Deveraux - Someone to Love

Margate, England

T he house was enormous, frighteningly ugly, and Jace Montgomery had just paid four and a half million dollars for it.

As he drove his car slowly through the wrought-iron gates that were set inside square brick pillars topped by stone lions, he dreaded seeing the house. Priory House was his now, but he could remember little from his one-time viewing with the realtor. The graveled road meandered through parkland that was quite pretty. Hed been told that the gardens had been laid out in 1910 by some famous landscape architect. The trees were now mature, the flowering shrubs were well established, and the grass perfect. If Jace were a horseman, which he wasnt, the parkland would have been a dream come true.

As he neared a big oak tree, he pulled over, stopped the car, and got out. In a moment the house would come into view, and he needed to prepare himself for it. To keep himself solvent, hed borrowed the purchase price from his billionaire uncle. Since the house had been on the market for over three years, Jace knew that when the time came to sell the house, it would be a pain to unload.

Hed tried to rent the house, but the owner wouldnt consider it. The man wanted to get rid of the monstrosity free and clear.

All right, Jace said to the realtor, or estate agent as they were called in England, whats wrong with the house? Other than being ugly, that is. He imagined plumbing that was perpetually clogged, low-flying jets, murderous neighbors. At the very least, dry rot.

It seems that theres a ghost, Nigel Smith-Thompson said with the air of a man who doesnt believe in such things.

Dont all old houses in England have a ghost? Jace asked.

We were told that this ghost is particularly persistent. She appears rather often and it annoys the owners.

Scares the hell out of them is what you mean, Jace thought. Is that why the house has changed hands so often? When Jace asked to borrow the money from his uncle to buy the house, Uncle Frank had had it thoroughly researched. Since the late nineteenth century, the house had never been owned by anyone for more than three years. Uncle Franks conclusion was that the house was a bad investment and Jace shouldnt buy it. Jace hadnt said a word, just handed his uncle the envelope hed found inside a book that had belonged to Stacy. Frank took the photo of the house out of the envelope, looked at it in distaste, then turned the picture over. On the back someone had written Ours again. Together forever. See you there on 11 May 2002.

It took Frank a moment to put it all together. Stacy died on?

The next day. Jace took a breath. On the twelfth of May, Stacy Evans, my fiance, committed suicide in a room over a pub in Margate, England.

Frank picked up the envelope and read the postmark. This was sent from Margate and the postmark is the eighth of April.

Jace nodded. Someone sent that to her before we left for England. He thought back to the trip that had changed his life. Jace had worked in the family business of buying and selling companies since the day he graduated from college. Less than a week before he was to marry Stacy, his uncle Mike, Franks brother, had called and said that the owner of an English tool manufacturing plant was pulling out of the sale. If that happened, three export deals would fall through and about a hundred people would be out of work. Since it had been Jace whod negotiated the deal, hed been the only one who could put it back together. He told Stacy he was sorry but he was going to have to fly to England. He promised that hed work night and day and be back as soon as possible.

But Stacy had surprised him by asking to go with him. I told her I didnt think it was a good idea for her to go, Jace said. The truth was, I didnt want to have to deal with her stepmother. Stace had enough stress on her without a foreign trip thrown into it all.

Yeah, I remember, Frank said. If Stacy said no to purple daisies then Mrs. Evans went on a campaign for masses of purple daisies. Anything to cause problemsand to put the attention on herself.

Jace looked away for a moment. There had been no love between the young, beautiful Mrs. Evans and her stepdaughter, who was just a bit younger than she was but a great deal more beautifuland a great deal more elegant. Stacy was the kind of woman who could wear a sweatsuit and people would know she came from money and breeding. Her father was a self-made man, but Stacys mother had come from an old family: penniless, but with ancient bloodlines.

It was only after Stacys death that her stepmother had professed great love for her stepdaughter, and shed made Jaces life miserable. At the funeral Mrs. Evans had screamed that Stacys suicide was Jaces fault. You killed her! she screamed in front of everyone. Did you find somebody you liked better so you took Stacy out of the country, away from her family, so you could drive her to death in secret?

It had all been absurd, of course, but it hurt just the same. Jace had loved Stacy with all his heart, and he had no idea why shed killed herself just days before their wedding.

You think this house has something to do with Stacys death, dont you? Frank asked.

I have nothing else to go on. Jace got up and began to pace the room. Its been three years, yet its all I can think of. That moment when Stacys sister threw the suicide note in my face and told me I had killed her sister haunts me every hour of every day.

What did the psychiatrist say? Frank asked softly.

Jace waved his hand. I quit going to him. We spent six months talking about Stacy and me. What deeply buried, hideous things had I done to her in secretsecret even from myselfthat made her take her own life? He got frustrated because I couldnt come up with anything, so he started on my family. When he concluded that I felt unworthy because Id been born into a family that has money, I got out of there.