The banging of the door knocker echoed through dark and empty halls, rising above the dull roar of the rain. The butler, Gorby, scurried down the hall toward the door, rather vexed, as he had been about to retire for the night. The frantic knocking continued as he unlocked the door, pulling it open just enough to see who this midnight visitor might be. His Lordship was supposed to come through the servants' entrance when he returned, not bang on the front doors.
But instead of his Lordship, his feeble candle illuminated the face of a tall, pale, blonde woman, who at the moment rather resembled a drowned rat. "Mrs Holland?" he questioned in surprise. He swung the heavy door open so that she could step inside. She had with her an old travelling suitcase. As he locked the door, she stood just inside the door behind him, shivering and dripping water on the stone floor.
"Mr Gorby, I'm terribly sorry to call so late, but I'm in a rather desperate situation. Are the Earl and the Countess in bed yet?" the woman asked.
"Her Ladyship is in her rooms, though I doubt if she's asleep. The Earl attended a dinner this evening, and said he would return late. We expect him home quite soon," came the butler's response. "I'll let the Countess know you're here. Would you like to wait in the drawing room? The fire may still be lit."
"Yes, thank you, Mr Gorby."
He held one arm out to the left, gesturing towards the drawing room. She stepped past him and he followed. Her heels clicked against the stone.
Gorby set his candle on the mantel and reached for the fire poker. He prodded the glowing red coals before taking a log from a frame by the fireplace and setting it atop the burning cinders. In a moment, a thin flame licked up one side of the log and began to run across it. Gorby prodded once or twice more at the newly lit fire, before setting the poker back in its stand.
"Why don't you sit down, madam? I'll fetch the Countess."
"No, thank you, Mr Gorby. I have no desire to leave a water mark."
But instead of accepting her polite refusal, he instead crossed the room to the window seat. Producing a blanket from behind the heavy curtains, he crossed back to the blonde woman and held it out to her.
"I doubt one could leave a water mark on the rug by the fire." She smiled gratefully, and reached out for the blanket with a shaking hand. He gave a short bow and strode out of the room, toward the staircase. Sibella was left alone in the dark room, the fire casting her wavering shadow on the floor. She unfolded the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, leaving it to trail down her back. Then, as the butler had suggested, she sat on the edge of the rug, facing the fire.
As the shivering diminished and she regained feeling in her body, the warmth of the fire slowly driving out the cold, she realised how much everything hurt. She did not dare move her shoulder, her wrists burned, her lip smarted, and she could hardly breathe for the pain in her ribs. Tears welled in her eyes and fell silently down her face. She stared blankly into the flames in front of her, replaying the last few hours in her mind.
"Sibella?" There was a voice at the far end of the room, by the door. Phoebe, in a dark blue dressing gown, her dark hair falling in curls down her back, had come into the room. The blonde did not move in response to her name. The countess crossed the room, bare feet nearly silent on the carpet. "Sibella." The blonde jumped violently, her name being spoken so close to her when she had not been aware of the speaker approaching her, or being in the room beforehand. Phoebe stood by the sofa to her right, a questioning look quickly being replaced by one of deep concern as she took in the blonde's dishevelled and soggy appearance.
"Sibella, what's happened?" The blonde opened her mouth as if to say something, but she found herself unable to speak. She instead began to sob, and the brunette dropped to the floor beside her. Phoebe wrapped her arms around Sibella, and she wept against the smaller woman's shoulder. Only in embracing her did the brunette realise how very damp Sibella was, and was even more alarmed as she felt her trembling.
"Come with me, pet," Phoebe said softly. The blonde looked up, eyes rimmed red and tear tracks on her cheeks. "Let's go upstairs, get you out of those wet clothes and into a nice hot bath. Then we can talk. Alright?"
Sibella nodded, sniffing. The brunette offered her hand, and the other woman took it, allowing herself to be led upstairs, blanket and all.
Some time later, the two women were again in the drawing room, Sibella in the dark red armchair and Phoebe across from her on the sofa. The blonde had pulled her knees up to her chest and held a steaming mug of tea, her fingers wrapped around the sides. She wore a nightdress from her closet upstairs, and a dressing gown of Phoebe's, blue with small purple flowers stitched onto it. A new, dry blanket was draped around her shoulders.
Sibella had refused to discuss with Phoebe the events preceding her arrival at Highhurst. By this point, Phoebe knew that the blonde had been hurt, and she had an excellent guess as to who had hurt her, but she did not know how, why, or to what extent she had been injured. Though she had helped Sibella to bathe, and the blonde was clearly in pain, the bathroom had been dimly lit only by candles and a kerosene lamp or two, and the brunette could not see well enough to gage the severity of the woman's injuries. She was piecing together a carefully worded inquiry as to the events of the evening at the Holland estate, when voices were heard in the hall.
Monty could be heard, evidently addressing Gorby. "What do you mean you don't know? How can you not know?" The Earl sounded upset.
"Sir, she will not discuss it, even with Her Ladyship," the butler answered.
"But she's been here for over an hour, surely she must have said something!"
"She's hardly spoken a word, sir."
The tall door to the drawing room was pushed open, and Monty strode into the room, still in his dinner jacket, having only just returned home. He paused for only a moment to take in the sight of the two women, sitting silently by the fire, before he crossed the room toward them.
"Sibella, my love," he murmured as he drew near to the blonde woman. She sat forward in her chair, setting the mug of tea on the side table. He leaned down to embrace her, but at such an awkward angle, Monty standing and Sibella seated, it was uncomfortable for both of them. His arm around her waist, he pulled her forward to him, as he knelt in front of her. She all but fell against him, dropping off the edge of the chair. Her tears fell anew, and he caressed her blonde curls, holding her tightly. Phoebe looked on in concern, a crease of worry appearing between her brows. A minute later, Sibella pulled away from him, and Monty produced a handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to her. She took it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes. Folding it back into its neat square, she tried to give it back to Monty, but he pressed it into her hands, indicating that she should keep it.
"Why don't we get you into bed? We don't have to talk about anything tonight. Go upstairs with Phoebe, and I'll be up shortly," he said gently. Sibella sniffed and nodded in agreement. He moved his arms under hers, his hands on the underside of her arm just above her wrists. He helped her to her feet before handing her off to Phoebe. He watched the pair of them cross the room and disappear behind the door, left slightly ajar. Having come to the same conclusion that Phoebe had in regards to the source of the blonde's injuries, he stood by the fire, quietly fuming. He picked up a glass from the side table and a decanter next to it, and poured himself a drink.
Phoebe had done her best to ignore that slight wince as Sibella had sat down on the edge of the bed. She had done her best to ignore all the slight winces that the blonde had tried so to hide throughout the night.
Sibella had been put into bed, feeling rather like a child, and Phoebe stood by the foot of the bed until she was satisfied that the blonde was settled. "Monty will be up in a minute," she said before turning to go.
"Wait," the other woman stopped her. "Please... don't leave."
She nodded softly. "I'll fetch a chair, I'll be back in a moment."
"No, come here." The blonde moved to the left and flipped back the edge of the blankets. The brunette gave a small, almost sad smile as she crossed the room toward the bed. She slid underneath the blankets and Sibella turned over onto her side, to be closer to Phoebe. The smaller woman tucked the blonde's hair behind her ear and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Both women looked up upon hearing the door open a moment later. Monty poked his head into the room.
"May I join you?" he asked quietly. Receiving smiles from both of them, he walked around the bed to Sibella's other side. He removed his burgundy dressing gown and tossed it at the foot of the bed before slipping beneath the sheets. He pressed himself against Sibella, her back against his chest, and she leaned into his warmth. Reaching an arm over the blonde, he took Phoebe's hand for a moment. When he drew back that hand, he rested it lightly on Sibella's hip, and brushed his lips against her neck.
"Sleep, my darling," whispered Phoebe. She took the blonde's hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers before intertwining them with her own. "You're safe now."
Securely surrounded by the two people she loved above any others, Sibella gave a tired smile, the corners of her mouth turned up just slightly, and closed her eyes.