My Lady Caroline

by Jill Jones

  Alison knew she angered him even further when she adamantly refused to let either Jeremy or Gina pay the bill. It wasn’t that she wanted to flaunt her wealth…she’d done that sufficiently already. Rather, she did not want to owe either of them a debt of loyalty, no matter how small. Her money was her independence, and she was fiercely protective of that at the moment.

  She opened the door to Gina’s car, then paused and turned to Jeremy, who was standing by the side of his Porsche, glaring at the two women. “I promise I won’t be hard to get along with, Mr. Ryder,” Alison said, forcing a wavering smile onto her lips. “I am certain we can work out some mutually agreeable way for you to finish your appraisal work. But you must understand, I need my privacy. If I have to, I will simply make an offer on the furnishings, a high offer, and your services will no longer be necessary.”

  Jeremy’s black eyes were hard as obsidian. “I’m certain you can arrange anything money can buy, Miss Cunningham,” he said, his tone cold and disdainful. “Good day.”

  Dismayed, Alison watched him drive away, the tires of his car sending an angry spray of gravel over the parking lot, and for the first time, she felt as if she’d stepped over the line in exhibiting her financial clout. Still, if that was what it took to convince him to leave, so be it.

  “He will find somewhere else to stay, won’t he?” she asked Gina anxiously as the agent’s luxury car roared to life.

  “I don’t know him well,” Gina said, easing out of the parking lot. “I would assume he will honor your wishes, although,” she glanced at her young client, “why you would want that handsome man out of your house is beyond me.”

  Jeremy Ryder had encountered the arrogance of the very wealthy on many occasions, but this little tart topped them all. Who was she, and how did she end up here? What obsession did she have with Dewhurst Manor? These and more questions raced through his mind as he drove the few miles back to the old country house. He took several deep breaths to calm his rage. Did she, he wondered, have the money to buy this place on a moment’s notice? And would she, God forbid, show up on his doorstep later today?

  It was his doorstep, he thought as he pulled into the circular driveway and looked up at the old house. His, at least for the moment. And he wasn’t about to relinquish it to the likes of Alison Cunningham, no matter how much money she waved under his nose. He surveyed the house for a long moment before driving on to park in the adjacent garage. Other than being very old, Dewhurst Manor was not anything particularly spectacular. There were other houses far more appealing, at far better prices, and not requiring nearly the renovations that this one would. Why had the likes of Alison Cunningham locked onto this one?

  An answer to this last question hovered in a haze at the back of his mind, but he was unwilling to acknowledge it as a possibility. Did she know about the memoirs? Impossible! He doubted if she knew much about Lord Byron, and she’d probably never heard of Lady Caroline. He was just paranoid.

  Jeremy eased the car into the garage and turned off the motor. The sudden quiet was deafening. He got out and shut the door behind him, then stopped and listened to the small, moist sounds of springtime—water dripping from the trees, trickling in rivulets down the sodden lawn to where a small beck flowed at the far side of the property. The very peace of the place served to calm his nerves and quench his fury. He could not, would not, let Alison Cunningham interfere with his search for the Byron memoirs.

  His eyes roamed the rough landscape of the property, and he envisioned Lady Caroline, miserable in her unrequited love, racing across the muddy countryside on horseback and being welcomed by an aging, lonely man who offered her a warm fire, cognac, and a willing ear.

  In this very house.

  He gazed up at the weathered timbers and the odd turret just above the front door. He thought about the way old pieces of furniture and paintings and other treasures of antiquity had a way of telling him their story. Would Dewhurst Manor do the same, if he took time to listen?

  Perhaps he had started his search all wrong. He should begin from the outside. He decided to walk the perimeter of the grounds, despite the mud underfoot. This would give him a clear perspective of the lay of the land. Which way was Brocket Hall from here? Which way would she have come—by carriage down the lane or on horseback over the open field—the day she brought the memoirs to be hidden away for almost two centuries?

  The countryside surrounding Dewhurst Manor was overpowering in its greenness. Spring had painted the land with a swash of verdant splendor, and it was difficult for Jeremy to remain in a foul mood despite the fact he was about to be ousted from his search, and his bed, by Alison Cunningham. He forced thoughts of the inexplicably sexy if exasperating young woman from his mind and tried to concentrate on the property, and the way the house was situated upon it.

  As Gina had explained, the original Tudor structure had been added onto unmercifully over time, with no thought to retaining the integrity of the original architectural style. This fact was painfully evident from the back side of the building, where ten of the sixteen bedrooms had been tacked onto the original structure in such a hodgepodge manner that Jeremy got the impression they had been constructed in a hurry, as if in time for an immediate party.

  The king is coming. Quick, build some more bedrooms for the Court.

  Or something like that.

  And Jeremy realized with a jolt that Dewhurst Manor had delivered its first message to him.

  The grounds had lain unattended since Lady Julia had fallen ill, maybe longer, and Jeremy picked his way slowly through waist-high brambles that snagged the fabric of his expensive slacks and hampered his progress. The ground squished beneath his favorite leather loafers, and he feared with each step that he would end up mired in a bog. The earlier rain now steamed around him in a shallow mist, and his short, rapid breathing echoed in the stillness of the afternoon. The fastidious side of his nature screamed at him to return to the house and change into more suitable attire for a tramp through the mud, but something held him on course in his circumnavigation of the old manor. It was as if he were being drawn inexorably toward…what?

  He had reached the back of the massive building and could see the new wing with the swimming pool stretching in its incongruous modern, red-brick facade, when a sudden whirring at his feet sent adrenaline flooding through his body. A gunshot exploded the cottony quiet of the hazy afternoon, and Jeremy ducked into the tall weeds. What the hell?

  Another shot, and the cry of a bird injured by the blast, followed by the excited barking of a dog set on retrieving its quarry. Carefully, Jeremy edged his head above the tops of the weeds, and what he saw almost made his heart stop. It had to be a phantom. The gaunt figure coming toward him was as wispy and gray as the mists that swirled around him. He wore a tattered tweed jacket and an equally disheveled cap set at an angle atop stringy silver hair that hung to his shoulders. The phantom hunter stopped abruptly and raised his gun when he saw Jeremy.

  “Who goes there?” he demanded in a voice that quaked with age.

  Jeremy decided since the ghostly hunter had a gun, he would oblige with an answer, even if it made no rational sense to be conversing with a specter. “My name is Ryder. And yours, Sir?”

  The old man squinted, then slowly lowered his rifle. “What’re ye doin’ round these parts, lad?”

  “I…live here.” Jeremy realized this wasn’t quite the truth, but it seemed the most logical explanation to give quickly to the grizzled being who continued to point a gun at him.

  “Ye not be a-tellin’ me th’ truth, lad. Ye don’t live here. Nobody lives here, least nobody alive in th’ flesh. Hain’t since old Lady Julia passed on. Tell me th’ truth ‘fore I run you in for trespassin’.”

  The ancient personage that faced him was no ghost, Jeremy realized, but the knowledge provided him only a small degree of relief. He still had the shotgun to contend with. “Sir, I am not trespassing, I can assure you…” he began, but the old man cut him short.

>   “Seems kind of odd that ye be snoopin’ out here in the brambles and all. Who’re you lookin’ for? Caroline?”

  Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Caroline?”

  “Yea. Her.” He pointed over Jeremy’s shoulder toward the house. Jeremy wheeled around and peered through the mist, but there was no one there. He saw nothing except the rear of Dewhurst Manor, in all its scrambled disarray.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, turning back to the hunter. “I don’t see anyone.”

  The old man laughed with a wheeze. “Of course y’ don’t. Th’ ghost only shows herself t’ certain folk. But she’s there, lad, she’s there. She’s been gone a long time, and now she’s back. I wonder what brought her home?”

  The ghost? Jeremy stared at the demented old man, so ghostlike himself, and realized the spectral hunter was more than likely a poacher. “Who are you?” he demanded suddenly, frowning.

  “Stone’s the name. Ashley T. Stone.”

  “Do you have permission to hunt on this land?”

  “Don’t need no permission,” the old one replied defensively. “Been huntin’ on this land since I was a boy. Even Lord Charles, rest his soul, told me t’ bag a grouse for ‘im every now and then. It’s th’ only decent huntin’ grounds left round here, y’know.” He bent to take the dead bird from the mouth of the eager retriever. “All th’ other estates have been built up into them fancy golf courses and trainin’ schools and such. The world’s too changed for me. I’ll be glad t’ be passin’ on soon.” He glanced up again at the rear of Dewhurst Manor. “Although a lot o’ good it did that’n.”

  Jeremy recalled overhearing Gina tell Alison about an old man named Ashley T. Stone, and how he had created the myth that Dewhurst Manor was haunted by the ghost of a young woman. “How do you know there’s a ghost here?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “I can see her, plain as day.”

  “Who is she?”

  “That poor Caroline,” he said sorrowfully.

  “What Caroline? Do you know her last name?”

  The old man looked at Jeremy as if he was the one who had lost his mind. “Why, that’s th’ ghost o’ Lady Caroline Lamb,” he said, as if it made good sense. “She used t’ live in these parts, yonder, in Brocket Hall. She was the wife o’ William Lamb, but ‘twasn’t him she loved. She loved th’ wicked Lord Byron, with all her heart, but he didna love her. Some say she went mad with grief and drank herself into her grave. Mad she may have been, but I believe she died of a broken heart, and that’s why her spirit still walks. Poor soul! I don’t know how she will ever find her peace.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  The old man turned to go. “I used to work at Brocket Hall when I was a lad, for a man who was older than time, like I am now. His father was Lady Caroline’s stable boy. He told me all the stories. She was somethin’, that one. Byron made a mistake passin’ her up.”

  And with that, Ashley T. Stone disappeared. Just as if he were the ghost Jeremy had thought him to be at first, the gnarled figure seemed to melt into the mist, leaving behind the quiet afternoon, a covey of grouse smaller in number by one, and a very perplexed Jeremy Ryder.

  “Your heart, my poor Caro (what a little volcano!), pours lava through your veins…I have always thought you the cleverest, most agreeable absurd, amiable, perplexing, dangerous, fascinating little being that lives now. I won’t talk to you of beauty; I am no judge. But our beauties cease to be so when near you, and therefore you have either some, or something better.”

  Lord Byron to Caroline Lamb

  I remind myself again as I put pen to paper that Honesty in my reminiscences is requisite, as difficult as it is to accomplish at times. But only Honesty here shall suffice to soothe my troubled Soul. The night is wild with storms, a good night to continue the tale of my calamitous affair with Lady C.

  Just as I determined that I must break it off with Caroline, unable to bear her increasingly public and ofttimes embarrassing displays of affection for me, she made the fatal error that sentenced our Love to its certain demise. In my quarters, both of us having had much red wine and brandy, she shed her clothing and came to me naked, asking with those huge compelling eyes that I teach her those things of which we had until now only spoken of in wicked whispers. Unable to control my Lust, I partook of that forbidden fruit, knowing that on the morrow, I would dwell again in Darkness. When later I awoke by her side, that overwhelming Terror again filled my heart. Looking upon her golden curls, both crowns of them, I knew I had lost not only the Battle but also the War. I could love Caro no more, if indeed I ever did, & I determined on the spot to end it with her immediately.

  But Lady Caroline would not hear of a separation between us. She insisted that she loved me & that I loved her, & that she was certain I would not wish to live my life without her. To my Horror, she proceeded to attempt to prove our Love by not letting me out of her sight. She followed me to parties to which she had not been invited, waiting outside with the coachmen like a commoner until I arrived to take her away. She appeared unannounced at my apartments, pleading with poor Fletcher to let her in if I was not at home. She stalked me in the very streets of London, dressed always as a page, but I knew it was she. The more outrageous her behavior, the stronger grew my resolve to rid myself of her forever. I hate scenes, however, and so I resolved to go about it in a gentlemanly manner.

  My first ploy was to plead penury. Perhaps the Lady would shun a Pauper, even if he was a Lord. I was indeed in dire need of money at the time, not having retained the copyright to Childe Harold nor taken any money from its publication. My scheme miscarried, however, as she instantly offered me all her jewels to sell. Caroline was nothing if not generous.

  So I bethought another plot, this one more sinister. It was often said that I was the incarnation of my poetic hero, Childe Harold, the doer of dark unspeakable deeds with exotic characters in mysterious settings. It was not said wrong, for my adventures both in England and afar in those days covered a wide gamut of activities, many of them scandalous, nefarious even, to genteel English ears. I was certain that she would be sufficiently shocked by some of the tales of my Experiences that she would flee from me in disgust. Again, just the opposite happened. At first she was appalled when I told her of the boys I had loved, (and how I had loved them) and about how I had once, while in the Orient, killed a rival unnecessarily, just to see what it felt like to have blood on my hands. But then it was her turn to shock me, first by asking for lurid details and then by suggesting we try some of the—carnal activities—ourselves. Even I, as bold & bad as I pretended to be, was amazed at the woman’s fascination with all that is unspeakable in our Society. Instead of sending her safely back into her husband’s arms, my efforts only served to tantalize her, driving her to even more desperate designs to hold me to her.

  Chapter Nine

  “Yes, you heard me correctly. Nine hundred thousand. Transfer it immediately, please, into this account.” Alison read the name and number of the estate agent’s escrow account, her impatience mounting. “What do you mean you can’t do it? It’s my money. I can do anything I want with it.”

  She tapped her foot and listened to the voice on the other end of the line in Boston. “Let me speak to James Seymour,” she demanded curtly. Another long pause. “Mr. Seymour, this is Alison Cunningham. I’m calling from Hatfield, England, where I am buying a house. I wish to have nine hundred thousand dollars transferred immediately into the escrow account of the real estate agency. I gave the woman the information already, but she seemed to have a problem with making the transaction. I’m sure you will have no such problem, will you?”

  Alison had not thought it would be so difficult to get her hands on her own money. The blasted bankers were no better than the lawyers. “What? Why would I have to do that?” Alison attempted to keep her temper in check as she listened to her personal banker explain that it was for her own protection that they required the request for the transfer of such a large amount in
writing. “Yes, I understand,” she said at last, drawing in a deep breath. “But I want the money now. Today.” She frowned, then covered the receiver with her hand and turned to Gina Useppi who had heard the entire conversation. “Do you have a fax machine?”

  “Of course.”

  “May I use it to send these idiots my request in writing?”

  Gina nodded, her face unreadable. Alison returned to the phone. “Okay. I’ll write you a letter and send it to you by fax. You want what? A copy of the contract?” Why the banker would want that, Alison didn’t know, but her nerves were on edge, and she just wanted to get on with things. “Oh, all right. Just make sure this happens today, Mr. Seymour. It is only morning in Boston, so you should have plenty of time. Thank you.”

  She hung up the phone and turned to Gina. “Done.”

  “And so is the contract. All you need to do is sign on the lines I have marked with an X, and write me a check for the earnest money.”

  “And write a letter and send a fax,” Alison groused, picking up a pen and signing the contract without reading it. “I’m exhausted,” she said moments later. “I’ll be glad to get to Dewhurst Manor and settle in.” Then she frowned. “Did you say there were no servants?”

  “That’s right. Mr. Ryder has only been there two days, and he indicated he didn’t want to be bothered with servants, but I can imagine you will want some help. However, there’s the slight problem of finding someone who isn’t superstitious about the so-called ghost. Suppose I make a few calls for you while you write your letter and get the fax off to Boston?”

  Alison smiled in gratitude. “That would be great. Thanks.” Gina settled her in front of a computer and set up a document program, gave her a piece of agency letterhead to print it on when she finished composing it, and showed her where the fax machine was located, then left to make her calls in another room. Only then did Alison slow down enough to glance at the contract. Only then did she question her impulsive decision to buy Dewhurst Manor.