But on Saturday, he took her to Durham Park. When they arrived at the ticket counter, Sibyl was shocked to find he was not a National Trust member and therefore forced him to buy a membership on the spot (she did this by attempting to buy one for him, which he refused to accept). This he did with ill-grace and then muted anger when she announced to The National Trust volunteer that he was the owner of Lacybourne.
“Imagine!” she’d fumed. “He owns a National Trust property and he isn’t a member! It’s a crime!”
The volunteer had agreed wholeheartedly and gratefully accepted Colin’s money.
Colin had punished her for this episode by kissing her, quite thoroughly (to shut her up, he said), in front of a busload of pensioners who looked on with avid curiosity. When Colin was done, a couple of them even clapped.
He later took her out for the most delicious dinner she’d ever had at a French restaurant in Bath. The owner was French and, upon hearing Sibyl’s pronunciation of her order, came forward from behind the bar and, in French, asked if she spoke his language. Sibyl forgot herself for a moment, told him she did and they had a hilarious five minute conversation (somewhat stilted, as she was out of practice but he was very patient) about the episode at Durham Park.
When the owner clapped Colin on the back, shook his hand and left, Colin turned speculative eyes to her. She immediately regretted losing herself in the conversation.
“Sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve practised, I was all over the place. I… um, speak French by the way,” she informed him, feeling somehow exposed at letting her guard slip and wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.
“I gathered,” he replied drily but said nothing else on the subject.
They spent a great deal of time together but in all that time he never once took her to Lacybourne. And for this she was glad for it meant he, too, was guarding himself from her.
She needed that.
Something had changed between them, something shifted, something dangerous to the health of her heart.
That morning after her breakfast with Marian, even though it was her day off, Sibyl had taken a trip in to the Council Estate to visit Meg and because Kyle was bringing back the minibus. The volunteers and oldies had all been elated and everyone signed up to ride the new bus. Kyle was finishing the driver’s course and Jem’s art group were going to use it for some outings. It was the talk of the estate. The bus would be in action in a week and Sibyl was thrilled.
In order to have a visit and share this news, Sibyl took some food to Meg who was not doing very well, finding recovery difficult.
“Oh don’t look that way,” Meg admonished softly when Sibyl’s face filled with worry. “I’m old, Billie, and I’m not in pain. I’m resigned to the former and happy for the latter.”
Sibyl knew that Meg was lying. She could see the deeper lines of pain that had formed around her friend’s mouth but she didn’t say anything.
Now, in her laboratory, Sibyl was pouring some perfumed salts into wide, fat glass jars, affixing their black lids and labelling them with a white label with “Wicked Apothecary” (her brand name, chosen by her Dad) in bold, emerald-coloured, calligraphy script. The label had the picture of a black cat with its back arched and its bushy tail straight up (chosen by her Mom). She wrote the scent of the salts on the jar in her handwriting (a personal touch) this batch was ylang ylang and lavender.
Throughout doing this, Sibyl was singing with Janis, now about a Mercedes Benz, when, with no warning and for no reason, the CD stopped right before the door to the Summer House crashed open.
She whirled around to stare.
Colin was there.
Except, with one look at him, she knew it wasn’t Colin, even though it was.
She studied him and felt a shimmer of fear run up her spine, alongside it an evocative thrill.
She knew in an instant, looking at his face, into his eyes, that it was Colin but it was also someone else entirely.
And because of this peculiarity, and the familiar look in his eyes she couldn’t quite place, she braced.
“What are you wearing?” he barked and Sibyl jumped at his fierce tone.
He didn’t even sound like Colin, yet he did.
She was wearing a white, lacy, gypsy camisole with wide straps edged in lace and a pair of her oldest jeans that had a rip in the knee and a tear just below the right cheek of her bottom. Her feet were bare and her hair was screwed up in a clip.
Her hands went immediately to the clip and tore it out of her hair. His eyes followed the action as her hair came down in a tumble around her face and shoulders.
And it was then, he roared (yes, roared) “What have you done to your hair?” and he did this as his eyes narrowed dangerously so Sibyl jumped again.
“Colin?” she asked in a timid voice.
He was across the short space to her in one angry stride, pulling her to him with his hands closing around her upper arms so painfully she cried out. He ignored her and crushed her to his body.