

He looked first over his
shoulder and then turned his entire body back towards them slowly,
his eyes blazing, and Sibyl held her breath.

“We could use a drink, perhaps
a bit of wine?” Her eyes slid to Sibyl. “Or, in your state, do you
think you should have wine, dear?”

He didn’t wait for Sibyl’s
reply, however, he simply left the room.

The Goddess of the Antarctic
slid into the room not five minutes later with an opened bottle of
red wine and two exquisite, full-bodied, crystal wine glasses.
After plonking them down on a table, without another word, she slid
out again.

“
Never mind,” Mrs. Byrne
said to the other woman’s parting back. Then, enthusiastically, she
turned to Sibyl, completely dismissing the other two beings who
currently inhabited the house with them and were likely plotting
their bloody demise, she asked conversationally, “Tell me all about
yourself. I want to know
everything
.”

Sibyl, needing an excuse
not to think about the freakish evening, did as Mrs. Byrne asked.
As she talked, Mrs. Byrne would interrupt with strange comments
such as, “Of course, your father is English,” and, “Brightrose
Cottage, now that’s
most
interesting.”

When Sibyl was finished
relating her life story, drinking a glass of wine and eating her
meagre portion of cheese, she poured more wine (rather clumsily as
she was still holding the ice pack to her head).

“Now, Mrs. Byrne,” she invited,
“tell me about you.”

Over their second glass, Mrs.
Byrne told her about her dead husband, Arthur, her two children,
her five grandchildren, her three cats, her life as a librarian,
her retirement ten years ago and her seven year tenure at
Lacybourne Manor.

“
Alas, I fear
that
is
over,” she shrugged eloquently, giving Sibyl another bright-eyed
look, her blithe comment making Sibyl want to laugh at the same
time it made her want to grab Mrs. Byrne’s hand and give it a
reassuring squeeze.

Sibyl had to admit, talking to
the older woman was quite relaxing. She liked her immensely. Mrs.
Byrne obviously adored her family and had a great sense of humour
and, under any other circumstances, Sibyl would have enjoyed their
conversation greatly.

Then, Princess Glacier glided
into the room again and told them it was time for bed.

Mrs. Byrne saw to letting
Mallory and Bran out for a last minute comfort break (and Sibyl
just stopped herself from encouraging the older woman to make a
break for it) while the black-haired woman took Sibyl up a back
stairwell to the upper floor of the house.

Sibyl would not have been
surprised if she put them in the servants’ quarters but instead she
was shown into an enormous, beautifully appointed room filled with
priceless antique furniture and a colossal four-poster bed with
exquisite muted gold and sage green drapes, coverlet and a massive
quantity of fluffy pillows.

The only problem was that the
room was freezing cold.

Sibyl decided she would freeze
to death before she would utter one, single word.

“Mrs. Byrne will be in the room
across the hall.” With that, Mistress Frosty took her leave and
shortly after, Mrs. Byrne let Mallory and Bran into Sibyl’s
room.

“You rest, dear, I’ll come in
and check on you every half an hour.”

“You don’t have to do that,
Mrs. Byrne. I’m sure I’m fine.”

And if she wasn’t, it would be
Mr. Morgan’s just desserts to have to explain her dead body to
Albert and Marguerite Godwin. Her Dad and Mom might look like a mad
scientist and stereotypical archetype of Mother Nature but they
both had tempers that could rival… well… Sibyl’s when it was riled
and that was a mighty feat.

“Please, call me Marian,” Mrs.
Byrne broke into Sibyl’s vindictive reverie.

When the older woman left,
Sibyl took a look around her at the beautiful room and decided her
best bet was not to disturb anything at all.

With some pleading and a good
deal of stern words, she managed to keep Mallory off the bed. The
big dog sighed his displeasure and settled on the floor. Bran,
however, never followed orders and curled happily at the foot of
the bed.

Sibyl took off her boots and
her jacket and set her jewellery on the bedside table. Laying on
top of the covers in the wintry cold room, she tucked her feet
under her long skirt and positioned her coat on top of her, feeling
about as warm as Captain Scott must have during the Race to the
South Pole.

Not thirty minutes later, Mrs.
Byrne came in the room.

Still awake and trying not to
think of her dream of last night, the events of that evening and
how they all fit together (or, spectacularly, did not) Sibyl
assured the woman quietly, “I’m fine.”

“You must sleep. I have a
feeling you have a long road ahead of you,” Mrs. Byrne whispered as
she laid a comforting hand on Sibyl’s shoulder.

Sibyl didn’t know what to make
of this latest comment that came in her current occupancy in the
World of Lunacy. But she smiled, mentally promising herself to
check in on the old woman after this debacle was complete to make
certain Marian Byrne wasn’t suffering from a mild form of dementia.
Then, obligingly, she nestled her head into the soft pillows.

This happened twice more, the
second time, Mrs. Byrne actually woke her and Sibyl was surprised
she could get to sleep at all.

It seemed only moments after
Mrs. Byrne left the room when she heard the door open again. She
pretended to ignore the older lady, hoping she would cease her
kind, but overly earnest, ministrations and get some sleep
herself.

But this time, Mrs. Byrne
entered the room and stopped and Sibyl could almost feel the lady’s
eyes on her. Obviously deciding Sibyl needed her rest, she left
again, only to come back not five minutes later.

After she heard some rustling
across the room, unceremoniously, Sibyl’s jacket was pulled off of
her.

She twirled around in bed to
look up, not at Mrs. Byrne, but at a tall, looming male standing
imposingly beside the bed.

“Get up,” Colin Morgan
commanded in a deep, angry voice.

“What are you…?” Sibyl
started.

He reached forward and pulled
her roughly out of the bed and the only way she could respond to
this stunning action was to yelp.

“Did it occur to you to turn on
the radiator?” His tone was caustic.

Sibyl blinked in the direction
of one of several radiators in the room.

No, it actually didn’t
occur to her and she wondered why it hadn’t, but then she’d always
been a bit flighty and absentminded. However, she would never
impart this information on
him
.

He didn’t wait for an answer
and demanded, “Put this on.”

He tossed a garment to her and
she had no choice but to catch it and shake it out. In the light
coming in from the hall she realised it was the top of a pair of
men’s pyjamas.

Most likely
his
pyjamas.

“I can’t wear this!” she
snapped, ready to toss it back to him.

“Nothing Tamara has will fit
you, for obvious reasons.” She saw his eyes run the length of her
body and she thought from the look in them that perhaps this ended
up being not the cutting insult he meant to be.

Tamara must be Mother Winter’s
name.