With clothes and shoes everywhere, Scarlett turned from the wardrobe to Sibyl, who was lying on the bed, and proclaimed, “Girl, you really need a little black dress.”
“And some of those peasant shirts. They’re very ‘in’ right now,” Mags added helpfully, sitting on the floor and sifting through piles of clothes.
“The dress is priority,” Scarlett decreed, her face contorting in hilarious distaste at the thought of a peasant shirt.
“And maybe some of those flowing gypsy skirts,” Mags ignored her younger daughter.
With the state of Sibyl’s wardrobe declared at a level Scarlett told her was called “dire”, the next day, while Bertie took the MG and went to Clevedon Library to research Lacybourne and do the other things professors did when they lost themselves for hours in libraries, the women took a taxi to the train station and went to Bath in search of a little black dress. They found three, as well as four new pairs of shoes (for Sibyl, Scarlett bought herself two). Scarlett relentlessly added two skirts, three pairs of trousers, a pair of jeans, several expensive, designer t-shirts, four blouses and a good deal of lingerie and sleepwear to Sibyl’s massive shopping take of the day.
Which meant Sibyl (and Scarlett) were both wearing little black dresses to Lacybourne.
Sibyl would have liked to have been wearing a potato sack to make her feelings about the evening perfectly clear but instead her dress was halter necked, the narrow, deep V showing more than a hint of cle**age (indeed, it went nearly to her midriff) and the hem of the skirt hit her two inches above the knee ending in a short, perky ruffle. The ruffle, Sibyl found, was the most annoying part of her outfit as she felt anything but perky. Her legs were bare and shone with some kind of lotion-slash-oil that Scarlett forced her to try (and, Sibyl thought, with professional detachment, she should add it to her spa inventory). Her feet were encased in a pair of beautiful, yet painful and extremely expensive, spike-heeled, elaborately strapped sandals.
Scarlett and Sibyl had nearly come to blows when Scarlett demanded Sibyl wear her hair up and Sibyl dug her heels in and wore it down. This was done in order to irritate the now-despised (Sibyl was telling herself) Colin. Once he found out the weight of her hair gave her headaches, he had begun the habit of bunching her hair in his fist and lifting its weight while kissing her, holding her and, once, just plain old standing close to her. She had thought this lovely. Now, since she fully intended to wear a pained expression the entire evening, she’d aggravate his conscience at the same time.
And now they were in the car driving through the slowly darkening night to Sibyl’s doom.
Lacybourne.
Bertie was going on about some star-crossed lovers who used to live at Lacybourne but Sibyl wasn’t paying attention even though Mags and Scarlett were listening to this dramatic story with unusually rapt attention. Sibyl was too busy with her new favourite pastime of controlling her temper and trying very hard not to cry.
The driver of the sleek, black limousine turned into the gates of Lacybourne and Sibyl held her breath.
She felt, inexplicably, that her life was about to change (yet again) and she convinced herself that it was not for the better (yet again).
The weather was holding out even though a storm was, for the first time in weeks, threatening and luckily, this time, there was no rain, thunder, lightning or misbehaved pets. As the car halted, Sibyl touched the place at her temple, just under her hairline, where a small, only slightly still pink scar was the physical souvenir of her first visit to Lacybourne.
The driver let out Mags and Scarlett on one side. Sibyl exited the other side with her father’s assistance. Once they’d alighted, Mags and Scarlett stood staring in wonder at the dramatically grand and beautiful manor house that lay before them.
Sibyl didn’t notice it and started toward the front door but her father stopped her by not releasing her hand and not moving.
When she turned to her father, he got close.
“Sibyl, my love, is there something not right between you and this Colin?” Bertie was studying her intently and she realised he was very tuned into her mood, as per normal. She and her father had a close bond; they always had for as long as she could remember.
She shot him a false smile and hoped she fooled him (she didn’t).
“I’m fine, Dad. It’s fine. We have a kind of…” she searched for a word that would not worry her father, “an unusual relationship.”
He looked at her with searching, faded, blue eyes and then nodded. She felt that he did not, at all, like what he saw and she hated herself for kind of lying to him.
Bertie escorted his daughter to the imposing door, his hand firmly at her elbow, his demeanour nowhere near his normal, relaxed, mellow self.
He knocked loudly, uncharacteristically taking control as her father and the man of the family. Mags and Scarlett trailed behind.
Sibyl steeled herself against the sight of Colin on the other side.
Instead a beautiful, older woman, with greying dark hair swept back in a chic chignon, kind, cornflower blue eyes and flawless skin opened the door. She was wearing her own version of the mature woman’s little black dress and she wore it well.
The woman looked first at Bertie and smiled an obvious warm welcome. Then her eyes skittered to Sibyl and, upon seeing her, the older woman’s mouth dropped open, the colour drained from her face and her hand went to her throat in a gesture that seemed meaningful in its profound surprise.
Sibyl didn’t know what to make of this bizarre reaction nor did she know who this woman was.
Thinking she was Mrs. Manning, the best dressed housekeeper in the world, she said with a small smile, “Hello, we’re here to have dinner with Colin.”
At Sibyl’s smile, the woman’s eyes actually filled with tears.
Yes, they filled with tears.
At the sight, Sibyl stepped forward instinctively, detaching herself from her father as Bertie stared in confusion at the other woman’s outlandish reaction to his daughter.
Sibyl put her hand on the woman’s arm in concern and asked, “Are you okay?”
The woman blinked once then twice. Then she nodded her head and smiled a smile that was faltering but it was warm.
“Yes, my dear girl, I’m definitely okay,” she replied in a breathy voice filled with what sounded like wonder. “You must be Sibyl.”
“Yes,” Sibyl responded and squeezed the woman’s arm reassuringly, awarding her with the force of a full smile.
Then she said something that nearly made Sibyl faint for the second time in her life. “I’m Phoebe Morgan, Colin’s mother.”