by Jill Jones
“Then, if you are not afraid that the house is haunted, what are your concerns about coming back to work here? I will pay you well. What wage are you asking?” Alison had no idea what one paid servants in this part of the world. Or any other part, for that matter. She’d never hired one before.
There was a long silence, then Mrs. Beasley turned to face Alison. “It’s not th’ wages, madam. I have saved a great deal over th’ years, and I have my social pension. It’s th’ work. I’m not exactly young any more, and I don’t know if I want t’ work, at least as hard as I used to. I wouldn’t want t’ take the position and not be able t’ care for the place like I did.”
Alison panicked. She knew intuitively she needed Mrs. Beasley on her staff.
Staff.
Abruptly, she realized that if she were to accomplish what she was considering, she would need an entire staff, not just a single aging housekeeper.
Employees. She’d never had employees before. She’d never run a business. What was she thinking? Was she crazy?
But Alison swallowed her fear and ignored her pounding pulse. “Of course, I would not expect my senior staff member to actually perform the day-to-day labor,” she said with an authority she didn’t feel. “I am seeking an experienced person who can supervise others. I would need your help in selecting those who come to work here.” She paused in her interview, not wishing to sound too eager. “Do you think you would be…qualified for such a job?”
Mrs. Beasley stiffened. “You’ll not find another in the area as good for you as myself, madam,” she replied.
“Then you’ll take the position?”
To Alison’s relief, Mrs. Beasley’s heretofore guarded expression relaxed into softened wrinkles. “I would be proud to return to Dewhurst Manor,” she replied at last. “Only, tell me, madam, what is it you plan to do with the place? It’s…well, very large. Do you have a big family that would be moving here?”
Her comment caught Alison by surprise. Big family?
How about no family?
“No. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it,” she replied tentatively. “I’m thinking of turning it into a resort or something…”
“What about the youngsters?”
“Youngsters? What youngsters?”
“The swimmers. The ones who used to come here and train in the pool. You going to let them take it up again?”
Alison didn’t know how to reply. “I…haven’t decided yet what to do.” She gestured around the huge room. “Right now, what I want is to open the house. Get these awful sheets off the furniture. Clean the place up, bring in some flowers. You know, make it livable. I also need estimates on what it would take to make the necessary repairs and renovations, so I can get started as soon as the sale is final.”
Mrs. Beasley studied her young employer for a long moment, and Alison knew what she was thinking. Could Alison afford all of her big plans? But that was none of the woman’s business, Alison decided. Did she want the job or not?
“May I have my old rooms once again?” Mrs. Beasley asked as if she’d read Alison’s mind.
“Of course.” Relief washed over Alison. “Will you show me where they are?”
She followed the servant through the winding corridors toward the back of the house. They entered a suite of rooms that was like a small apartment. “This is the administrative office as well as living quarters,” Mrs. Beasley explained, then turned and added with a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe this time I’ll have somebody to administrate.”
“The spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life’s fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan:
Delirium is our best deceiver.”
Lord Byron
Caroline’s rash pursuit continued, driving me to the very threshold of madness. To the ever-prying eyes of London Society, I attempted to maintain an attitude of nonchalance, but my private life was Hell. Her madcap demands upon me culminated in an excruciating encounter one hot day in July, & had it not been for my good friend John Cam, who had vowed to always come to my Rescue should I need him, I might have succumbed in sheer exhaustion to her wiles.
We had heard that Caroline threatened a visit to my apartment in the Albany, & we were just about to make our escape from my quarters around noon when we heard knocks resounding upon my door. Outside, a crowd had gathered, & I groaned as I instantly recognized Caroline, dressed in a strange disguise. It seemed everyone but me knew she had come prepared for an elopement. She ordered poor John Cam away, but he stood staunchly in the doorway & demanded that she change out of her ridiculous attire. She ran into the bedroom & removed her masquerade, only to appear in the sitting room in the dress of a page. “For God’s sake, Caroline,” I cried, “for the sake of decorum in this house, would you please don fitting attire, even if it is that of a maidservant?” She could see she had displeased me, whereupon she did as I asked. Upon her return, Hobhouse begged her in stronger language than I have ever heard him utter to go away at once. She refused, in equally strong language. At that point, I was in agony, for I could not bear such a rude encounter.
“We must go off together,” I murmured, not knowing how else to stop Caroline’s dogged pursuit. “There is no alternative.” But thankfully, John Cam had a stronger backbone than I. He became stubborn & said he absolutely would not permit an elopement that day. Caroline cried, but did not argue. Still she refused to leave, & when John Cam tried to reason with her, she shouted that blood would be shed if he made her go. He replied that blood would be shed if she insisted on staying—her blood, because he would wring her neck! At that, Caro seized a court sword which was lying on the ottoman & swung it at him, but I wrested it from her & placed it safely out of her reach. What a horrid scene! But the outcome was that Hobhouse saved me from myself that day, for I might indeed have gone through with an elopement. However, I wonder sometimes now, from the distance of these many years, if that might not have been a better turn of events than the Nightmare that followed…
Chapter Thirteen
Something about the place looked different as Jeremy approached Dewhurst Manor upon his return from London the following afternoon. It appeared less desolate. Less intimidating. Jeremy shook off the notion, knowing nothing could have possibly changed in the short time he’d been gone. Dewhurst Manor was the same run-down wreck of a property. He was just imagining things again. Likely it was just the way the late evening light seemed to enfold the old manor house in a golden aura, shading the mildew lilac and softening the scars left by the peeling paint.
He steered the Porsche around the circle drive and into the garage. He’d spent most of the afternoon in London with his friend, Malcomb McTighe, the forensics expert, who had looked at him as if he were slightly deranged when Jeremy had told him the story of the draft of wind and the missing lock of hair. Luckily, enough strands had remained that a DNA examination would be possible, and Malcomb had already located a lock of Lady Caroline’s hair for comparison. Jeremy was anxious to learn the outcome of his enquiry, for if the hair was indeed Caroline’s, it would provide strong evidence that she had likely been a visitor at Dewhurst Manor, a visitor on cozy terms with the Earl. Proof of her presence here would validate the letter’s claim when he was called on later to prove the memoirs were actually Byron’s.
He was equally anxious to return to the library and resume his search. The memoirs had to be there. It was only logical. He’d turn the place upside down if he had to.
Jeremy swung open the heavy front door and stepped inside, then stopped short. Something about the place certainly had changed. A fire roared in the grate of the old stone fireplace. The furniture was uncovered and shone with new polish. Flowers stood in tall vases in the window alcoves. Even old William LaForge seemed to exude new life from his vantage point high on the wall of the Great Hall.
“Good Lord!” Jeremy uttered, amazed. Tempting aromas filled his nostrils, the smell of roasting meat and garlic. His
stomach growled an involuntary response.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Ryder.” A familiar feminine voice, suspiciously friendly, met his ears. Jeremy looked to his left and saw Alison Cunningham framed in the doorway to the first reception hall. The impact of her image hit him squarely in the solar plexus. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown, cut extremely low across the swell of her lovely breasts in an Empire fashion. Her burnished curls fell forward across her brow, and her eyes shone huge and brightly upon him. He felt something inside his gut contract as desire pumped through every nerve in his body. She was stunning! More beautiful than even the creature of his dreams. But where did she get that dress? It seemed as if it were from another era. Had she found an old wardrobe in the house?
Jeremy didn’t really care. He only wanted to let his hungry eyes feast on her beauty. He stood, afraid to move, and gazed at her speechless for a long moment. Then she moved toward him, with a grace and poise he hadn’t noticed in Alison before…almost as if she were floating.
“You lost this, I believe?” Alison held out her tiny hand. Coiled in her palm was the lock of hair.
Jeremy felt the blood drain from his face. “Where…did you get that?” he demanded in a guttural voice.
Alison looked at him askance, then let out a light laugh. “Why, he gave it to me. It is most valuable. You should not have been so careless.”
“Who gave it to you?” Jeremy was convinced that Alison Cunningham had clearly lost her mind.
“My Lord Byron, who else?”
Jeremy was dumbfounded. He watched, appalled, as she moved even closer. He felt a chill surround him. “Hold out your hand,” she instructed, and he did as she bade. With a touch light as a feather, she dropped the lock of hair into his upturned palm, then turned a wistful smile on him. “You are a most handsome man. I wish I could have known you then…”
And before he could reply or even pull his wits together, Alison Cunningham disappeared. Vanished. Melted into the gathering shadows of evening.
Leaving Jeremy shaken, wondering about the state of his own sanity.
He stared at the artifact in his hand. It was identical to the one he’d found earlier and then somehow managed to lose. Obviously, Alison and her cleaning people had come across it in the library. But what was going on here? How did she just disappear like that? A shudder crawled along his spine.
Or had that been Alison?
A commotion at the back of the house caught his attention, and he walked through the Great Hall to the source of the noise. An elderly woman was giving orders in the kitchen where two young people, a boy and a girl, were banging about, washing pots and pans, stirring something that boiled on the stove, and in general, cleaning away the grime of the years. They stopped what they were doing and grew silent when they saw him. Then the old woman spoke.
“Who’re you?”
“I might ask the same question, madam. I am Jeremy Ryder. I am staying at Dewhurst Manor temporarily. And you are…?”
“She’s my new head of housekeeping,” came a voice from behind him, and Alison entered the room. She was dressed in tight jeans and a silken sweater the color of old gold. She wore short black boots and large brass earrings. Her curls tumbled in disarray around her face, just as they had moments before.
Or at least, just as he’d thought they had. But this woman standing before him was different than the vision he’d seen in the Great Hall. She was taller, her hands and feet were larger, her eyes not as ethereal, although equally as beautiful in their own golden splendor. She looked at him with concern.
“Are you all right, Mr. Ryder?”
Jeremy wasn’t sure he was at all. “Were you just…in the Great Hall?” he managed.
Alison looked at him with a puzzled expression. “I must have been through there a dozen times this afternoon. It’s sort of the crossroads of the house. Why?”
Jeremy closed his fingers around the wisp of hair. “Oh, nothing. It’s…nothing…Well, excuse me. I must be about my duties.”
He moved toward the doorway where Alison stood, aware that the eyes of all the people in the room followed him. “Excuse me,” he said again, brushing against Alison’s slender body as he passed. She smelled of apple blossoms and spring rain. Her hair was the color of a summer sunset. She was lithe as a reed along the banks of a lily pond. She was as desirable a woman as he’d ever met.
And she was an enchantress who was playing dangerous games with his mind.
Jeremy hurried along the hallway toward the library, determined to find what he was seeking as fast as he could, if he had to search day and night. Find the memoirs, then get the hell away.
From Dewhurst Manor.
And from Miss Alison Cunningham.
Alison watched the retreating figure of Jeremy Ryder disappear around a corner, curious at his obvious loss of composure. He’d had a wild look in his eye almost. She wondered where he’d been the past day or so, and what had happened to upset his normal equanimity.
“What time will you be serving dinner?” she asked Mrs. Beasley over her shoulder.
“What time do you wish it, madam?” The servant’s tone indicated her surprise in being consulted on the matter.
Alison had little experience with the running of a large household, although she’d grown up in homes fully staffed with maids and housekeepers and cooks. Her mother had managed things quietly and efficiently, and she’d never included Alison in the day-to-day affairs of either the Brookline mansion or the Palm Beach estate. Of course, Alison thought, embarrassed, it was up to her to instruct the staff as to her wishes for things like dinner hours. There was so much she didn’t know! So much she had always taken for granted.
“Eight o’clock, please. In the dining hall, if it is prepared.”
“Thank you, madam. All will be in place by then.”
Alison nodded, then made a hasty exit from the kitchen. She wished there was some kind of book she could turn to, like How To Run A Country House in Three Easy Lessons. Despair threatened to envelope her. She had no business doing this. And with every step she took, she was getting in deeper and deeper. She knew nothing about keeping a house, much less running a resort. She knew nothing about business. Or real estate. Or investing.
She knew nothing about anything.
Tears stung her eyes by the time she reached the Great Room. And then suddenly, she stopped and looked around. Gone was the gloom and the dust and the decay that had earlier begrimed this magnificent room. Everywhere she looked, furniture gleamed, flowers freshened, and fire warmed. She smiled and took a deep breath. She might not know much about how to run a house, but she had lucked into finding someone who did.
All it took was money.
And that, she had plenty of.
If her luck held, she would hire more people to restore this home to its former grandeur. Alison wandered about the room, appreciating it fully for the first time. Appreciating, too, the fact that it was hers. Not her father’s. Not the trust’s.
Hers.
She felt again that deep affinity and affection for the rambling old place. It had been a victim, she felt, of neglect, of disinterest. No one had loved it in a long time. A lump of emotion caught in her throat. They were sort of kindred spirits, she and this old house. And even though she had no one to love her, perhaps if she gave her love to Dewhurst Manor, she would be rewarded in turn by the satisfaction she felt at that moment in seeing it regenerated.
It was all the reason she needed to carry on. Cheered, she went to the enormous inlaid sideboard and opened the glass-paned doors. A crystal decanter filled with a deep red liquid invited her to sample, and she poured a small amount into a wine glass. No telling how long the wine had been there, she considered, sniffing it. She took a tentative sip and discovered to her delight that it was delicious. She filled the glass and turned back to the room.
“To Dewhurst Manor,” she murmured, raising the elegant stemware in a toast.
“To Dewhurst Manor,” a voice replied
in a hollow echo. Alison spun around in time to see the ghost gathering its ectoplasmic energies and materializing before her eyes, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to laugh. Only a short time ago she’d been annoyed that she’d followed the whim of this ditzy ghost and come to this lonely run-down excuse of a country house, but now, she was grateful it had brought her here. “And to you, Lady Caroline,” she added.
“May I?” The ghost asked politely, pointing to the wine.
“Of course. Shall I pour?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Alison poured a second glass and handed it to the specter, wondering exactly how a ghost digested food and drink. But it seemed to have no trouble consuming the wine. In fact, it drained the glass quickly and handed it to her for a refill.
“So have you remembered where you put the memoirs?” Alison queried, giving her the wine.
“I have been thinking upon it,” the ghost replied in its curiously quaint speech. “I visited the wine cellar just now to select this,” she said, indicating the decanted liquid. “It might be there, although I found nothing.”
“You brought the wine?” Alison squeaked, almost dropping the glass. “But how?”
“Sometimes it is more difficult than others for me to move physical things around,” Caro explained. “It is easier when I desire something very much. Like emptying that pillow over the head of that man Ryder.” She giggled, and Alison joined in.
“And I suppose you really wanted a drink this evening,” Alison replied dryly.
“Yes. I used to enjoy a good claret. I still do, although the taste is not the same.”
She sounded wistful, and Alison felt a tug of sympathy. “Please. Try to remember where those memoirs are stashed. I…I really want to help you. I think you should be able to…go to your rest. You’ve been wandering for a long time, haven’t you?”