The Ghost and Lady Alice

by Marion Chesney

  “Well, it's like this,” said Bessant, sitting down on a marble bench while Harold Webb frowned at the servant's forwardness in seating himself while his betters were still standing, “that there pair, the Comtesse de la Valle-Chenevix and her Uncle Gervase, they're imposters, see? And worse than that.”

  A crafty look marred Webb's handsome face. “How will I know if you are telling the truth?”

  “My story will speak for itself.”

  “And how much for this believable story?”

  “A monkey.”

  “What!” Webb's face grew quite flushed. “Five hundred pounds is more than a scoundrel like you could earn in his whole life.”

  “True,” admitted Bessant. “But your lordship drops more than that at the tables at White's of a night.”

  This was indeed true, as Webb was a notoriously unlucky gambler.

  “Give him the money,” said Mr. Russell gleefully. “I always thought there was something shady about that precious pair.” He leaned close to his friend's ear. “Think on't,” he whispered. “You lost twice that to Brummell t'other night without so much as turning a hair.”

  Harold Webb brooded long and hard. At last he came to a decision.

  “Very well,” he said. “A monkey, it is. Speak!”

  “Your note of hand, my lord,” cringed Bessant, all mock obsequiousness.

  “My word as a gentleman...”

  “Your note,” hissed Harry Russell, his eyes gleaming wetly in the moonlight.

  “Oh, here it is.” Webb sat down on one of the stone benches and scribbled out a note and handed it to the Groom of the Chambers. “Now...” he said impatiently.

  And so Bessant began, talking in a low, hurried, urgent voice while his small audience listened amazed. Lord Webb at one point of the narrative found himself overcome with a strange superstitious dread. For some reason that picture of Alice and her accomplice fading through the wall seemed etched on his brain. But he was not normally an imaginative man and his fears were quickly banished as the story went on and his eyes began to gleam with excitement, especially when Bessant culminated his tale by producing an old, yellowed piece of parchment which he had torn out of a book in the library—a list and description of the late Duchess's jewels.

  “We'll simply turn over this list to Bow Street,” said Webb excitedly when Bessant had at last fallen silent, “and give them a report of our suspicions and let them do the rest.

  “By George! I'll see that shameless couple hang on Tyburn tree yet!”

  “If we took the matter into our own hands, my lord,” said Bessant, “we could have our fun with the pair first—particularly the girl, if you take my meaning.”

  Harold Webb and Mr. Russell turned over his words in their minds, savoring the implications. That high-and-mighty uncle brought to his knees, Alice begging and pleading for mercy, saying she would do anything ... anything ...

  Webb ran his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. “When do we start?” he said.

  Mr. Bessant straightened himself up. The servant had suddenly become the leader.

  “We will bide our time,” he said. “I cannot travel up to town. You gentlemen must report to me the jewels she wears.”

  “Don't be too long about it, laddie,” said Mr. Russell rather sulkily. He thought Bessant was getting a bit above himself. “In the style she's living, the jewels won't last long!”

  * * * *

  Now, the ghost, unused as he was to the inflationary prices of the Regency where a dozen fine India muslin handkerchiefs could cost as much as fifty guineas, did not expect the jewels to last forever. But he certainly did not realize how much it would cost Alice to run a house in town, a carriage, an army of servants and a constantly changing wardrobe, not to mention Miss Fadden who seemed to have no idea of the value of money at all, but encouraged her young mistress to buy the most expensive gewgaws on the market.

  Then with the start of the Little Season, there was Alice's box at the Italian Opera to be rented, not to mention the vast bill for entertaining she was beginning to run up as she gave elegant little suppers, crowded routs and one ball to which the whole of the ton came to drink up her wines and eat her food.

  And then there was the sad case of Sir Peregrine. So far he had not proposed marriage although the lovelight had not dimmed in his eyes. But it seemed that he was always about to be shot or have to flee the country because he could not meet his gambling debts and Alice had cheerfully, at first, lent him money.

  She was unaccustomed still to the ways of the ton and did not realize that young men did not ask young ladies for money.

  She also wondered why Sir Peregrine did not ask for her hand in marriage for that way he could get his hands on all the money she had. But Alice had been too openhanded and Sir Peregrine, finding that he could get what he wanted without having to marry to get it, continued to flirt expertly and escort her everywhere and take her money.

  Alice had banished her ghost to the back of her mind. Perhaps if she had not been so determined to fall in love with Sir Peregrine, so determined to lead him to the altar and show a certain supernatural manifestation that she could manage very well on her own, she would have given Sir Peregrine his marching orders long ago.

  Another thing forced her to keep close to Sir Peregrine's side. Everywhere that Alice went, Lord Webb and his unlovely friend, Harry Russell, seemed to appear too. Their eyes were always fastened on her, studying every line of her dress and every single jewel she wore. Alice had noticed that Miss Snapper was conspicuous by her absence, but was too relieved at the fact to question further.

  One chilly autumn day when the leaves in the London parks were already turning dusty brown and gold, Mr. Bower, Alice's business manager, called at Manchester Square.

  He was a small, chubby little man with a perpetual air of sadness about him, making him look like a baby that has dropped its rattle.

  His air on that day was sadder than ever. Madam La Comtesse, he explained, would need to sell more jewels to furnish him with the necessary funds to pay her staff and the rent of her house. Alice went gaily upstairs to the jewel box and threw back the lid. Could there be so few left? A cold fear clutched at her heart. She realized she had been handing jewel after jewel over to Mr. Bower, blithely thinking the box was bottomless. She realized she could not marry Sir Peregrine, even if she wanted to. For she somehow could not let her ghost know—should she ever see him again—that she had managed her affairs so badly. She would have to marry someone with money. In this decision, Alice was not being particularly hardhearted or mercenary. Love among the aristocracy was something you indulged in after you were married, but you certainly didn't let it interfere with anything so important as marriage settlements before.

  She gathered up some of the remaining necklaces and brooches and went slowly downstairs to the drawing room. Miss Fadden and Mr. Bower were sitting with their heads together and started rather guiltily when she entered.

  Mr. Bower stowed the jewels away in a wash leather bag and then took his leave, looking even more miserable than ever.

  Alice sat down with a weary smile. She had become accustomed to sharing part of her worries with Miss Fadden. The companion was so quiet and noncommittal, it was rather like talking to oneself. And so, after some hesitation, Alice began to explain why she could no longer hope for a marriage with Sir Peregrine Dunster. So sympathetic a listener was Miss Cassandra Fadden that Alice found herself telling Miss Fadden for the first time about the amount of money she had lent Sir Peregrine. “Or I should say gave,” she ended with another little sigh, “for I fear he is never going to have the means to pay me back.”

  To her relief, her companion did not look in the least shocked, merely contenting herself with leaning forward and pressing Alice's hand.

  “So,” Alice went on, “I shall have to disengage myself from being escorted everywhere by Sir Peregrine. It is a pity. He is such a merry young man. He made me forget...” Her voice trailed away for she could not p
ossibly tell Miss Fadden or anyone, for that matter, of her ghost. “He is to call for me in an hour, Miss Fadden, to take me driving in the Park. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell him I have the headache.”

  “My dear, indeed I shall,” said little Miss Fadden warmly. “In fact, you are looking rather strained. Perhaps it would be a good idea if you lay down in your bedchamber. You must not worry about Sir Peregrine. I shall explain matters very tactfully.”

  Alice smiled wearily and agreed to go and lie down. Poor meek Miss Fadden, thought Alice as she trailed up the stairs. She hoped her companion was able to cope with such a robust suitor.

  Fair curls in artistic disarray, blue eyes twinkling with good humor, Sir Peregrine presented himself at the appointed hour. He was ushered into the drawing room to find its sole occupant, Miss Fadden, who was sitting knitting a pair of wool garters.

  “Her ladyship getting ready?” asked Sir Peregrine cheerfully as he helped himself liberally from the decanter.

  “Sit down, my young cully,” ordered a harsh voice. Sir Peregrine turned round and gazed about the room in amazement but there was no one other than the little elderly companion who had put down her knitting and was regarding him with a fixed stare.

  “Who?...” he began.

  “I said, ‘Sit down,'” grated Miss Fadden.

  Sir Peregrine subsided into a chair and stared at her, wide-eyed.

  The companion's normally vague face seemed to have grown harsh lines and to have coarsened somehow.

  “Lookee here,” went on Miss Fadden still in that frighteningly gruff voice. “You think that phiz of yours is your fortune and so far you ain't done too bad, have you my bucko?”

  Sir Peregrine opened and shut his mouth like a landed pike and finally found his voice. “How dare you, madam!”

  Miss Fadden gave an inelegant shrug. “Someone's got to. There's a name for the likes o’ you that lives on females and I won't bother to dirty my gab with it. But listen! Harkee to me, Sir Peregrine Dunster. If you so much as set a foot in this house again, I shall tell the whole of the ton how you have been sponging on my sweet lady. You great bag o’ starched wind. ‘Course you ain't going to marry her when you can get what you want for the asking. But you've finally killed the golden goose. They'll be no more eggs for your breakfast, my darling.”

  “You stupid old frump. I'll...”

  “You'll what?” Miss Fadden's grating contempt made him wince. She came and stood over him, her eyes no longer vague and myopic but flashing icy fire. “A pox on your threats, cully. I could have the Runners down on you and have you driven from the country.”

  Sir Peregrine arose to his feet, trying frantically to appear outraged and dignified and failing miserably.

  “I shall pay back every penny,” he said weakly.

  A single word dropped from Miss Fadden's maidenly lips. The obscenity fell like a stone into the silent elegance of the drawing room.

  "You," sneered Miss Fadden, breaking the silence at last while Sir Peregrine mopped his brow. “How're you going to pay? Always that lucky win, eh? Well, find some other chicken to pluck.”

  “You, madam, are no lady,” bleated Sir Peregrine, retreating toward the doorway.

  Miss Fadden gave a mirthless laugh. “I ain't and that's a fact,” she said. “Lucky for Alice, ain't it?”

  She stared up at him malignantly and Sir Peregrine fell back before her stare. He swung on his heel and fled from the room, hearing Miss Fadden's sudden burst of horrid cackling laughter sounding in his ears.

  Miss Fadden waited until she heard the street door slam and then she walked to the window and watched Sir Peregrine to make sure he was well and truly leaving the vicinity.

  She was about to draw back from the window when she stiffened and leaned forward. Leaning against the railings of a house opposite were Webb and his friend, Mr. Russell. They seemed to be comparing notes. Miss Fadden frowned. She knew somehow that that pair spelled trouble. She had already heard rumors of Miss Snapper's fate from her new friends who sat sewing and knitting with her at various parties.

  After some time, she left the window and, crossing the room, rang the bell beside the fireplace.

  When the butler answered the summons, Miss Fadden apologetically asked if she might have some tea if that was not too much trouble.

  The butler inclined his head gravely in assent, privately thinking that Miss Fadden was a most tiresome mouse of a woman.

  EIGHT

  The ghost put down his pen with a weary sigh and rubbed at his cropped head. His added life due to the long winter nights had enabled him to finish his memoirs at last. The wind howled around the Hall as November gales swept in from the sea across the downs. The fire was crackling merrily, the shadows of the flames leaping over the paneled walls.

  All at once, he thought of Alice with such an intense longing that he was quite shocked at himself. He shifted restlessly in his chair. Of course, he was lonely. That must be it. And now that he had finished all his writing he had nothing else to occupy his brain. But it would have been pleasant to have shared his supper with her, to have chatted over the fire as they once did. She was probably married to Sir Peregrine by now—or at least engaged. It was no use traveling to town to find out—it would only distress her.

  The Duke would not admit to himself that it would distress him in the slightest. But there could be no harm in wandering through the house and finding a newspaper. She might be mentioned in the social columns. There might be a description of what she was wearing to some ball and who had escorted her.

  He arose and, concentrating hard, drifted down through the floors until he came to the library. No newspapers. Then he realized that they had probably been taken off to the kitchens and, if he did not hurry, he would find they had already been crumpled up to light the bedroom fires.

  At last he found a copy of the Morning Post neatly folded in the butler's pantry and carried it off to the seclusion of his room. He was about to spread it out on the table when he noticed his piles of manuscript. How strange to think he had been so immersed in his past life that he had almost forgotten the present. He picked it up and laid it carefully on the chair beside the fire in which Alice used to sit when she was emerging from the chrysalis of scullery maid.

  Then he sat down at the table and spread out the newspaper at the social column. He stared incredulously at the forthcoming marriage announcements, wondering if his eyes were playing him tricks.

  Alice, Comtess de la Valle-Chenevix was engaged again. But not to Sir Peregrine Dunster, but to a certain gentleman rejoicing in the name of Joshua Funk, Esquire, of Russell Square.

  “Never heard of him,” muttered the ghost. “And Russell Square! She's marrying a Cit!”

  He chewed his lip and thought hard. Perhaps the members of the aristocracy had not been to her taste and she had been drawn to someone of a lower order. But what of Alice's background? For the first time, he began to seriously wonder about the identity of the girl's parents. That she could undoubtedly read and write had been unusual. He decided that instead of flying up to Russell Square, he would do what he could to trace Alice's background. It might even turn out to be respectable! And that would be a pleasant wedding present for the girl.

  For night after night, he diligently scoured the countryside, searching in parish register after parish register. It was, at last, when he moved from the county of Sussex and extended his researches into the county of Kent that he at last found success.

  He had been flying home after another fruitless night's search when the squat Norman tower of a church caught his eye. It was, he estimated on the marches of Kent and Sussex and one that he had missed in his earlier searches, for it was partly concealed from above from most directions by a strange knobbly hill.

  He landed lightly in the churchyard and floated through the walls of the church. With tremendous excitement, Alice's name seemed to leap out at him. He was sure it was she. “Born 1793...” Yes, that was the right date. “Daugh
ter of Mary and Paul Lovelace of Hackett's Cottages, St. Dunstan's-in-the-Wold.”

  He could hardly go around knocking on doors for it was nearly dawn, so he had to content himself until the following night which fortunately for him fell as early as four-thirty in the afternoon.

  He decided to call first at the local inn although it was little more than a hedge tavern.

  A surly looking landlord was polishing tankards with a greasy cloth. Two local yokels sat hunched over a smouldering fire. The Duke ordered a pint of Lisbon and carried it over to the fire, drawing up a chair beside the two old men.

  He gave a preliminary cough but the two men seemed sunk in some sort of bovine trance and did not look up. He noticed that their tankards were nearly empty and drew some silver from his pocket. “What is your pleasure gentlemen?” he asked.

  The two ancient figures turned slowly in their chairs to face him and he waited patiently until his offer should sink into the primeval mud of their slow brains and possibly be lit by the marsh gas of a little intelligence.

  “Urrr,” said both in chorus at last, holding out their tankards.

  “Very well,” said the Duke, signaling the landlord with a jerk of his head and indicating that his newfound friends would have the same again.

  When these brief courtesies were completed, the Duke tried again. “Do you know the whereabouts of a family called Lovelace?”

  One of the old men began to weave slowly from side to side, an alarming mannerism which the Duke was to learn was the preliminary to speech.

  “Urrr,” he said, and spat in the fire. He turned and held out a dirty horny hand. “Name of Gadger,” he said. There was a long silence and he began to weave again. “'Er's Frimkin,” he added, jerking his head at the other old man.