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!”