My Lady Caroline

by Jill Jones

  The next day, I called upon her at Melbourne house, & found Rogers and Moore at their ease by the fireside, laughing that Lady Caroline, who had been out riding & had been sitting with them in all her dirt had, when I was announced, flown to Beautify herself. The news gladdened me, but I played the Nonchalant, not wishing to reveal the urgency I felt to test my capacity for Love. Indeed, I continued to assure my friends in jest that I was making every effort to be in Love, although it was an impossibility for me.

  Within three days, Lady Caroline had proven to be all I had hoped, & more. I was like a man Possess’d. My heart thundered in my breast when she entered the room. Her eyes arrested my gaze so that I saw nothing else. I wanted her with a longing seated deep within my soul, & yet I was seized by a raw Terror, for my feelings for her were as intense and passionate as those I had held for Clare, or Edelston, and I trembled to think I might have fallen in Love—with a woman. I wanted it to be, and yet feared for my life if it were so.

  The Dance began again, in greater frenzy than before, as Longing and Confusion took the floor.

  In an effort to assuage my Fear and assure myself that my Desire was but a fleeting folly, I sought to lose myself in wine, in gaming, in pugilism, but alas in vain! The truth was, Caroline had ensnared my heart, in a tender net that I struggled to escape, but only slightly.

  As my Desire for Caro increased, a new fear began to plague me. I watched her at Devonshire House where, with forty or fifty other young laughing people, she was whirled about the dance floor in the arms of first one Dandy and then another, whilst I, unable to perform the waltz because of my lame foot, sat like a dowager glowering in a corner. Being insecure in les affaires de coeur avec les jeunes filles, I now feared that I might be in her eyes just another trifle. My well-meaning friends, not knowing the true state of my longing, had congratulated me on my Forbearance as concerned the Lady, informing me of her fickle ways. I was nearly sick with anxiety.

  When next we met, I presented her with a Rose and a Carnation, telling her, “Your Ladyship I am told likes all that is new and rare, for a moment.” Was I, my Terror wanted to know, like these flowers, new and rare to her, only to interest her for the moment?

  Alison had never expected the door to be unlocked. When she’d been informed by Gina Useppi, the estate agent, that Dewhurst Manor wasn’t available for viewing, she’d first been disappointed. Then she’d been angry. She was tired of being told no. It seemed like the whole world was suddenly telling her no.

  At their last meeting, Drew Hawthorne had refused point-blank to go over the investments made by the trust her father had set up, telling her it was a waste of time for both of them, since she had no idea what it all meant anyway. He kept telling her to trust him and not to worry, but Nicki’s comment kept ringing in her ears. Besides, how would she ever learn that stuff if she didn’t know what she was supposed to try to understand? She’d left the law offices in a fury and gone straight to see her personal banker, where she’d learned more details about the insurance policy her mother had insisted upon so long ago.

  Four million liquid cash.

  In the bank, with only her name on it.

  Thank you, Mother!

  Alison almost ran down the steps of the old bank building. That money was her freedom from Hawthorne, et. al. And she’d use that money responsibly, she swore, sincerely sorry for her years of rebellion against her parents. She’d use the money wisely, make investments, not squander it, hoping somehow, desperately, to make it up to them. Make it all up.

  Unfortunately, she thought with a stab of pure regret, neither one would ever know.

  Alison had a plan, or at least the beginning of a plan, but she needed some time to think it over. She knew she had some major life decisions to make, but they were decisions she wanted to contemplate without Hawthorne’s interference. He meant well, she supposed, but his condescending attitude annoyed her.

  She’d swiped the Country Life magazine from the law office, a minor misdeed that gave her immense satisfaction. That night, she’d pored over the photo of Dewhurst Manor, memorizing it in detail—the tall door in front arching to a point just beneath a rounded tower, the half-timbers laid in a patchwork-like pattern, the heavy slate roof. The ad said there were sixteen bedrooms, renovated in this century to include private baths in each. Wasn’t real estate supposed to be a good investment? Maybe she could search out the memoirs for the ghost of Lady Caroline and make her first investment at the same time. The house looked as if it would make a terrific inn or something.

  A call to her travel agent secured a first-class seat on a flight out of JFK the following day. With eager enthusiasm, she began to pack.

  Before drifting off to sleep, Alison invited the ghostly Caro to visit her dreams, hoping to get further, perhaps more detailed, information about Dewhurst Manor and the missing memoirs, but upon awakening, she had no recollection of any dreams at all.

  She was on her own, it would seem.

  Even Nicki declined to go along. “Maybe I’ll meet you there,” she’d apologized, explaining that she had promised her handsome Greek boyfriend that she’d spend time aboard his yacht in the Med this summer. Alison couldn’t argue with her choice.

  Alison knew that Hawthorne would likely be upset when he learned that she was considering buying Dewhurst Manor, because he had already decided for her that she should put the insurance money in the trust. Well, it was her money, not his, and she was determined to make her own decisions about how she spent it. In fact, she was making this trip to prove to herself that she was in control of her own life. That she could behave responsibly, make investments on her own, whether Drew Hawthorne and the trustees liked it or not.

  She was tired of them telling her no. With the freedom the insurance money gave her, she could ignore the whole bunch of them for nine more years, when the trust expired, and she’d have the pleasure of walking into the offices of Pierce, Buckner, Fromme and Withoff and firing every last one of them if she chose to.

  So when Gina Useppi had told her no, that she couldn’t see the old manor house, Alison had responded by simply ignoring her as well. She’d hired a taxi to bring her from London to Hatfield. She hired another to take her to Dewhurst Manor. She’d dismissed the driver, instructing him to return in half an hour. She didn’t want to have a curious cabbie watching her snoop around property that didn’t belong to her.

  Yet.

  It was a wet and dreary day, and if she couldn’t find a way to get inside the old deserted mansion, she’d have only a short wait until he returned, she had reasoned.

  Alison had banged loudly on the door, just in case someone was inside, but it appeared that the house was uninhabited. She pounded again for good measure, then tried the front door handle. To her surprise, it gave and the door creaked open. With a smile for her small victory, she pushed it wide enough to step inside. The room was enormous and gloomy and seemed invaded by the chill. Shutting the door behind her, Alison crept across the wide planked flooring to an alcove where she felt safer and could catch her breath and calm her hammering heart. She wanted a chance to quietly survey her surroundings before she began her exploration in earnest. She listened. The rain pattered. Somewhere a clock ticked loudly. But there was something else. It sounded like…footsteps. Someone was in the house!

  Following her first instinct to run, she left the protection of the alcove and darted back toward the front door, but instead of attaining her freedom, she ran squarely into the arms of a man. At least it felt like a man, a tall, muscular, fit man. But the figure, clad in black, was covered with stringy pale webs and dust, as if he had just risen from the grave. Alison screamed.

  Her captor tightened his hold on her. “Steady,” he commanded. “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. Just calm down.” His voice was strangely reassuring, easing her tension slightly. When he felt her relax, he let her go, and Alison immediately jumped away from him. “Wh…who are you?” she demanded, ignoring the disturbing effect the brief
contact with his body seemed to have had on her.

  The man appraised her fiercely, his black eyes smoldering beneath dark brows drawn together into a frown. “Perhaps you should introduce yourself first, Madam. And inform me as to what your business is here.”

  His tone was cold, authoritative, like her father’s. Alison suppressed a low growl in the back of her throat. She was trespassing, but it wasn’t like she was a thief or anything. She wished she had asked the cab driver to wait.

  “I…I’ve made a mistake,” she said, straightening to her full five feet two inches and summoning strength to her voice. “I thought Dewhurst Manor was vacant. I’m…interested in purchasing the property, and the estate agent was not…uh, available today to show it, and so…”

  “So you decided to take a look on your own,” he finished for her, a shadow of a grin sliding across his handsome if somewhat grimy face. “You wouldn’t happen to be an American, would you?”

  Alison raised her chin. “And what if I am? Why do you ask?”

  He stepped toward the door, as if anxious to usher her out. “You Yanks seem to think it’s just fine to make your own rules, that’s all. The property is not available for viewing at the moment actually,” he said, opening the wide portal. “And when it is ready, it would be best to go through Gina Useppi.” He gave her an aloof smile, as if he were doing her a favor. “Proper channels, you know, that sort of thing.”

  Alison didn’t move. There was something fishy about the situation. Why would an estate agent spend the money to place a full-page advertisement for this place in an international publication and then not be willing to show it? Earlier, she’d figured that Gina Useppi had pegged her for a curiosity-seeker and hadn’t wanted to waste her time showing the property. She had no way of knowing that Alison, as young as she looked, was an heiress with a genuine interest in buying Dewhurst. But now, Alison wasn’t so sure that was the real reason she’d been turned away. Something inside her suddenly became deeply protective of the old house, as if she already owned it. Who was this man, and what was he doing here?

  “You can shut the door, Mr…?”

  After a slight hesitation which registered his surprise at her determined stance, he introduced himself. “Ryder. Jeremy Ryder.” But he made no move toward hospitality. “And I really do think you should be on your way…Ms…?”

  Her turn. There was no way around it, even though she was uncomfortable giving him her name. “Cunningham. Alison Cunningham. Look,” she added irritably, “what’s going on here? I’ve travelled a long way to get to see this house. I may not look it, but I am a qualified prospect, and I’m sick and tired of the Gina Useppis of the world giving me the brush off.” Alison was gratified to see a slight lift of an eyebrow in the man’s otherwise impassive face.

  “I’m sure if Ms. Useppi were to know the full picture, she would be more than happy to oblige you, Miss Cunningham, although,” he added, “I would caution you to be very careful in considering this place. As you can see,” he gestured into the gloom of the Great Hall, “it is not in the best shape. I estimate it would take double the asking price to bring it back to its former glory.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Ryder,” Alison rejoined sarcastically, angry that every man she seemed to encounter lately kept trying to tell her what to do. “But free advice, I’ve been told, is worth exactly what you paid for it.”

  Jeremy nodded, appearing unruffled by her outburst. “That is most likely so, Madam. However, I am a busy man, and since the place is not vacant at the moment, one must make the usual appointments. Now, I really must insist that you take your leave.” He opened the door still wider, and Alison saw that her taxi had arrived and was waiting in the circular drive.

  Alison glared at this Jeremy Ryder person, wishing he wasn’t so handsome. Wondering who in the hell he was. And what he was doing at Dewhurst. Was he the owner? For some reason, Alison had thought it was the estate of a deceased woman. Without further exchange, she pulled the collar of her knitted jacket closer around her neck and left the house. Whatever his story was, she didn’t trust him, and she was glad to be out of his unsettling presence.

  Taking a seat in the back of the old black taxi, Alison shivered, dismayed at this turn of events. Maybe she’d been wrong to come here. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe she should just tell the driver to return to London, and she should get on a plane and go back to the States before this went any further. What did she know, after all, about the investment wisdom of buying a place like Dewhurst Manor?

  The car wheeled around the circle and headed back toward the lane, and Alison glanced back one last time.

  “Stop!” she cried suddenly, and was thrown forward slightly as the driver responded.

  “Wat’s the mattah?”

  Alison grabbed the handle and wrenched the door open, jumping out onto the rain-soaked roadside. But she was unaware of the weather or the driver or anything else except the strange golden glow she saw emanating from the tower window high above the arching front door. At first she thought the mansion was on fire, but as she gazed at the aura, she saw it swirl and take form. It was the ghost, larger than life, as if projected on the screen of a movie house, beckoning madly with all its spectral energy, drawing Alison back. She took one step, then two—hesitantly—in the direction of Dewhurst, her heart pounding again with inexplicable compassion for both the ghost and the house.

  “I’m coming,” she uttered aloud, not caring that the driver was staring at her like she was insane. “I’m coming.” She started to run, but stopped, blinking in the mist. For as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision dissipated. The tower was once again a dingy gray turret, covered with moss. The clouds seemed as if they hung even lower, obscuring the top of the roof. And there was no sign of the ghost.

  Suddenly Alison became acutely and uncomfortably aware that Jeremy Ryder had come out of the house and was standing in the drive with his arms crossed, watching her little drama with a perplexed look. She whirled to find the exact same expression on the face of the taxi driver. Had they seen the ghost? Alison decided not to ask. Instead, she clambered back into the car and instructed the driver to take her back to the office of the estate agent. She turned to look at Dewhurst just as the car rounded the corner and the old country house was obscured by the spring-green boughs whipping in the wind.

  I’m coming, Caro, she vowed silently.

  I’m coming.

  Jeremy Ryder watched the taxi until it disappeared around the corner and behind the stand of trees at the front of the property. He was furious with Gina Useppi for having mishandled the American woman, although he guessed Gina had dismissed her as being too young to possibly have a serious interest in a place like Dewhurst Manor. But he didn’t need this kind of interruption.

  This kind of distraction, he corrected himself, for not only had his work been interrupted, he found to his consternation that he had become aroused by the gamine presence of Alison Cunningham. Whether she was seriously interested in Dewhurst Manor or had come here on some kind of student bet that she wouldn’t stay overnight in a haunted house, that sort of rubbish, didn’t matter to Jeremy. What had stirred him was her image—the small slender body, the large hazel eyes flecked with gold, the short, curl-tousled hair.

  For it was the exact image of the woman who had visited his dreams before he came to Dewhurst Manor. The one who looked distinctly like the pictures of Lady Caroline Lamb and who had awakened him nightly from erotic dreams only to disappear in the darkness, leaving him swollen with need. The elfin figure was like a succubus, stealing into his apartments while he slept and awakening in him a deep sexual thirst unlike anything he’d experienced in his entire thirty-three years.

  And only moments ago, he’d encountered the succubus in the full light of day. He’d felt the flesh-and-blood presence of the woman in his arms, her lissome figure pressed against his body. And his response was the same as to the dream woman, only stronger. Jeremy groaned. What
was happening to him?

  He turned and went back inside the house. For the moment, he’d lost all enthusiasm for the search for the memoirs that held such tantalizing promise of wealth and fame. He was no more interested in returning to the wine cellar than he was in flying to the moon. What he wanted to do instead was…

  Well, that was impossible, since he’d sent the lady on her way.

  With heavy steps, he climbed the stairs, his weight causing the old boards to creak in protest. Throwing another log forcefully onto the fire, Jeremy reproached himself. It wasn’t like him to lose it like this, especially over a woman. He had to pull himself together. He had to get on with the work at hand, post haste. He’d seen the look of defiance in Alison Cunningham’s eyes. He’d sensed her anger and determination. She would be back.

  And when she returned, he knew he was in for trouble.

  Jeremy Ryder glanced down at the stack of books and thought about the letter he’d found. Was it true? Were Byron’s memoirs stashed somewhere around this gloomy old manor house? Or was he only chasing shadows, allowing his greed to outweigh his business sense? “Caroline,” he said out loud, as if invoking her spirit, “where’d you put the damned things?”

  But the silence of the afternoon was broken only by the sound of the wind soughing through the eaves and the rhythm of the rain, which had begun to drum a steady tattoo on the slate roof overhead.

  Chapter Six

  Yet feign would I resist the spell,

  That would my captive heart retain.

  For tell me dearest is this well,

  Ah, Caro! do I need the chain?

  Lord Byron

  My fears concerning the premature forfeiture of Caroline’s affection were unfounded, as it soon became apparent to everyone that I was now her Favorite. A part of me rejoiced in this knowledge, but at the same time, Terror continued to devour my Soul. Although I wanted to know her as I had never before known a woman, with my heart as well as my body, I felt threatened, exposed. Whenever I was with her, she consumed my very Being. She was like opium—the more I partook of her essence, the more I wanted, and the greater hold she had upon me. Not soon enough, I discovered that I could not walk away from her as I had the rest. She presented me with a golden Chain to wear about my neck, an ironic gift which I hesitantly accepted, for I was beginning to suspect that I might now be linked to Lady Caroline by a chain stronger than gold.