Someone to Love (7 page)

Jace ran his hand over his eyes, sat up, and looked at his watch. He’d been asleep only ten minutes.

As he came more fully awake, he began to remember what he’d heard. Names. Danny Longstreet. Ann, Catherine, Peregrine.

He grabbed the thick paperback,
The History of Margate,
and looked in the index. Hubert and Daniel Longstreet were under the chapter about Priory House.

Hubert “Hugh” Longstreet was the father of Daniel, who had been engaged to Ann Stuart, daughter of the owner of Priory House. But when the marriage didn’t take place, Hugh and his son left Margate and were never heard from again.

“But what about Ann?” Jace asked aloud. “Why didn’t she marry Danny Longstreet?”

As Jace flipped the pages, he thought of all the diseases Victorians had. What awful thing had happened to Ann so she didn’t get to marry Danny Longstreet?

Two pages on, there was an essay written by N. A. Smythe titled “The Tragedy of the Priory House Stuarts.”

Quickly, Jace read the story, then slowed down and read it again. Smythe wrote that Arthur Stuart, beloved son and owner of Priory House, had eschewed the rich young woman he could have married and had, instead, married for love. He married the sweet and lovely daughter of a vicar of a rural parish, and took her back to Priory House. Alas, she and his beloved father died the next year. But Arthur wasn’t left alone as he had his beloved daughter, Ann, to comfort him.

“Beloved,” Jace said. “Everyone is beloved of everyone else.”

In 1877, it was found that the house needed massive repairs, but Arthur Stuart, a renowned scholar, didn’t have the money to pay for them. Hubert Longstreet, a rich American, wanted to buy the house, but he also wanted his son to marry into what he considered the aristocracy, the Stuart family. Although there was no longer any title, it was believed that there had once been a connection to the royal Stuarts, and even a connection to the British throne. Longstreet wanted to elevate his status above his lowly American roots, and Arthur Stuart was desperate to preserve the home of his ancestors.

The two men struck a bargain. They agreed that their children would marry and they’d all live together in the big house. But it was a devil’s bargain. Danny Longstreet was an uneducated lout who drank and gambled and frequented houses of ill repute. Ann Stuart was a lady of the highest reputation, quiet and scholarly, beloved by everyone.

“Ann tried to obey her father,” N. A. Smythe wrote, “but when it came down to it, she couldn’t go through with the marriage. Two hours before her wedding, she drank a bottle of poison. She killed herself rather than marry a good-for-nothing like Danny Longstreet.

“Ann was buried in her wedding dress, but unfortunately, she had to be buried outside the sanctity of the churchyard because of her suicide.

“A few weeks after the marriage was supposed to have taken place, a local Margate girl revealed that the father of her illegitimate child was Danny Longstreet.

“Poor Ann, may she rest in peace.”

Jace closed the book. No, Ann Stuart didn’t rest in peace. In fact, she didn’t rest at all. She was doomed to wander about Priory House for…How long? he wondered. Until someone found out she had been murdered and hadn’t commited suicide?

He sat up straighter. Murder. When Jace first heard that the woman he loved had committed suicide, he’d said she’d been murdered, but no one would listen to him. Stacy had been an insomniac, so she’d always had sleeping pills. But in the years they’d known each other, she’d gradually come to stop using the pills. He hadn’t even known she still had a prescription. After her death, a doctor he’d never heard of had called to apologize for giving Stacy a new prescription. “I heard about her death,” the doctor had said. “She was a new patient and I had no idea she was an addict or a manic-depressive.” “She was no such thing!” Jace had said before his uncle Mike took the phone. Mike spoke quietly to the man for a few minutes, then hung up. Mike’s face was red with anger. “I think he’s worried we’ll sue so he’s trying to establish that Stacy was mentally unsound.” All Jace heard of that sentence was the word “was.” Stacy was gone.

During the weeks in hell that followed Stacy’s death, all Jace seemed to hear was that Stacy was “unstable” and had had years of counseling. Her family seemed to agree that being engaged to someone like Jace, so busy with work, always traveling, had sent her over the edge. She’d wanted out of the marriage but didn’t know how to say the words. Stacy’s stepmother said that Stacy hadn’t wanted to hurt Jace’s feelings. “So she
killed
herself?” Jace said. At that, Stacy’s stepmother had started crying, Stacy’s father had led her away, and Uncle Mike had taken Jace away.

It hadn’t taken much thought to see how much Stacy’s stepmother had to gain with Stacy’s death being a suicide. With Stacy gone, she had all her husband’s attention. The man had never cared much for his other daughter, Regina, who had married young and produced four homely children. Stacy had been the one to laugh, the one to put a sparkle in her father’s eye.

Jace closed his eyes and let himself remember something he’d tried to forget: Stacy’s funeral. Mr. Evans’s face had been bleak, his eyes dull and red with grief. Stacy had been his favorite. He used to say that she’d caused him problems, but she was worth it. At the funeral, Mr. Evans was slumped in a chair, numb from shock. Hovering over him were his young wife and his unloved second daughter, consoling him over the suicide.

What would have happened if Stacy’s death had been declared a murder? Jace thought. Roger Evans wouldn’t have needed the comfort of two women. He would have been a lion in a rage. He would have put his life on hold until he found out who had killed his precious daughter.

Jace’s mother always said that if you wanted to know why someone did something, then you should look at the result. When Stacy’s stepmother and her sister had blamed Jace and told the English police that Stacy was deeply unhappy, they’d achieved two things. They’d claimed Roger Evans’s undivided attention, and they’d rid themselves of the Montgomerys. Jace was well aware of how pleased Roger had been that his daughter was marrying into the Montgomerys, a family of wealth and power. That must have hurt Regina, as her husband couldn’t seem to hold a job.

Jace ran his hand over his eyes. Right now everything seemed clear. At least the motives of the people who were still living seemed clear.

But what about Stacy?

Jace looked about the room. He knew without a doubt that he’d been led to this house. It seemed that the letter he’d found had waited for him for three whole years. He’d needed time to get over his grief and shock about Stacy, and he’d needed time to realize that he
had
to find out the truth. He couldn’t continue in his life afraid that each woman he met was going to…He couldn’t bring himself to think of the possible consequences.

Murder, not suicide. It was an idea that had always been in his head, but who, why?
How?

The one thing he was truly sure of was that it was no coincidence that he was seeing a ghost who was believed to have committed suicide.

Jace picked up
The History of Margate
and looked at the story about Ann again. From the little bit he’d heard in his dreams, it seemed that everything in the story was wrong. From Catherine’s tone of voice, he didn’t think Ann was Arthur Stuart’s “beloved” daughter. And far from wanting to get out of marrying a rogue like Danny Longstreet, Ann was looking forward to it.

“What happened?” he asked aloud. “And what can I do about any of it?” He knew Ann had shown herself to other people—or been seen by them—but only he had seen her outside. That had to be significant.

Jace stood up. He knew he needed Ann Stuart. He needed what she’d seen happen in this house, and he felt that she needed him too. It was his guess that she’d been searching for…He calculated. Was it was possible that for a hundred and twenty-seven years she’d been searching for someone to help get her body into the sacred ground of the churchyard?

“You help me and I’ll help you,” he said, but felt no response. The room, even the house, felt empty. It made Jace smile when he thought that twice now he’d frightened Ann: once in the garden and once in her own time. For all he knew, right now she was hiding in Barbara Caswell’s tower room and planning to never come out.

He needed to talk to her and tell her of his problems with Stacy. He had to get her to come to him.

A slow smile spread over his face. He was going to court her. Entice her. He was going to create a web, then draw her into it.

Still smiling, Jace went into the big bedroom to pack his overnight case. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he knew he was going to have to trust some people.

G
ladys put down her paintbrush. “I need a rest.”

“Sure, as soon as—” Jace looked at Mick and Gladys and saw the way they were looking at him. They were young and in love and they wanted some of the weekend to be alone. It was three o’clock on Sunday afternoon and he’d had them working since two on Friday.

“Go on,” he said, “I’ll finish here. You two—” They were out of the room before he finished the sentence.

“It looks good,” Gladys called back to him as she and Mick ran down the stairs.

Jace had to control his feelings of jealousy as their laughter rang through the house. “This house needs some laughter,” he said, then stepped back to look at Ann’s room. It did look good.

On Friday he’d told Mrs. Browne he was going to spend the weekend in London. He’d politely listened to her explain that in England one spent the week in London and the week
end
in the country. “But I’m not English, am I?” Jace said, knowing that, to her mind, “not being English” was worse than any crime.

When he got to his car, as he hoped, Mick was nearby and Jace offered him a weekend job.

“In London? With my girl?”

“If you don’t mind staying at Claridge’s,” Jace said and thought Mick was going to faint with happiness. Even country folk knew Claridge’s was a world-renowned hotel.

Since Jace didn’t want the village to know what he was doing, he met them in St. Albans, they left their car in a parking lot, and the three took Jace’s Range Rover into London. Mick drove, Gladys sat beside him, and Jace sat in the back and made sketches and wrote notes on the big pad of grid paper that Mrs. Parsons at the stationers had included in her box of supplies.

Jace didn’t give the reason behind what he wanted to do and the young couple didn’t ask questions. He just said he planned to re-create the bedroom on the southwest corner of the house as it had been in 1878.

“The chintz room,” Mick said, looking in the rearview mirror at Jace.

“That
room is the chintz room?” Jace asked, remembering that it had been Barbara Caswell’s room. “How do you know that?”

“My mother used to clean at Priory House when I was a boy. I used to hide when we heard Mrs. Browne because we knew she’d fire Mum if she found out I was with her. She did and my mum was.”

Jace opened his mouth, but Mick spoke first. “No, sir, I didn’t find the secret staircase. No one has found it.”

No one alive, Jace thought as he looked back at his sketches. He wasn’t an artist but he’d sketched ornaments, china, furniture, fabrics, wallpaper, and the dresses of Catherine and Ann. “Mick?” Jace asked. “Does Mrs. Browne fire many people?”

Spontaneously, Mick and Gladys burst into loud, raucous laughter. He had his answer.

In London, they checked into two connecting rooms in the fabulously expensive Claridge’s Hotel. Jace ignored the looks on Mick’s and Gladys’s faces. He could see that they’d like to do most anything other than search out antiques, but it wasn’t five yet, so Jace gave them their assignments. Mick was to rent a trailer to haul what they bought back with them, then he was to go to a flea market and buy knickknacks from around 1878.

“I don’t know about ornaments,” Mick protested, glancing at Gladys.

“I know a bit,” she said, moving closer to him.

“You can’t go together,” Jace said. “Gladys, I want you to do some research.” He handed her a piece of paper. “That’s all I know about a woman and her husband who lived in London in 1878. I want you to find out everything you can about her, and I want all the pictures you can get.”

She looked intrigued by the assignment and stepped away from Mick. “Eighteen seventy-eight?”

“And after. What happened to the woman and her children? Mick, see that you get me lots of picture frames. Little ones.” He gave them each a stack of cash.

In spite of Mick’s complaints about his assignment, the three of them set out with enthusiasm. They met back at the hotel for an eight o’clock dinner in Jace’s room and took turns telling about their day.

Mick had booked the trailer, then taken a cab to a flea market where he’d met a little old lady who delighted in helping him. “I told her I worked for the BBC and I was supposed to decorate a bedroom for a young lady of 1878. She asked me questions about the room and I told her about Priory House. All I had to do was listen to her tell me the history of every object.” He unwrapped perfume bottles, a silver brush, a comb and hand mirror set, china ornaments, pretty hairpins, three brooches, and a pair of stockings. “If you want more, she’ll be there tomorrow. It seems that all she does is haunt the markets. Her eldest daughter—” Smiling, Mick stopped talking and looked at Gladys. “What did
you
get?”

Jace smiled in memory of the rivalry between lovers. It was something else he missed.

“What about you, sir? What did you get?” Gladys asked.

Jace realized there hadn’t been much time, so maybe Gladys hadn’t found out anything. He didn’t want to embarrass her. He’d visited four antique stores and found a bed very like Ann’s and a big green ottoman. One store owner told him that what he’d chosen were the most common pieces of the Victorian era and that if he were a connoisseur—

Jace had cut him off, not wanting to waste time hearing a sales pitch. That the furniture in Ann’s room was the “most common” reinforced his belief that she wasn’t “the beloved daughter” of Arthur Stuart.

For a moment, Jace thought of upgrading the furniture. Maybe he should buy the four-poster rosewood bed that was a ringer for the Lincoln bed in the White House. But no, the idea was to re-create a familiar-looking environment for Ann, so he stuck with what he’d seen.

After Jace told of his purchases, he turned to Gladys. “Did you have time to find out Catherine’s last name?”

Gladys excused herself from the table and returned a few minutes later with a half-inch-tall stack of photocopies. “The aristocracy in England keeps track of its own.”

Jace took the papers and began looking through them. Catherine Nightingale Stuart married Peregrine Willmot, the earl of Kingsclere, in 1872. They had nine children.

“I stopped by a tourist information shop and got this.” With a little cat smile, she handed Jace a triple-fold brochure advertising a castle to see. It had acres of parkland, a maze, a playground for children, and—

Jace drew in his breath as he unfolded the last page. There was a photo of a portrait of Catherine. “Castle Veraine’s most beautiful inhabitant, Catherine Nightingale Willmot,” it read below the photo. “The mother of nine children, but she never lost her eighteen-inch waistline.”

Jace looked at Gladys. “Tomorrow—”

“I’ve already checked the train schedules to go there tomorrow. I’ll be back in time for dinner. I’ll buy every book that has her name in it and every photo they have of her.”

“Good girl!” Jace said, then saw Mick and Gladys glance at each other; they’d been talking. Gladys wanted more than praise; she wanted information.

“So why are you doing this?” she asked.

Jace didn’t want to lie. “To attract a ghost.”

Mick looked like he wanted to run away, but Gladys was interested. Mr. Hatch was right, Jace thought. Either Mick will come up to her level of ambition or she’ll drop him.

“You’re redecorating the chintz room. Lady Grace’s room,” Gladys said. “But aren’t you a little concerned about her reputation of being a murderer?”

“What if I told you the house was haunted by a young Victorian lady who people believe committed suicide?”

“Ann Stuart,” Gladys said and Jace smiled.

“Gladys knows all about the history of Margate,” Mick said. “She wants to be on the village council someday.”

“I could believe that Gladys might someday be prime minister,” Jace said. Mick laughed, but she blushed prettily.

Jace had told them all he was going to, so he changed the subject.

On Saturday morning the three of them parted again. Mick didn’t ask to go on the train journey with Gladys. After her triumph of the night before, Mick seemed determined to outdo her. He had a copy of Jace’s sketches made and left before 9:00 a.m. “Gotta date,” he said, teasing Gladys as he left the hotel.

Jace had the most trouble with the wallpaper. He could find a reasonable facsimile of Ann’s wallpaper, but no one had enough in stock to do the room. When he was told someone had just ordered many rolls of that pattern, Jace asked the shop owner to call and offer double the amount for them. He could hear her thoughts of “Americans!”

Jace got the wallpaper, then bought a tea set that was like the dishes he’d seen on Ann’s mantel. The salesman, who looked old enough to have known Ann, assured him that the pattern had been in production in 1878.

Jace made four trips around London to pick up his purchases and pack them into the trailer Mick had hired. At eight that night they all met in his hotel room. Jace was ready to return to Priory House right then and start wallpapering, but after one look at Mick and Gladys, he gave in. They wanted another night in the hotel.

But Jace roused them at five the next morning and they set off. Mrs. Browne was off on Sundays and she’d told him that she spent the day with her friends Mrs. Parsons and Mrs. Wheeler. Jace wanted to redecorate the room while she wasn’t there. If possible, he wanted to keep what he was doing a secret from the nosy village.

He dropped Mick and Gladys off at their car in St. Albans, then drove back to Priory House alone. He was glad he didn’t have to go through the village with the trailer on the back.

It took them three hours to move everything into the house, then they started on the wallpaper. Jace had no idea what he was doing, but Mick and Gladys were old hands at it. They bossed him around and laughed at how inept he was.

At noon they raided Mrs. Browne’s tiny refrigerator and the big pantry and covered the table with a Jamie feast. Jace had missed several dinners and most of them were still there. They had roast lamb, carrots, parsnips, and spinach that looked as though it had just been picked from Mr. Hatch’s garden. Gladys dug around in the stone-shelved pantry and found a tart full of raspberries.

Jace didn’t know if they knew about Daisy’s and Erin’s picking, so he didn’t want to tell outright. “I’m glad Mrs. Browne could find enough raspberries,” he said, and Mick and Gladys burst into laughter.

They were easy with each other now. In the last days the “sirs” had been dropped. They’d gone from being a boss and two employees to being competitors. Hands down, Gladys had won in the research competition and winning had given her confidence.

“Shall we get back to work?” Jace said after they’d eaten.

By three the wallpaper was up—thank heaven for prepasted—and all the many things they’d bought were in the room, but the small things were still wrapped. Jace wanted to be alone when he set up the ornaments, so he was glad they wanted to leave.

As soon as they were gone, he knew he wasn’t alone in the room. He could feel Ann’s presence. She was quiet, willing to sit without moving and watch, but he could feel her strength.

The furniture, even the wardrobe, was in place. The salesman had shown Jace how it disassembled so it could be carried upstairs in pieces, then quickly put back together.

Jace had bought a small stereo and some CDs, so he put on Mozart and began to unpack. Slowly, he unwrapped the wonderful things that Mick with his little old lady had found. “Hope it was all right that I gave her a hundred-pound note to say thanks,” Mick said, wanting to please his new boss, but also loving being able to tip someone a hundred pounds.

First, Jace made the bed. Thick, rough sheets that no amount of bleaching could make white again went on. A wool blanket next, then a beautiful, hand-crocheted spread that had little tassels on its diamond-shaped edges. Big, linen-covered pillows went next, plus a pretty little blue and white round pillow embroidered with wildflowers that nearly matched the wallpaper. Jace felt sure the woman who had chosen these things for Mick had enjoyed herself.

Jace unwrapped a dozen fragile little glass bottles and set them on the dressing table he’d bought. Ceramic dogs went by the fireplace, and two ballerinas on the mantel.

He opened another box. Gladys had stayed up late last night cutting out the photos she’d collected at Catherine’s husband’s home. She’d bought postcards and books and pamphlets, gathering all the pictures of Catherine and her children she could find. One by one, Gladys had cut the pictures to fit into the twenty-three Victorian frames that Mick had bought, and stuck an identification label on the back of each one.

Carefully, with slow patience and some drama, Jace unwrapped each portrait. Twenty-three times he made a show of where to set the frame. And each time he unwrapped one, he said aloud who it was. “Catherine’s next to youngest daughter, Isabella. She was born after you left, so you never saw her. She grew up to be almost as pretty as her mother.”

He opened another package. “Ah, yes, Catherine’s youngest daughter, Ann. She
was
as pretty as her mother.” When the scent of flowers and wood smoke wafted around him, he smiled but he didn’t turn.

He finished unloading the box. There was a photo of Catherine’s latest descendants, Lord and Lady Kingsclere. There was a look of Catherine about the eyes of Lord Kingsclere. His mother was named Ann.