“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.”
At her single word, Marian couldn’t help herself, she whispered, “Oh my.”
* * * * *
“Tell her, no,” Colin Morgan said into the phone, his rich, deep, baritone voice showing his obvious irritation.
“Mr. Morgan, she’s been wanting to see the house for over a year. She’s a very busy lady –”
“I said no.”
“She’ll be very disappointed.”
Colin attempted to conjure an image of the woman to whom he was speaking. He assumed he’d met her at some point but he couldn’t remember. Her voice was strong but it betrayed her age. If it hadn’t, he would have told her exactly how little he cared that an unknown American would be disappointed at not having a private evening tour of his home. The very idea was ridiculous.