Lacybourne Manor (Ghosts and Reincarnation #3)(2)

She was under strict instructions to have all the tourists and their cars and the other flotsam and jetsam cleared from the area before the man of the house came home.

Colin Morgan had inherited Lacybourne just over a year before. His aunt and uncle left no heirs so upon their untimely death (he of cancer, she of a broken heart, the latter Marian believed although the doctors said differently), the man from London became owner of the grand house with its medieval core. The old owners were not nearly as demanding as Mr. Colin Morgan. They would often mingle with the tourists and even open some of the private chambers.

Not Colin.

He closed the house all days except Mondays and Tuesdays and allowed it open only one Saturday a month. It was available solely from February through June, which was quite a muddle for The National Trust as that cut out the height of the tourist season and school holidays. And he expected all of the tourists and The National Trust pamphlets and laminated leaflets that lay about the rooms to be locked out of sight by the time he came home.

This would have vastly annoyed Marian, if she hadn’t met Colin Morgan.

He was near as the spitting image of the man in the portrait that hung in the Great Hall.

For that reason alone, Marian knew she’d do whatever he required.

The day had turned gusty, the sky already dark with encroaching night. The clouds, long since rolled in, had begun to leak rain.

Marian began to push the heavy front doors closed when she heard a feminine voice in an American accent call, “Oh no! Am I too late?”

Marian peeked out the door just as thunder rent the air and lightning lit the sky, illuminating the woman who stood on the threshold.

Marian couldn’t stop herself; she gasped at the sight.

The woman was wearing a scarlet trench coat belted at the waist and her long, thick hair, the colour of sunshine liberally dosed with honey, was whipping about her face. She had lifted a hand to hold the tresses back but she wasn’t succeeding. The tendrils flew around her face wildly.

“It’s so hard to find time to fit Lacybourne in the schedule, it’s rarely open,” the woman continued as she smiled at Marian.

It was then that Marian realised she’d been holding her breath and she let it out in a gush.

The woman standing before her was the image of the other portrait that hung in the Great Hall.

She was not, however, dark-haired, like the lady in the portrait, but rather blonde. Marian thought that interesting, considering Colin Morgan had the exact visage of the long since murdered owner of this house, except Colin’s hair was dark, nearly black, rather than fair.

“I’m afraid you are late, my dear. We close at four thirty, on the dot,” Marian informed her lamentably.

The disappointment was evident on her face; Marian could see it by the light shining from the entry. Marian was pleased at this, she hadn’t been volunteering at Lacybourne for seven years without having some pride in the house. It was nice to know this woman on the threshold so desperately wanted inside.

There were other reasons as well that Marian was pleased the woman wanted desperately to be inside.

“Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” Marian asked, her voice kind, her face smiling but her mind working. She was wondering how she could finagle a meeting between the American woman and the man of the house.

For she had to find a way to arrange a meeting.

It was, quite simply, Marian Byrne’s destiny.

“I can’t, I’m working. I couldn’t be here until well after it closes. I’ve been trying to find time to get here since last year.”

“What time could you arrive? I know the owner of this house, perhaps, if I explain –”

“No… no, please, don’t do that. I’ll just try to get here next Monday,” she offered politely then lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell, giving one last, longing look at the house and started to leave.

Marian rushed her next words in an effort to stall the woman and then she fibbed (for, she knew, a very good cause), “He’s a lovely man, he won’t mind. I’ll stay personally to give you a private tour. Or he might like to do so himself, considering how much you wish to see the house.”

She’d turned back, hesitating. “I couldn’t.”

“Oh, you could,” Marian moved forward and encouragingly placed her hand on the woman’s forearm. “Truly, he won’t mind.”

That was an outright lie, Colin Morgan would very much mind. But what could she do? She could see the indecision on the other woman’s face, Marian had to do something.

Marian forged ahead. “We’ll set it at six o’clock, shall we? You can give me your telephone number and I’ll phone you if there’s a problem. What’s your name, my dear?”

“Sibyl,” she said, smiling her gratitude so sensationally Marian felt her heart seize at the sight. “Sibyl Godwin.”

It was with that announcement that Marian’s hand clutched the woman’s arm with vigour far beyond her seventy years.

“I’m sorry, what did you say your surname was again?”

The woman was studying her with curiosity and Marian watched the spectacular sight as the hazel in the other woman’s eyes melted to the colour of sherry as curiosity became concern. Her hand, Marian noted distractedly, had moved to cover the older woman’s hand protectively.

“Godwin.”