by Jill Jones
“Lost what?” Alison found it difficult sometimes to switch thoughts as quickly as Ashley T. Stone.
“The art of relating history as it really happened…by word of mouth. Nowadays, anybody can write anything and get it in the history books, whether it really happened or not.”
Alison grinned, dismissing this tirade as being the ravings of a very old man who had outlived the technology of his day. “Maybe so,” she agreed, both to please and encourage him. “In that case, would you tell me what really went on with Lady Caroline Lamb? I brought lunch, and I have all day…if I’m not keeping you from your work.”
Ashley T. Stone snorted. “Work. Nobody lets an old fool like me work anymore. They put me out to pasture long ago, young lady.” He looked at her, and a smile cracked the wrinkled face. “It’s been many a day since I had lunch with a lovely such as yerself. What say we go down t’ the riverbank where there’s a little table under a tree, and I’ll tell you all I know about Caroline Lamb.”
Several hours, and several pints of ale later, Ashley T. Stone had woven a tale that would have made any professional storyteller proud, giving Alison detailed anecdotes of Lady Caroline’s life and peculiarities, although Alison was certain he had many of his facts and dates mixed up. He knew the gist of history, though, and Alison wanted his opinion on a question that had been gnawing at her over the past few days. “Did Byron love Lady Caroline?”
“Who knows the truth about that? Byron was a liar. So was Caroline, for that matter. Neither one could tell the difference between the truth and a lie. They both loved passion and romance and intrigue. From what I heard, which of course was spread by the downstairs help in those days, Caroline, at least, was violently obsessed with Byron, even though she remained also devoted to her husband, William Lamb.”
“How could that be?”
He shrugged. “Lamb was good to her. He could, probably should, have thrown her out for everything she did to embarrass him and his family, the Melbournes. But he never did. He remained steadfast, although in the end mostly from a distance, but he was with her when she died.”
Alison carefully steered the conversation in another direction. “Tell me about Caroline’s visits to Dewhurst Manor.”
“Ah, she’d always been a favorite of Lord and Lady Chillingcote when she’d visited as a young woman. And when Lady Chillingcote died, the old Lord was grievously lonely. Caroline was the light of his life after that.
“She loved to ride, and she’d ask her stable boy to make her horse ready, then gallop across the fields and meadows around here…a wild thing she was! When she tired, she most often stopped in at Dewhurst Manor, for her riding was thirsty work, don’t you know.” He winked. “And then they’d break out the bottle and get roaring drunk together, so drunk, he’d often have to send her home in his carriage.” He paused and gazed out across the river. “Sad, it was. Those two lonely souls, with only the bottle to ease the pain.”
Yes, Alison agreed silently. It was sad. Her own sense of loneliness suddenly tore at her soul. Loneliness and a sense of not being loved…these were things she shared in common with Lady Caroline Lamb, it would seem. No wonder she’d agreed to help out the poor little ghost. Alison sighed and forced her thoughts back to the matter at hand.
“Would she always come by horseback?”
“Oh, not always. Sometimes she’d pay a visit by carriage. Or if it was raining, she’d go by way of the tunnel.”
“The tunnel?” Alison vaguely remembered Gina making reference to a tunnel.
The huge, brow-incrusted eyes grew solemn. “Oh, yes,” he sighed. “There used t’ be a tunnel ran between Dewhurst Manor and the river, right near Brocket. A tragedy, it was.”
Alison was getting used to his erratic pattern of speech. “Tragedy?” she prodded.
“A terrible tragedy,” he said, shaking his head and waiting a long moment for effect before resuming his tale. “Legend has it that the tunnel was built nearly the same time as Dewhurst Manor, in the sixteenth century. In those days, outlaws were common, and a lodge such as Dewhurst Manor, seated in the remote countryside as it was then, was easy prey. The tunnel saved the lives of the early owners more than once. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for the children who were killed there in later times.”
“Children? What happened?” Alison was mortified at the thought.
“It’s been a long time, more than a hundred years, since the accident,” he continued. “No one had been in the tunnel for years, in fact, I think most people had forgotten about it when some youngsters discovered the entrance in the bluff over the river not far from here. There’s no way to know what really happened that day, but the story goes that the children took a lantern and went deep into the tunnel. Apparently the old pillars and beams that supported it gave way when they got too far in, and they was buried alive, they was. Th’ whole thing came a’tumblin’ down. Sad, sad thing, i’ t’was. There’s a memorial to the children in the village church.”
A lump had caught securely in Alison’s throat as Ashley T. Stone related the tale, and she found herself getting depressed. Time to go. She stood up and extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Stone. It’s been an interesting visit.”
He bestowed a benevolent smile upon her. “Believe me, my dear, the pleasure has been all mine.”
Alison made her way back to the street, then turned to her host. “By the way,” she said, “you are welcome to hunt on the grounds at Dewhurst Manor, at least for now. But please, just don’t get too close to the house.”
Ashley T. Stone nodded, but Alison thought his expression was wistful. There wasn’t much wild land left, she surmised, for the old-timer’s love of the hunt. Civilization had crept to his very doorstep.
And soon, she, too, would restore order to the unkempt grounds of Dewhurst Manor, and the last wilderness in the area would disappear. In a way, she was sorry, but she knew it would enhance the property’s value, and she had, after all, bought Dewhurst Manor as an investment. “Goodbye, Mr. Stone,” she said, “and thanks again.”
Alison hurried back to the street and got into the small rental car. Her visit to the old eccentric had been interesting, although he hadn’t told her much she didn’t already know. It was fascinating, however, to hear it from his lips, as he’d been told it by someone who’s father had actually lived in Caroline’s time.
Alison started the car and considered what to do next. She didn’t want to go back to Dewhurst. She was in no mood to encounter Jeremy at the moment. Maybe she’d just continue her neighborly visitation.
Next stop, Brocket Hall.
From his vantage point at the library door, Jeremy listened to Mrs. Beasley stand her ground for several minutes, stoutly insisting that the visitor be on his way, but the man was insistent, almost to the point of being rude. “I must insist that I be allowed to stay and wait for her here,” he said, pushing past the older woman at last and flopping down into a large chair in the Great Hall. “My business with her is quite urgent.”
Jeremy scowled. As angry as he was with Alison at the moment, he could not abide bad manners in anyone. When he reached the Great Hall, he saw that Mrs. Beasley was uncharacteristically flustered as she stood wringing her apron in her hands. He gave her a slight, reassuring nod, then went over to where a short, chubby man had taken up residence in one of the rare and priceless armchairs. “May I help you, Sir?” he said coldly but politely.
Hawthorne sprang from the chair, startled. “Who are you?”
“The name is Ryder. I…represent Coutt’s Bank. How may I assist you, Sir?”
The stranger stared at him for a long moment. “Coutt’s, huh? What’s she dragged you guys into the picture for? Is she angry because I’ve held her money up?”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?” Hawthorne. The name sounded familiar. This must be the man who’d called the other morning. He understood suddenly why Alison had seemed so upset when he’d given her the telephone message. “Miss Cunningham
hasn’t mentioned her money being held up…or that she was expecting you,” he replied, not hiding his instinctive dislike for the man.
Drew Hawthorne sneered. “She’s not used to anyone keeping such close tabs on her as I intend to.” He laughed. “A young fool like that shouldn’t be turned loose in the world with four million dollars jingling in her pockets. My firm is charged with the fiduciary responsibility for her estate. Her father wanted to make damn sure she didn’t blow her inheritance on crazy schemes, like…,” he gestured around the room, “…buying a place like this, for instance. I mean, let’s get serious. What’s the kid going to do with this run-down piece of property? She’s nuts!” He turned back to Jeremy and sighed, “I didn’t know when they assigned me to her account I was going to end up babysitting.”
Jeremy could scarcely contain his disgust. “I hardly think Miss Cunningham needs a babysitter,” he pointed out. “I’m sure she is of age.”
“Twenty-six going on ten. I feel sorry for her in a way, if you can feel sorry for someone as rich as she is. She’s never had to make any decisions in her life. Her father was always the one in control. Now that he’s gone, she’s…at risk.”
“At risk of what?”
Hawthorne looked at him in disbelief. “Of making some terrible financial decisions. Didn’t you say you were with Coutt’s? Surely you’ve had trust accounts like this before?”
“I said I represent Coutt’s. The Estate Department. I’m an appraiser, just here on assignment.”
He watched in amusement as the supercilious little man realized he’d likely betrayed a client’s confidence.
“Well. Never mind about all this. When will she be back?”
“I have no idea.”
Hawthorne settled down in the chair once again and looked at his watch. “I guess there’s nothing for me to do but wait. Got anything to eat around here? I’m starving.”
Jeremy was appalled at the man’s behavior, but he opted not to interfere further. He had no right, or reason, to meddle in Alison’s affairs. If this offensive man could dissuade her from buying Dewhurst Manor, so much the better. It would solve a lot of problems for Jeremy. He could resume his search at leisure, without hiding his activities. And with her out of the picture, he could reclaim his emotional control and maybe quit seeing voluptuous phantoms in the night.
Still, he was deeply disturbed by what the man had unwittingly divulged. What did he mean, her money had been held up? Knowing nothing of Alison’s financial arrangements, other than that she was a very rich young woman, he had no idea what kind of control Hawthorne and his firm might have over her. But he found it repulsive, as he felt sure Alison must as well, that the likes of that man had any control over her whatsoever.
Stay out of it, he warned himself as he returned to the library. It’s none of your business. But it seemed as if he wasn’t listening. He’d keep an eye on Hawthorne. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside the library. The room felt cold, as if he’d left the windows open, but they were shut tight. He looked to his immediate right, the only shelves of the collection that Alison hadn’t destroyed in her rampage of the library, and his heart nearly stopped beating.
The books there were now scattered in the same manner as those he’d discovered earlier. What the hell was going on here? Alison couldn’t possibly have done this. She wasn’t even at Dewhurst at the moment. He walked toward the newly-disturbed shelves and caught a light fragrance in the air.
The fragrance of flowers.
Of roses. And carnations.
Chapter Seventeen
“If by December I do not disenchant Dulcinea, then I must attack the windmills, & leave the land in quest of adventures. In the meantime, I am writing the greatest absurdities to Caro in order to keep her gay, all the more so because in her last letter she reminded me that but eight guineas would bring her back to London.”
Lord Byron to Lady Melbourne.
Our Plot was simple. Like playing a fish on a line, Lady O. said. I was to write to Caroline, often & with Passion. In one letter I was to declare my love in so ardent a manner as to titillate the poor woman’s hopes, & in the next I was to be Devilishly cruel to her, denying that I had ever loved her, & wishing her in Hell. These conflicting letters I was to send daily, even more than once a day. And I was to write them with such passion and emotion as I had never exercised before in all the billets doux I had written to her. I was to make her laugh, fill her heart with hope and joy, and then crush her like the petals of a rose beneath my feet. With words as our artillery, we set up an offensive campaign as strategically planned as ever Napoleon could have conceived of. It was a campaign to keep her forever off-balance, tormented, insecure. In short, to drive her mad.
Caroline was never so complex as to be able to see through such treachery. She was nothing if not simple—ill-educated & naive. I knew from the start that if anything could send her already delicately balanced mind into the Abyss, such calculated mischief should do it sooner than later. I wrote to Lady Melbourne that I was playing off my new mistress in hopes of getting rid of Lady Caroline, but I never let even her, my closest Confidante, know the extent of my complicity. I knew in the basest levels of my heart the Wickedness of the deed, and in Truth, I must admit to this paper that when I received Caroline’s first letters in return, I became ill. “For God sake, Byron, explain yourself,” she wrote. “What have I done—if you are tired of me say so, but do not, do not treat me so!” If Lady Oxford had not been there to steady my determination, I should have been unable to go forward with the plan, but with the fortitude of that good woman, we proceeded with our assault. The irony was that Caroline perceived Lady O. to be her friend and even wrote beseeching her dearest “Aspasia”, as she called Lady O., to intervene with me on her behalf. “Will you write to him, will you tell him I have not done one thing to displease him, & that I am miserable…I will write no more—never teaze him—never intrude upon him, only do you obtain his forgiveness.”
Unable to end the charade now, I conceded to Lady Oxford’s wish to compose a reply, which she dictated to me & then posted under her own seal—which Caroline was sure to recognize. “Our affections are not in our power,” she wrote through my hand. “Mine are engaged. I love another…”
The letter had exactly the desired effect. When Caro learned that my new mistress was her very own “Aspasia,” she flew into a violent rage, screaming & tearing her hair, Lady M. told me later. That letter alone drove her to the point of insanity, from which, in her typical theatrical manner, she threatened to commit suicide, adding a twist we hadn’t counted on—that she would murder us as well—which of course, she never did.
Alison wasn’t certain what she’d expected Brocket Hall to be, but it was nothing like her own rustic, rambling Dewhurst Manor. Brocket Hall was far larger and grander. Newer, as well, having been built in the neo-Classical style in the eighteenth century. It stood like a red brick sentinel on a rise overlooking the river Lea. It had never occurred to her she wouldn’t be able to just drive up to the house, and she was grateful when the voice on the intercom at the electronic gate had been friendly.
“I’m…a new neighbor,” she explained. “I’ve come to pay a call on Lord and Lady Brocket,” she’d said into the speaker, feeling suddenly very young and very American. But the woman who replied seemed undaunted by either the unannounced arrival or the youthful voice of the woman who introduced herself as the new owner of Dewhurst Manor.
“You are welcome to visit the estate,” she said, “although I’m afraid you won’t be able to see Lord or Lady Brocket at the moment. They’re both…away for a period. Drive through the gate and over the bridge. There’s parking behind the house.”
The woman who greeted Alison was around her own age, and she smiled broadly, extending her hand. “A new neighbor, eh?”
“Well, almost. I’m in the process of purchasing Dewhurst Manor.”
The woman gave her a brief quizzical look, then turned entirely professional.
“I’m Kathleen March, Coordinator of Brocket Hall’s Conference Center. I apologize that Lord and Lady Brocket are unavailable. Perhaps I could be of service in their absence. Would you like to see Brocket? I can show you around today, since there are no conference attendees in residence at the moment.”
“Conference attendees?” Alison hadn’t considered that she might be barging in on someone’s meeting.
“Yes. I assumed you knew that Brocket Hall is used as a conference center for corporations and government meetings. It’s a splendid environment for such a retreat, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes, it is. Very definitely. I’m thinking of doing something similar with Dewhurst Manor. Not on such a grand scale, of course,” she added when she saw the look of surprise on the receptionist’s face. “And I would love a tour, if it isn’t too much of an inconvenience.”
“Not at all.” Kathleen spoke briefly to a security guard who agreed to answer the phones in her absence, then turned to Alison. “Come along.”
Alison had lived among opulent surroundings all her life, but neither the Brookline mansion nor the Palm Beach estate possessed the gentrified grandeur of Brocket Hall. Its very size was formidable, and she had difficulty imagining the lonely, distraught Caro wandering these halls, pining for her lost love.
“There are forty-six bedroom suites for our guests,” Kathleen explained, leading Alison along a corridor. “This one,” she opened a door, gesturing for the American visitor to enter the room, “belonged to Lady Melbourne, William Lamb’s mother and Caroline’s mother-in-law, who according to ‘whispered history,’ privately entertained the Prince Regent here.” She winked at Alison, who surveyed the sumptuous but tastefully decorated room, appreciating the manner in which it had been restored.
Alison gave a light laugh. “Didn’t Lady Melbourne also have an eye for Lord Byron?”
