The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall

by Catherine Coulter

  “Oh my,” Suggs said, but didn’t move.

  “No!” Miranda ran toward the window where the curtains were billowing madly. The black funnel was slowly forming, whipping itself up—turning toward Grayson. Miranda ran directly at the black funnel. Grayson lifted her out of its path and moved to stand in front of it. He felt warmth coming from that madly whirling funnel, and something else—what? An urgency, he felt that, and a plea. He relaxed, opened himself, and felt the warmth settle around him, felt it moving into him, slowly, as if exploring, uncertain. Then he was one with it. He heard the Great’s voice, heard Miranda yelling at him, even Suggs bellowed once. Grayson wished they’d all be quiet. He wasn’t afraid. And he made out one word—heir.

  The funnel whirled back outside. The curtains settled. The house was calm. The silence was deafening.

  Grayson looked down at Miranda. She’d run in front of him, to save him. He saw her face was white, her eyes dilated. She stared up at him and came up on her tiptoes, her warm breath feathering against his ear. “It is very odd, Grayson. You smell like lemons.”

  It wasn’t only Grayson—the lemon scent filled the dining room.

  The Great said suddenly, his voice far away, “There was an orchard of lemon trees off the battlefield. You could smell the lemons when the wind changed. It lessened the stench of blood and death. For a moment. You are wrong, Grayson, it is Major Houston’s spirit, it has to be, and he brought the smell with him.”

  “No, sir, it is an entirely different spirit, but the visitations are about Major Houston.” Grayson smiled. Finally, everything came together. Simple, really, but still, best to be sure. He said, “Sir, do you have genealogy records of the Wolffe family?”

  “Of course, but why?”

  “I believe they may reveal the answer.”

  Miranda looked at the smile, saw the gleam of knowledge in his eyes. “You know what this is all about, don’t you, Grayson?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  An hour later in the Great’s library, Grayson was slowly making his way through the faded, nearly indecipherable handwriting that stretched back to the sixteenth century.

  And there was a family tree, shown in full detail.

  “You’ve never studied this, sir?”

  The Great shook his head. “No, I have no interest in such things.”

  “A pity,” Grayson said.

  “Why?” Miranda was nearly hanging over his shoulder, and then she saw it. “Good heavens, sir, would you look at this!”

  “Yes,” Grayson said. “There, I believe, is our spirit. He visited you, told you to find Major Houston.”

  Miranda said, “But if Major Houston isn’t dead, then why didn’t the spirit contact him? Send him here?”

  “I hope that he has,” the Great said, “since we have no idea where to find him. Imagine, Charles Houston is alive, but what happened to him?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Wolffe Hall

  Two weeks later

  When Grayson and Pip came into the Great’s study, he was grinning wildly, showing his six remaining teeth, waving a letter. “It’s from Charles—Major Houston. Grayson, he found me!” And the Great read:

  My dear Colonel Lord Wolffe:

  How the years fall away when I write your name, when I picture your face in my mind. So many years since that fateful day at Waterloo.

  Let me hasten to tell you that I never blamed you for wounding me. It was I who was at fault. Of course you would believe me an enemy the way I came up behind you. I lay there, the sword slice through my side, knocked unconscious because I evidently hit a rock when I fell. A young man from a nearby village, Jacco Hobbs, found me and pulled me to safety. I survived, but strangely, my brain was perfectly blank. Jacco nursed me back to health, but still I could remember nothing, who I was, who my family was, and poor Jacco had no idea either. So the two of us set sail to Boston, where we’ve lived for the past twenty-five years, Jacco as my valet.

  I married, went into my father-in-law’s shipping business, but still, I had no memory. My poor wife and my small daughter both died in a cholera outbreak that left many dead.

  The years passed, and still I had no memory until I took a fall from my horse, hit my head, and when I came awake, I remembered everything. This was about four months ago.

  Then something very strange happened. I hesitate to lay it down in writing for fear you will believe me unbalanced, but here is the truth as I experienced it. I will call it a spirit for want of a better word. This spirit visited me in a dream and told me to find Colonel Wolffe. I believed it only a strange dream, but I had the same dream three more times. And then, forgive me for stretching your beliefs, sir, but a black funnel came upon me when I was alone in my countinghouse. It swirled all over the room, pulling accounting books from their shelves, and then it came into me, and I heard it clearly, yelling at me to find you.

  I do not understand this, sir, but I hope that you will. I will arrive to see you as soon as I am able to leave Boston. Naturally, I will visit my family before I come to you.

  All of this is very strange, and I have no notion why this happened. Incidentally, the spirit hasn’t visited me again. I hope you will be able to tell me what is the meaning of all this—

  Yr. Faithful Servant,

  Charles Houston

  * * * * *

  Grayson and Miranda walked to the portrait gallery to see Elaine staring up at Alphonse. They heard her say, “The Great now has his heir, Alphonse, and that means the Barons of Cudlow will continue into the future. But this young man who has lived so many years in the Colonies, what if he despises us? What if he makes us leave Wolffe Hall?”

  Grayson and Miranda joined her. Grayson stared up at the handsome face, pale as snow, the thin pointed beard on his chin black as night. A man in his prime, probably a wicked man, given the devil-may-care look in his eyes, the arrogant tilt of his head. He fancied he could see the resemblance to the Great. Or perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps it was what he wanted to see. He took both Elaine’s and Miranda’s hands. He said, “Major Houston does not even know he is the Great’s heir. I fancy he will be surprised and very pleased to have a new family. I predict he will wear a smile on his face for a very long time to come. I’m sure Alphonse would agree.”

  Elaine said, “Oh dear, Mr. Sherbrooke, I fear we are beset yet again—like the Great, Charles Houston does not have an heir. All right. It can be done, and I will do it. I will find him a sweet young girl. We will all go to London, open the house on Portman Square. Can he look higher than a baron’s daughter? Hmm, we will see. Alphonse, you and I will discuss this.”

  Elaine fell silent, deep in thought. Grayson said to Alphonse’s portrait, “Alphonse de Marcy, we have read all about you, sir. You were the original owner and builder of Marcy Hall in 1587. Five of your sons survived into adulthood, and they produced many males to seed the direct line.

  “But the de Marcy descendants died out and your property went to your great-granddaughter and her husband, a military man named Wolffe. And Marcy Hall became Wolffe Hall in the early eighteenth century, and the first Baron Cudlow came into the picture. And there it becomes complicated. All I know so far is that Charles Houston is related through your maternal line that goes back to the original younger sister of your great-great-granddaughter.

  “Alphonse de Marcy, you must have realized Major Houston wasn’t dead on the day he regained his memory. You have done well. Your descendent is on his way here, and you will see him very soon. The Great accepts that you are a Wolffe Hall ancestor, and he wishes to learn more about you, who you were and what you did during your lifetime. He thanks you, sir.”

  Grayson and Miranda left Elaine alone with Alphonse. Of course, only Elaine saw that Alphonse’s eyes twinkled.

  EPILOGUE

  Wolffe Hall

  Two evenings later

  “A toast,” the Great said. “To you, Mr. Sherbrooke.” And he raised his glass.

  “Hear, hear
.”

  “To Mr. Straithmore!” P.C. called out.

  There were some smiles. Grayson sipped his wine. He felt better than he had when he’d finished the third chapter of his new novel, a gnarly tale of twin sisters, both evil to the bone, but perhaps one could be saved. This time he’d actually done something that mattered, something real, something not between the pages of one of his novels. He’d helped to bring a man lost for nearly twenty-five years home again. He couldn’t wait to meet Charles Houston. He saw Miranda was smiling at him.

  “And to my heir, Major Charles Houston.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  Miranda set down her glass. “I have drunk so many toasts God will surely punish me for being a tippler. Now, I want all of you to listen. I have an announcement. I am going to give Barnaby speech lessons.”

  Stark silence.

  She said, more forcefully this time, “Listen to me, all Barnaby needs is a little polish.”

  The Great cocked his head. “Our stable boy? Miranda, he’s a bastard, brought to us by Vicar Harkness when he found the babe on the steps of the church. We feed him and clothe him and he tends the horses nicely. Why do you wish to make him into a young gentleman?”

  “Barnaby’s smart, sir, very smart,” P.C. said, sitting forward. “He was the one who took me to Mr. Straithmore. He deserves a chance.” She added after a moment, “He needs a lot of polish, Mama.”

  The Great slowly grinned. “Perhaps I shall tell Bickle that Barnaby is my spare heir—might keep the bugger from grinning all the time.” He rubbed his hands together. “Imagine, I now have my heir. Imagine.”

  Miranda leaned toward Grayson. “You never said what you thought about my educating Barnaby.”

  “So P.C. can marry him when they grow up?”

  She rolled her eyes. “P.C. is very smart. I think she said that to push me into doing something, but the fact is, Barnaby deserves it. He’s very bright, very good-hearted.”

  Grayson frowned. “You know, I swear he looks familiar to me. Perhaps when he speaks the Queen’s English, I’ll figure it out.”

  When they were in the drawing room later, drinking tea, Suggs appeared in the dining room doorway. He was trembling with excitement. “My lord, Major Houston and his mother are here to see you.”

  * * * * *

  It was nearly midnight when Grayson rode away from Wolffe Hall. There was a full moon overhead, and a stiff breeze from the sea stirred against his cheek, but his cloak was warm. As Albert cantered back to his warm stable at Belhaven, Grayson wondered idly if the Wolffes would mind having this amazing adventure written into a novel. Perhaps Alphonse could communicate with the hero, Thomas Straithmore, or Thomas could find old journals from the sixteenth century that Alphonse had penned, but still it wouldn’t be enough, and enraged, Alphonse would suck him into the abyss. And what was the abyss?

  Or possibly the truth: Alphonse would send a funnel into Thomas with only one word, heir, and trust it was enough so Thomas would figure it out.

  The truth, Grayson thought, as he looked between Albert’s ears, was stranger in this instance than in any fiction he’d ever written. He also realized he’d quite enjoyed himself. And there was Miranda, beautiful bright Miranda, and who knew what would happen?

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you enjoyed my first novella in the Grayson Sherbrooke series, The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall.

  Grayson’s next adventure plunges him into a tangle of unhappy spirits at Vere Castle, in Scotland, the home of his Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin, the Countess and Earl of Ashburnham. If you don’t remember Sinjun and Colin, pull The Heiress Bride off your bookshelf and familiarize yourself with all the players again.

  Do you remember the resident ghost, Pearlin’ Jane? She deals very well with Sinjun, but Grayson? Ah, there is Big Trouble at Vere Castle.

  An excerpt from

  Wizard’s Daughter

  From WIZARD’S DAUGHTER by Catherine Coulter, copyright (c) 2008 by Catherine Coulter. Used by permission of Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

  At the Sherbrooke breakfast table the following morning, a kipper poised on her fork, Rosalind asked Ryder, “Sir, who was that dark gentleman who wanted to dance with me last night? The young one with long hair black as All Hallows’ Eve?”

  Ryder was a fool to believe Nicholas Vail hadn’t made an impression on her though she hadn’t said a thing about him on their way home the previous evening. He said easily, “The young man is the Earl of Mountjoy, newly arrived on our shores, some say from faraway China.”

  “China,” Rosalind said, stretching it out, as if savoring the feel of it on her tongue. “How vastly romantic that sounds.”

  Grayson Sherbrooke grunted with disgust. “You girls--you’d say that riding in a tumbrel to the guillotine, shoulders squared, sounded romantic.”

  Rosalind gave Grayson a big grin and made a chopping motion with her hand. “You obviously have no soul, Grayson.”

  Grayson waved that away. “Everyone is speculating about him. I heard he’s in town to find himself an heiress. At least that means you’re safe, Rosalind.”

  “Of course I’m safe. I’m in the same hole with the church mouse.”

  “Regardless,” Ryder said, “he asked me if he could pay us a visit this morning.”

  Rosalind sat forward in her chair, the nutty bun in her hand forgotten, eyes sparkling. “What? He wants to visit me?”

  “Or Aunt Sophie,” Ryder said. “Who knows? Perhaps he was taken with Grayson, and wants to hear a good ghost story.” Ryder frowned. “Perhaps it was a mistake to tell him you were my ward.”

  “But why, sir? Oh, I see. As part of the Sherbrooke family, ward or not, he must assume I’m exceedingly plump in the pocket.” Rosalind wasn’t about to tell Uncle Ryder or Grayson that she was more disappointed than warranted at this nasty bit of news.

  “You’re only discreetly plump,” Ryder said.

  Grayson said, “On the other hand, from what I have heard of the mysterious earl, he never acts until he knows exactly what he wants.”

  Rosalind said, “You mean he wants me even though I’m not an heiress? That’s ridiculous, Grayson. Nobody would want me. Besides, he can’t have me.”

  Grayson tapped his knife on the tablecloth. “I will be with you when he pays his visit this morning. We must know what he wants from you. If he’s come to the mistaken conclusion you are an heiress, I will dispel that notion immediately.”

  Rosalind said, “He is very imposing.”

  “Yes,” Ryder said, “he is. I sent a note to Horace Bingley--the Sherbrooke solicitor here in London--to tell us what he knows of the earl. We will see what he has to say about the young man’s character.”

  Grayson said, “Excellent idea, Father, since no one really knows much about him. However, it does seem to be the consensus that he is a pauper and desperately needs to attach an heiress.”

  Ryder nodded. “I’ve also heard that the old earl left his heir next to nothing that wasn’t nailed down in the entailment. He beggared his own son out of spite--the reason for this strange behavior no one seems to know. I will ask Horace to find out, if, that is, Nicholas Vail appeals to Rosalind.”

  He had indeed appealed to her, Rosalind thought, but didn’t say that aloud. She didn’t want to alarm Uncle Ryder before he ‘d ensured Nicholas Vail wasn’t a bad man.

  But she knew he wasn’t; she knew it to her bones.

  *******************

  It was the rare sort of English spring day--a blue sky so bright, a breeze so light and scented sweet with the blooming spring flowers, that it brought a tear to the jaded English eye. They discovered that the small artists’ fair meant to take place in one corner of Hyde Park had turned into an event.

  Hundreds of people milled through Hyde Park to stop at the food and drink vendors and the artists’ stalls, or sit on the trampled grass to watch the jugglers and mimes come to share in the fun and prof
it. There was a good deal of laughter, some good-natured fisticuffs, perhaps a bit too much ale, and pickpockets who smiled happily as they adroitly worked through the crowds.

  “There is more food here today than artists,” Nicholas said. Both he and Grayson held Rosalind by an arm, not about to let her get pulled away in the boisterous crowd.

  “And drink,” Grayson said. Suddenly Grayson stopped still, stared off into the distance.

  “Oh, I see,” Rosalind said and poked him in the arm. “Bookstalls, a whole line of them.”

  Grayson was eyeing those bookstalls like a starved mongrel. Rosalind, seeing freedom within her grasp, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Off you go. I’ll be perfectly safe with Lord Mountjoy. Go, Grayson. We will be just fine.”

  Nicholas’s grin turned into his most responsible nod. “I swear to keep her safe.” After but a moment of indecision, Grayson was off like a comet.

  “He can move very quickly when properly motivated,” Rosalind said.

  *******************

  Grayson found the two of them clapping their hands along with the crowd of people standing in a circle around a giant of a man who was juggling five ale bottles. Every few minutes he snagged one of the bottles out of the circle and drank it down even as he continued to juggle. By the time every bottle was empty, he was staggering. Still, he never dropped a single bottle.

  It was Grayson who had to pull out the rest of his coins to place in the giant’s huge boot. Rosalind noticed Grayson’s eyes were shining with excitement as he pulled them aside. “Just look what I found in a stall leaning against an old oak tree, set completely apart from the other bookstalls. I don’t know why, but I went there like a homing pigeon.” He held out an ancient and tattered bloodred leather-bound book set gently on his palm, but didn’t let them touch it. “An old man was sitting on a rickety stool surrounded by piles of old books, whistling. But this one--the old man held it out to me and smiled.” He added, his voice more reverent than a vicar’s, “I couldn’t believe it. It’s an ancient copy of Sarimund’s Rules of the Pale. I didn’t believe any of them had survived.”