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.