“Not thus far, but then I haven’t spent much time at the abbey. I inherited it when I was ten, but it was uninhabitable. Then when Mama fixed it up somewhat, we rented it to a colonel. Later I was away at school, then traveling. We shall see what tonight brings.”
“I heard somewhere that folks who’ve had a violent death are the ones that come back as ghosts,” Coffen offered.
“In that case, you can expect to meet Mr. Chawton. My uncle murdered him in the Star and Garter Inn nearby. There was said to be an argument over hares — how many Chawton had, or some such thing.”
“Bald men can be sensitive that way,” Coffen said, nodding.
“Hares as in rabbits, actually,” Byron explained. “They didn’t call my ancestor Mad Jack for nothing. He’s the one they used to call the Wicked Baron, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Coffen said. “What I was talking about was the monk ghosts. They met some violent end, I expect.”
“Or perhaps they just want their abbey back,” Byron suggested. “They lived in it for three hundred years, till it was stolen from them by Henry VIII and sold to my ancestor.”
He amused them with tales of his family and the abbey until the ladies retired to the saloon after dinner to allow the gentlemen their port and cigars.
“What do you think of all this ghost business, Mrs. Ballard?” Corinne asked.
“I’ve never seen a ghost,” her companion said, “but I don’t believe the Bible
forbids
them. I shouldn’t like to meet that bearded fellow in the portrait, but most of the ghosts seem to be monks. One cannot imagine a
monk
interfering with a lady. In a
nasty
way, I mean.”
It was indeed difficult to imagine a monk, or a sex fiend for that matter, wanting to interfere with Mrs. Ballard in a nasty way.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies later, the talk turned to social chitchat. Byron was brought up to date on the latest engagements, marriages and crim cons making a stir in London. Tired from their long trip, the guests retired early and promptly fell asleep, only to be awakened around two by the sound of a door banging, footsteps pounding in the hallway, and a stream of frightened profanity. They all rushed to their doors to see Prance, pale as a ghost and trembling, huddling against the wall. Only Luten and Byron had taken time to light tapers, that cast flickering shadows on the huddled faces.
“Good gracious, Reg, what happened?” Corinne demanded, as she pulled a charming wrapper of green silk around her shivering shoulders.
“Something —a
thing
in my bedchamber,” he said in a trembling voice.
“You’ve had a nightmare,” Corinne said, patting his shoulder.
“No, it was real. Something dark. It made a sound.”
“A shadow, no doubt,” Luten said. “It’s all that talk of ghosts that caused it.”
“There’s a branch outside your window,” Byron added. “It casts a shadow and does make a soughing sound when the wind blows.”
“It was more than that!” Prance insisted, though as he considered it, he realized that it very likely had been a shadow. That cold draft could have come from the window, that was so loose it rattled.
“The Black Friar,” Coffen said with satisfaction. “We’ll changed rooms, Reg. I’d like a word with him.”
They did change rooms, but no ghost came to amuse Coffen. He kept awake as long as he could, but he was tired and had consumed a great deal of wine, and before long, he was snoring the snore of the just.
It was Prance, lying peacefully in Coffen’s room, who was awake until dawn. He was no longer frightened. Of course it had been that soughing branch that awoke him, but it had been worth the moments of sheer terror, for he had been struck with inspiration. He would write a gothic novel! His
Round Table Rondeaux,
a tedious, long poem in blank verse about the Arthurian legend, copiously footnoted, had been a disaster. Too abstruse and literary for the hoi polloi. It was sensation they craved, and he would give it to them. Not the squeamish stuff of Mrs. Radcliffe and her black curtains and locked rooms, but real spine-tingling terror such as he had felt last night. Something along the line of Walpole’s
Castle of Otranto,
which had caused such a ruckus in the last century.
What better place to set his opus than this haunted wreck of an abbey? Of course he wouldn’t use the name Newstead in his book, but
tout le monde
would know where and when the story was composed. That, alone, would generate interest. He would give them phantom choirs and singing monks and real ghosts that menaced with more than misty clouds. And he’d throw in a few female ghosts, to please the kipper-crunching crowd as well, as they had all railed at him for leaving Lady Guinevere out of his
Rondeaux.
His fevered brain began concocting a story, and as dawn lightened the shadows from black to violet, he had some semblance of a plot formed. It would be Lady Lorraine, a French comtesse, who inherited the abbey and was bedeviled by its spirits for the sins of her ancestors. His
intimes
would recognize this as a tribute to his lost love, Lady Chamaude, who had been murdered before he could marry her. She would be aided in her fight to free the abbey of its unsettled spirits by some as yet unnamed hero. The only major point to be settled was whether she would marry her hero or die in a tragic fall from the crenelated tower of St. Justin’s Abbey.
He had a fondness for tragedy, but was uncertain whether the public was ready to accept it in a love story. How public taste had deteriorated from the days when William could give them
Romeo and Juliet!
Prance was on a first name basis with all the literary greats. He would discuss the ending with Coffen Pattle. If Pattle had nothing else, he certainly had the common touch.
Prance’s valet, Villier, was astonished to find his master up when he quietly peeked into his room at eight o’clock.
“Villier, the new Weston today, I think.” Many of his possessions had names. His jackets were “Westons”, from London’s premier tailor. His hats were “Baxters” and his boots were “Hobys”. “But first a shave.”
Prance’s toilette could take upwards of an hour, but that day he was so eager to be about his research that he left his room in half that time. As he strolled down the stairs, he heard raised voices coming from Byron’s study.
“We’ll not put up with it. This is a decent parish, or was, until you brought your debauched friends here. You’re as bad as murdering Mad Jack, and so I tell you,” an angry voice shouted. It was followed by some soothing words from Byron. The door opened, and Prance scuttled along the hall to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping.
Prance was astonished that anyone would have the gall to treat a lord so harshly, and in his own home. His mind immediately darted to what Byron was best known for, other than his poetry; namely, womanizing. Was it an outraged husband? The father of some innocent maiden Byron had got in the family way? Did those conciliating murmurs from Byron mean he was going to marry some nobody? Surely not! He had often called himself a romantic agnostic, unfit to wage domesticity.
Prance’s astonishment rose a notch when he learned the shouting gentleman was a mere vicar. A hireling, in other words.
“Pay no heed to old Ruttle,” Byron said with a sheepish face after he had got rid of his caller and was leading Prance toward the breakfast room. “I daresay you overheard that harangue. The locals elected the vicar to represent their concerns.”
“The vicar!” Prance exclaimed. “He sounded more like an irate husband.”
“He may be that as well, but I assure you not one ounce of his wife’s two hundred pounds has been molested by me. He tells me that when the parish heard I was entertaining gentlemen friends they were afraid I was repeating my youthful folly of carrying on what he chose to call ‘orgies’ with the local girls. I had Matthews and a few of the fellows down here after graduation. We managed to scandalize the neighbors with our foolish carrying on. Staying up late and sleeping in till one o’clock. Of course we indulged in the usual juvenile delinquencies, with the innovation of dressing up in monks’ robes to lend it an air of diablerie. We drank too much, et cetera. I daresay it was the et cetera that really bothered him, for Ruttle wouldn’t object to drinking. He likes his bottle as well as the rest of us. The best we could do in the way of women was two skinny house maids and one married woman of uncertain character, but certainly not chaste.”
“Now I have the gentleman’s character. You’re speaking of a parson squire, I take it?”
“Just so. Spends his days astride a monstrous bay mare which rather resembles his wife, and his nights with his crones, drinking and gambling, while a curate does his work for him. Except, of course, for such occasions as baptisms and weddings, when there’s likely to be a pourboire involved.”
“Why not be rid of him? Isn’t the living yours to give — or take away?”
Byron assumed an expression of mock horror. “Oh lord, I’m unpopular enough without making
changes,
Prance. You must know
changes
are anathema in the provincial backwoods. I explained that I had reformed, and was entertaining the
crème de la crème
at a perfectly respectable house party. Pray don’t tell Luten and Lady deCoventry he was here.
He
already thinks me a fool, and I wouldn’t want
her
to think any worse of me than she already does.
“I’ve braced myself to behave like a proper gentleman for two whole weeks. I’ve even given orders to keep my animals out of the main rooms. No flirting with Corinne, no carrying on with the housemaids. In fact I’ve hired the ugliest ones I could find especially for the occasion. I can do without the girls but I do miss Abu and Nelson.” Abu was his favorite dog, an ugly yellow hound, and Nelson his one-eyed cat.
Prance adored secrets and always enjoyed anything in the way of mischief. He was also delighted to hear himself described as the
crème de la crème.
“Fear not, Byron. Your secret is safe with me. These country folks are Mrs. Grundys, one and all.”
“I expect it was the skull cup that set him off. That seemed to be a major bone of contention. He wanted me to give it a decent burial.”
“What, bury a cup?”
“A skull cup, skull being the offending word. I found a monk’s skull in the grounds and had it set in silver to use as a drinking cup in that orgy I spoke of. Luten would no doubt think it blasphemous and you, I expect, would find it vulgar. I was careful to hide it away before you worthy folks arrived.”
“I’ve heard of it. May I see it?” Vulgar or not, his mind was already scurrying around to think where he could get hold of a skull, without rifling a graveyard.
As they talked, they continued down dim corridors and around corners, finally arriving at a sunny paneled room with a cozy fire blazing in the grate. The aroma of coffee, toast and bacon hung appetizingly on the air. A round table was set for five. Two young maids with mobcaps over their curls and white aprons that emphasized their curves were just setting the dishes on the sideboard. Both bobbed a curtsey. If these were Byron’s idea of ugly, he would like to see the ones he didn’t hire. The beauty with black curls and liquid black eyes with, perhaps, a glint of appraisal in them, smiled shyly before darting out of the room. The blond one with bold green eyes lingered, casting the leer of invitation at them, until Byron said, “Thank you. That will be all, Sally.”
“If you need me later, just let me know, your lordship,” she said, and bobbed off with her rump swaying.
Prance gave him a knowing smirk and said, “Where
do
you find these ugly wenches? But we were speaking of the skull cup.”
Before Byron could reply, Coffen came shambling into the room, looking like an unmade bed.
“How did you find the breakfast room?” Prance asked.
“Just followed my nose.”
Prance and Coffen were a study in opposites. Prance was tall and lean, with a face that bore some resemblance to a greyhound. His toilette was not the most important thing in his life, but it accounted for a good deal of his time and money and artistic talent. Although he didn’t really care for country life, he liked dressing up and had indulged in a frenzy of preparations for the visit. He wore a new jacket of a rougher material than his customary superfine, made up in a heather shade for this visit. His usually flowered or striped waistcoat had been replaced by one in a solid mustard color. He had also brought along a stout blackthorn walking stick and walking shoes.
It was impossible for a short, stout gentleman with mud-colored hair to look elegant, but Prance saw no reason that Coffen must put a scarecrow to shame. As usual, his mud-colored hair was unkempt, his cravat badly tied, his jacket wrinkled and his topboots dusty. To judge by the cut on his jaw he had shaved at least. That was something.
“You were imagining things, Prance,” Coffen said, lowering his eyebrows over his sharp blue eyes. “There wasn’t a sign of a ghost in that room. I slept like a dog.”
“Like a log, you mean.”
“That as well. Time for fork work, is it?” he asked, lifting his nose like a hunting hound and sniffing the air.
Byron led them to the sideboard, where Coffen heaped his plate with gammon and eggs and potatoes, and Prance poked about for the smallest piece of gammon and one piece of toast. Byron took only the toast.
Before long, the other members of the party joined them. Luten was as elegant as ever, even in country clothes. His cravat was immaculate, his jacket freshly pressed and his top boots shone like a mirror. Corinne wore a new scarlet riding habit that Prance had talked her into. She looked like the illustration of Little Red Riding Hood in his book of fairy tales. He wasn’t sure he had chosen the color wisely but as he was responsible, he had to compliment her on it. There was no counting on Luten to do it, which was a dangerous lapse for a fiancé, in Prance’s opinion.
“Byron, you mentioned you have a lady’s mount in the stable,” she said. “I thought I might have a ride this morning, as it’s such a lovely day.”
“I also have two mounts for gentlemen,” Byron said. “Why don’t I accompany you and Luten? I’ll show you the local sights, such as they are.”