The Horror of Crooling Grange

Rough draft, first three chapters...

revised September 19th, 2007
The Horror of Crooling Grange

Part 1. Of Bats and Bugs

Letter from Lorelei Pierson
To Warren Pierson
May 25, 1867

Oh Warren, Warren, whatever shall we do. Father has promised me to that horrid man Grayson. I can just imagine the look on his face when he learns I am no longer chaste, ha, ha. But he will never get that close… he will never have me, Warren! I’ll skewer that greasy pig first.

I love you! Do not say our love is wrong -- it cannot be! Why would God send this overwhelming desire into our hearts, and then will us to deny it! There are things you do not know Warren, things of which I dare not speak of, even to you. But you must trust me my beloved. Our love was meant to be. I feel it so deep within my soul. I care not what others think; God has made you for me, and only me.

Please wait until you see me again before you declare our life together impossible. Our love can conquer any obstacle; we shall be together always. You must trust me dear heart, you can no more deny me, than I you… I shall be there soon.

All my undying love,
Lorelei

Letter from Lord Pierson
To Warren Pierson
May 26, 1867

Dear Son,

I am afraid I have some terrible news. The Argos sank, a hurricane came up off the Gulf of Mexico and all hands were lost. It is financial ruin, my son, three ships in one season. Captain Gardener was a dear friend and his sage counsel will be sorely missed in the trying times that lay ahead.

As you know the Argos was under-insured and I was depending on the cotton shipment to meet our outstanding debt. I know how much you where looking forward to entering Baneford Academy this fall, but I am afraid it will have to wait, son.

I have spoken to the bank’s representative Grayson Mansfield, I am sure you will remember him, he has been to our home several times, he has proposed marriage to Lorelei and has assented to pay off our debt in exchange for our property here and graciously offered us one of his holdings, a manor and lands near Ormsblood, the Crooling Grange Estate.

I have made various inquiries and from what I am told Crooling Grange has been unoccupied for several generations. I have no doubt that it is a crumbling old ruin. I have always tried to shield your mother from the stresses and financial realities of life. I am afraid taking her to a drafty old manor would be too much for her.

Once again, I must depend upon you, my son. I have every confidence in you. Please see to the necessary repairs and make the Grange as comfortable for her as you can. We shall be arriving as soon as I can fulfill my obligations here and make the necessary arrangements, if all goes well, we shall arrive about mid-June.

PS: Lorelei, should be arriving within a fortnight, she begged to go on ahead, I trust you will keep a short leash on her, you know how she gets.

Yours truly,
Lord Pierson

Warren Pierson’s Journal
June 2, 1867

God, I feel like Orpheus… for I have just traversed the road into Hades. As our little caravan traveled Dolman’s Lane we waded through knee-deep mists, past thorny bushes that arose on every side like shadowy phantoms. Black moss-infested limbs writhed snake-like over the lane, creating a sunless twilight realm beneath. Within that dark dryad’s bower all joyous sound and vibrant color had been banished long ago.

Dear Maria was fit to be tied, black flies and gnats swarmed like vengeful clouds, stinging and drawing blood. Maria was cursing and swatting like a mad women. She bundled her children in thick blankets atop the buckboard, covering their faces to protect them from the stinging bites.

The few men I had been able to hire in Ormsblood were on the point of rebellion when a light, but dimly gleaned at first, appeared at the end of that dark passageway; it grew in strength as we neared, renewing our fading hopes of re-entering the sunlit world beyond.

The Crooling Grange Manor crouched like a squat juggernaut atop a high mound, surrounded by low hills of emerald that disturbed the eye and unsettled the nerves; winding in snake-like undulations they dipped into shallow vales, swimming in shades of chaos like the dream of a dissolute God. In the background was a low range of mountainous hills; from which arose a lone tower stretching into the sky like a lost soul reaching desperately for the light and surrounding all was that silent dark and deep, somnolent wood.

As we approached I could see that the outer walls of the Grange were composed of huge blocks of cyclopean masonry. The manor itself was a strangely configured three-story structure, vaguely reminiscent of a medieval fortress. It appeared more like the work of demented titan, than something made by the hand of man. The unusual construction led me to wonder just how old the structure really was. How many times over the centuries, perhaps millennia, had it been altered to accommodate new inhabitants? Smaller block had been added over the centuries heightening the walls and altering its contours. The road was lined with ancient standing stones that radiated out like spokes from a wheel, some of the stones remained true and upright while others leaned at weird angles or lay broken and half-buried in the earth.

Finally, we stood before the huge, ironbound oaken doors of the manor; they creaked and groaned in defiance as we forced them open. It held some mysterious force that I am unable to describe, other than to say it had a magnetic quality, unlike any other place I have ever known. From the very first moment I arrived at the manor, I noticed a strange galvanic sensation that made my hair stand on end. The courtyard within was choked with weeds, small trees had pushed their way up through the cracking pavement and clinging vines swarmed over abandoned carts and strangled the lonely hitching posts.

As we explored the interior of the manor Mari kept repeating, “Oh, this will never do!” She had her trusty broom in hand almost immediately and began clearing the cobwebs and sweeping away the dust and dirt. “Sweep the Devil out,” she chanted as her broom drove clouds of dust before her. Maria’s children were running in dizzying circles, laughing and chasing each other around her skirt, before long too they looked almost ghost-like from the dust that covered them.

An owl sleepily perched on a rafter in the main hall; he barely lifted an eye to greet the noisy new tenants invading his once secluded roost. In the center of the courtyard we made a bonfire of rotting furniture and other debris. I had some of the men chop wood for the fireplaces and the stove; others I had draw water from the well for cooking and baths.

Although the huge oaken timbers were still sound, nature had begun to reclaim the Grange, for the roof had collapsed in several places. Mold grew thick on the floors and climbed hungrily up the walls. The furniture drawers and closets were covered with the black spore of vermin.

I climbed up into the attic to inspect the damage to the roof; as I open the trap door to my surprise I saw bats covering the ceiling. I returned to the courtyard and had the men prepare torches to drive them out. When we reached the attic the bats seemed to sense our presence and to know our intent.

They attacked, circling and diving at us. We swung our torches igniting some of them in flight. Even this did not stop their ferocious attacks. They swooped and dove as the flames consumed their bodies, like vengeful daemons they clung to the men, burning, biting and flapping their leathery wings. I began to fear we would burn the Manor to the ground; I shouted for someone to bring water and douse the flames.

We had a devil of a time clearing all those winged vermin out. Several of the men were badly burned and bleeding profusely from wounds caused by their needle-like fangs. All of us were quite shaken by the experience. Several of the men quit, mumbling to each other and glancing fearfully into the shadows.

When I promised them more money to stay on; a burly man named Jake with red hair, a round belly and the stale smell of whiskey on his breath said, “Gov’na, I hain’t bloody stay-yin ‘ere, not fer all the Crown Jewels, I hain’t, what ‘em bats did hain’t natural!”

Part 2. Of Rats

Warren Pierson’s Journal
June 9, 1867

I have lived with pain and longing for as long as I can remember, the pain of hopeless love, a desperate yearning for something that could never really be mine. This pain was made all the more unbearable by its improper nature. What whim of fate, what curious force molded my tormented psyche into this twisted, untenable shape?

Why is it that we are so drawn to the forbidden? What makes us long for that which is beyond our faintest hopes of attaining? Why do we become so attached to that which can only bring us pain and grief, why not free ourselves from that which fills our days and nights with misery?

The world will not be forgiving and Lorelei's passion will quickly cool, love’s flame will dim and falter under icy stares and the bitter winds of criticism we must surely face. The flaming sword of righteous indignation will be brandished before us, driving us forth from polite society, just as once it drove Adam and Eve from their earthly paradise.

Even this I would gladly bear for her sake, if I did not know that as fierce as her love is, the flames of hatred would burn just as brightly someday if we were to declare our love.

Lorelei has never been able to see it the way I do. She was always ruled by her heart and followed wherever her intense passion led. She is the tempting little devil whispering in my ear and the angel of dreams that comes to me at night, the reason for my fall from grace and my only hope of redemption. Desire for her drove me to commit the gravest of mortal sins, but with her I have known the sweetest of divine gifts to mortals -- love.

Warren Pierson’s Journal
June 11, 1867

I love her -- oh, dear God, how I love her. My love is an inescapable maelstrom, a tempestuous river that draws me irresistibly over the swift rapids of emotional turmoil. The wellspring from which I draw the sustaining waters of life: it is so much a part of who and what I am, that without it, I would be left adrift and floating aimless on a soul-less sea of emptiness.

How I longed to touch her, to feel my hands glide over those soft and graceful limbs; my ethereal goddess returned from Olympus, cloaked in the early morning fog. A ray of sunlight streaked through the gray clouds for just a moment, accentuating the snow-white perfection of her skin and lending her a supernal glow. Her silken black tresses flowed gently in the morning breeze; it seemed to swing and sway to a tune of wanderlust, of daring adventure, of tumbling dice and the carefree days of our youth.

She gave me a mischievous grin pointed up the mountainside towards the lone tower and the remains of the burnt out Abbey and Cathedral of St. Michael’s. I felt a sharp chill as I looked at that ancient craggy tower, my mind filled with an unreasoned and overwhelming sense of foreboding. I shook my head, no. She focused her eyes on me giving me that all too familiar look of command. I tried to talk her out of it; but she insisted stomping her little foot in defiance. She knew that I could refuse her nothing and like a hundred times before my will bent to hers.

The climb was a difficult one, and we were forced to leave our horses tied in the foothills. Ares and Aphrodite were none to happy about being left behind, they snorted and stomped making their indignation clear. Sprite-like her dark eyes sparked with excitement. She scrambled up the mountainside waving me on me in her eagerness to explore the old ruins. As we climbed our feet slipped and slid in the loose earth and gravel. Finally, after a long struggle we reached the summit.

Flying buttresses rose up on either side of the cathedral like a half-buried skeletal ribcage, a deserted corpse waiting hopelessly for a proper burial. We walked slowly and reverently through the remains of the old cathedral. Near the back wall was a smoke stained statue of St. Michael. The Archangel’s sword was lifted high over his head. A dragons’ tail wound about him in a strangling embrace. The unknown sculptor had caught the moment perfectly, that one brief instant just before the downward stroke that would sever the roaring dragon’s head.

“Isn’t it magnificent, it’s almost alive, I wish we could bring it back with us.” Lorelei said, excitedly. She walked through the debris, circling about the statue, examining it carefully. She stopped momentarily as her hands roamed over the archangel’s muscular thighs. She smiled seductively.

Lorelei then began examining the dragon, running her hand over the spikes on its scaly back. She moved slowly around the statue trailing a hand over it. Then she looked the roaring dragon in the face. She put her hand on its brow and then gingerly put her other hand into its mouth. She ran her fingers slowly over the sharp teeth, “Ouch, ’ she exclaimed, pulling her fingers out quickly. “Look -- I am bleeding,” she said, sucking the blood from her slender finger.

“Let me kiss it for you my dearest,” I took her finger into my mouth, my manhood swelled, Lorelei knew and sighed; a glazed look entered her eyes.

“Aughh, yessss,” she moaned.

“It is so wrong, Lorelei…” I sighed. We smoldered in each other’s arms, intense waves of heat consumed us, the fires of forbidden passion raging out of control as our lips and bodies melded together.

“I must have it, Warren, you are mine,” Lorelei sighed. Whatever resolve, whatever strength of purpose I had… vanished as I felt the warmth of her softly plump lips, her moist depths. God take me for a sinful fool, but I took her over and over, once again consummating the unholy passion, that insane desire that has haunted my conscience since childhood.

“Let’s get out of here, Lorelei, I’m starting to get a bad feeling.” We dressed hurriedly, irrationally I feared being caught red-handed.

“Wait -- what’s this? It’s some kind of lever.” She pulled up on a cleverly concealed claw lever, there was a harsh mechanical grating sound and we watched as the statue rotated out of place revealing a tunnel that led into the unknown depths below. Suddenly, the statue ground to a halt; the mechanism must have been damaged in the fire that ravished the cathedral. I grabbed a candle stand and pried on the statue until I had made an opening large enough for us to enter.

“Oh my God, how deliciously exciting!” Lorelei exclaimed, clapping her hands together once and bringing her arms up against her tiny breasts.

I was in no way prepared for what we would find there. I ordered Lorelei to stay where she was on the stairs, but she would hear none of it and followed closely behind me. We descended the stairs; below us I saw strange barely discernable figures in the darkness.

The vision that confronted us was far worse than anything my overwrought imagination could have conceived. I was overcome with shock; horrified in the extreme by that phantasmagoric nightmare. But Lorelei was enthralled, simply fascinated by the grisly spectacle that lay before us.

There in the darkness lay the twisted skeletal remains of the monks of the abbey. Their corpses were contorted into poses of extreme of agony. I could imagine them desperately fighting to escape the pit as the heat and smoke overcame them, sealing their fate.

“They roasted alive down here,” Lorelei said softly, as she moved among the remains. She crouched near one of the dead monks, gently touching its bare blackened skull. She looked sadly into the ebon pits that had once held human eyes. “Oh, it must have been so horrible for them,” she said in sympathy.

It was then I began to notice the hungry eyes of rodents gathering about us in the dark. Their feral eyes stared silently, ominously upon us, unnerving me. With each passing moment my anxiety grew more pronounced. I stood behind Lorelei as she crouched near the corpses, “Let’s get out of here,” I said, touching her shoulder gently.

Suddenly a gust of black wind arose from nowhere it swirled about us in its fury. The rats raced out of the darkness swarming around us. I thrust Lorelei up the stairs as she screamed hysterically. I stomped hard with my riding boots crushing the vermin into the floor. They squealed shrilly as their bones shattered, blood splattering up my legs. They scrambled up my clothes in rabid ferocity; I tore them off crushing their skulls against the walls.

Lorelei yelled for me frantically. I raced up the stairs with the bloodthirsty rats still clinging to my hair, arms and torso. I groaned in an effort to push the statue back over that abysmal pit as the black vermin bit and gnawed at my flesh. They streamed forth in unnumbered hordes up the stairwell. With a supreme effort that made the blood throb in my head I got the statue to budge, then grind slowly back into place. I grabbed the candle stand and began smashing scurrying rats against the altar floor. I went mad; a desperate killing frenzy overtook me. When I returned to my senses, a sheen of blood was streaked across my grim sweaty face.

“We still haven’t explored the old tower?” She whispered putting her hand softly upon my shoulder.

“Christ Lorelei! Absolutely not, we have to start back before it gets dark; besides, father will have my head if he finds out about this.” I yelled.

“You can’t tell me you didn’t love that!”

“We’re leaving - - now!”

Oh, all right -- if you promise to bring me back again.” She demanded.

“Not bloody likely.”

Ares the proud black Arabian and Aphrodite Lorelei’s white Appaloosa neighed and pranced as we neared; we saddled them just as the sun was setting dream-like in the west. My thoughts revolved around the horror and mystery of what we had discovered in the burnt out abbey. As we rode slowly in the growing darkness along that narrow cobbled lane towards Crooling Grange, we saw a huge blood-red moon hanging ominously over it. By that moons ruby light it was easy to see why the place was surrounded by superstitious dread and why it had lain dormant for so many decades.

Maria was standing before the heavy oaken doors as we arrived. She ran out to greet us. I dismounted and Maria wrapped her arms around me crying with relief, “Oh, thank God, you’re back!” Her mood changed as suddenly as a leaf blown through in an autumn breeze. “You kids will be the death of me! I’ve been worried sick!” She scolded, slapping me about the head and shoulders. I brought my arms up to avoid the quick slapping hands and then grabbed her in bear hug, laughing.

“What is it Maria? What’s wrong?” I asked looking into her big auburn eyes.

“I was sure something terrible had happened to you two, I kept imaging rats attacking you and skulls around Lorelei! How could you leave me alone in this dreadful old manor all day?” Long ago I gave up being surprised by Maria’s uncanny intuitive abilities; she always knew when we were in trouble and usually guessed nearer to the mark then we let on.

Lorelei took our dear matron in her arms; then wiped the tears from her face. “Oh, I am so sorry, my dear,” Lorelei apologized, kissed her cheek and putting one arm about her waist led Maria inside, while I took Ares and Aphrodite to the stables.

Part 3. Of Hounds

Warren Pierson’s Journal
June 11, 1867

We were surprised by a visit from Grayson Mansfield this morning. I went out to greet the little caravan as it entered the courtyard. Once again I found myself envying his height and build; he is over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. But as usual his demeanor left something to be desired. He was terribly rude to anyone he felt below his station. I remember disliking him intensely from the first; the fact that he was soon to wed the delicate flower of my dreams, only added fuel to the fires of my enmity.

Grayson hopped from the wagon looking a bit pale and shaken, “That is the most damnable wood, we were nearly eaten alive by the bugs!”

“Isn’t it though?” I replied.

Grayson had brought two wagonloads of goods with him one full of fresh timber and building supplies, the other full of foodstuffs and sundry items. “Where is Lorelei? I brought something for her,” he asked. I sent Maria to bring Lorelei out. Maria came back trying to hide the smirk on her face, “She won’t come out; she absolutely refuses. She told me to tell you, sir,” she said looking meaningfully at Grayson, “That she can’t be bought.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that!” Grayson said, with a smugness that made my blood run cold, but I held my peace. He stormed up to her room and beat on the door, I laughed inwardly, he had no idea just how stubborn Lorelei could be.

Warren Pierson’s Journal
June 11, 1867

This morning Maria was lovingly feeding an apple to Ares. From the loft I saw Grayson enter the stables. He confronted Maria, leering at her. He held out a handful of banknotes and rudely pushed them towards her and she waved it away with both hands.

Grayson grabbed her wrists angrily, lifting her arms above her head; he slammed her forcefully against the stall. Ares snorted, rising up on his hind legs, stomped his hooves into the earth and caprioled violently. The other horses neighed and snorted moving nervously about their stalls.

For the first time I noticed that Maria was indeed lovely; her rich olive toned skin had a warm inviting glow. Her figure was as full and robust as one of Rueben’s model’s, her light brown hair flowed in wavy ringlets tumbling over her shoulders and her gracefully aging face was so near to the classical ideal, her features could have been carved by Phidias himself. Her deep-auburn eyes were usually peaceful pools of warm compassion, reflecting love, but in that desperate moment they were filled with intense fear.

One of Grayson’s huge hands held Maria’s wrists while the other moved purposefully towards the bodice that bound her bosoms together with leather and lace. Like a Gordian knot the laces confounded his crude one-handed attempt to unravel their secrets. Then in frustration with both hands he ripped her bodice open. Maria squirmed like an alley cat trying desperately to free herself from his clutches. He handled her roughly, grinning maniacally as she pleaded with him to let her go.

Anger mixed with contempt in my mind, stirring my blood to violent passion. I would thrash him within an inch of his miserable life. I was about to jump from the high loft in defense of Maria when I heard a low-growling coming from below me and to my left. To my surprise I saw an enormous black dog, as big as a calf, its teeth were bared, hackles bristling, its eyes fixed with deadly intent upon its prey. Realizing his peril Grayson turned quickly. His face turned ashen white; he trembled before the enormous black dog.

In an unmatched display of cowardice he grabbed Maria, spun her around and held her out like a sacrificial lamb to the rabid fangs of the drooling hound. Maria’s eyes stretched wide in shock; she lifted her hands to her mouth in silent terror. Then remembering her rosary she held it firmly, closed her eyes and began to pray. The snarling beast growled menacingly.

I grabbed a pitchfork and leapt from the high loft, landing heavily, directly between Maria and raging, black beast. The hound was startled, turned quickly and ran from the stable. It disappeared so suddenly; I wondered if it had ever really been there at all.

I got a woolen blanket out of Ares stall and put it over Maria’s shoulders; she sobbed softly as I led her from the stables. I heard Grayson muttering obscenities as I walked away.

To be continued...

Revised Sept. 30, 2007

The Horror of Crooling Grange

Lorelei Pierson crept barefoot and silent through the chilly halls of her ancestral home. Almost ghostly in her white nightgown she floated past gold-framed portraits of her hallowed ancestors towards the stateroom where her younger brother slept.

As quietly as she could, she slowly turned the door handle and opened the heavy paneled door. On a four-posted canopy bed he rested peacefully, the canopy curtains were drawn back and shifting tides of light from the fireplace gently washed over him.

She winced, noticing the bruises discoloring his rugged, yet handsome face. A wave of guilt swept over her. Warren got those bruises defending her honor along the rough docks of the Baneford canal. She knelt down quietly at his bedside as if in penance. Lightly she brushed a lock of wavy brown hair away from his eyes. He stirred. “Lorelei” he said sleepily, “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep, Warren,” she whispered, “I am so sorry, I should have listened to you.”

“It’s my fault dearest, I never should have put you in that kind of danger.”

“Why must you do that? You are not responsible for everything thing that happens, your not Atlas you know -- you can’t support the world on your shoulders.”

“I am not trying to… my angel,” he whispered softly.

She sighed and kissed his forehead gently. Lorelei lingered there, staring into his eyes as if searching for answers to unspoken questions. Softly she kissed his bruised cheek; powerful currents of attraction had always flowed restlessly between them.

“You remember when we where children?” She asked tentatively.

“What?”

Her hand slid beneath the covers moving slowly over his thighs. “Lorelei, no,” he said in a low almost inaudible voice.

“I dream of nothing else, I want to see it.” She teased.

Without waiting for an answer she drew back the bedcovers. What she found there made her cheeks grow warm and rosy, a guilty fire burned through her body.

She threw her arms about his neck. “I love you, ” She confessed, sobbing quietly, shuddering deeply the tears streamed down her hot blushing cheeks. He held her head in his hands and forcefully, desperately kissed her. In that fateful moment of moral weakness all his suppressed urges and long frustrated needs were unleashed; overcome with animal passion his hands roamed hungrily over the rounded hills of her thin white gown.

Over and over, he forced waves of immense pleasure from her sweating, trembling, clenching body. Lightheaded, panting and breathless in the aftermath of their love he held her close, stroking her luxuriant black hair as she cradled contentedly in his arms.

Shame found him then in that moment of unexpected bliss and struck him sharply like a cold slap in the face. The unspoken sin of the aristocracy had arisen like a great serpent out of the depths and caught another pair of siblings in its dark coils.
.
“Oh Gods, what have we done, Lorelei.”

“You will never make me feel guilty about this… I love you and you love me.”

“That doesn’t matter and you know it. We have made a dreadful mistake, we must both try to forget -- put this behind us.”

Lorelei got up quickly, angrily; she slipped her white nightgown over her long and elegant, snow-white naked form. She walked to the door and stood there for a moment on the threshold, she turned suddenly her dark eyes blazing, “You will never forget! The memory of this night shall haunt you through eternity. Try as you may, you cannot fight it - - you will always love me, it is hopeless to pretend and you know it.

***

Warren Pierson’s Journal
May 21, 1867

I have lived with pain and longing for as long as I can remember, the pain of hopeless love, a desperate longing for something that could never truly be mine. It was made all the more unbearable by improper nature of my desires. What whim of fate, what curious force molded my tormented psyche in this way?

The world will not be forgiving to us and Lorelei’s passion will quickly cool and love’s flame will dim and falter under the icy stares and bitter winds of criticism that we must surely face. The flaming sword of righteous indignation will drive us forth from polite society, just as it once drove Adam and Eve from their earthly paradise. Even this, I would gladly bear for her sake, if not for the certain knowledge that if we ever openly declared our love, her hatred would burn as fiercely for me, as her love does now.

Lorelei will never be able to see it the way I do. She has always ruled by her heart and always follows her intense passions. She is the reason for my fall from grace and my only hope of redemption. Desire for her has driven me to commit the gravest of mortal sins, but with her too I have known the most wondrous of divine gifts -- love.

***

Warren Pierson was in a sorry state. He stood for hours letting the world pass by without a thought. Neither the light of reason or of interest ever sparkled in his dim-saddened-gray eyes anymore.

He sat dismal and dejected in the dusty bookkeepers office of his family’s warehouse on Portage Street, along the Baneford canals. A rusty old Franklin stove in the corner cast a melancholy glow over the unfinished pine walls and the little cot he had set-up for himself beneath the window.

He stared expressionless at two letters on his desk; one was from his father, the other from his sister. He picked up Lorelei’s letter trying to decide whether to open it or not. Then grabbing his penknife he quickly sliced one envelope open, then the other. Silently he read the letters in the fading twilight.

Letter from Lorelei Pierson
To Warren Pierson
May 28, 1867

My Dearest Brother,

I shall always look back on the moments we shared with the greatest of thankfulness, do not be ashamed of what we did. For one brief moment we shared what society would deny us, to love whom we choose and how.

Father has promised me to Grayson Mansfield, I barely know the man. In all, I have spoken barely a dozen words to him and I can only assume he wants me as a trophy to parade before his friends, surely he cannot love me.

I am trying to be brave and do what is required. I know Father would never ask this of me, were it not, the most dire of circumstances. Yet, I cannot help but feel betrayed.

How I wish that we could be together. Perhaps it is a hopeless dream but there must be some way.

All my undying love
Lorelei Pierson

Letter from Lord Pierson
To Warren Pierson
May 28, 1867

Dear Son,

I am afraid I have some terrible news. The Argos sank, a hurricane came up off the Gulf of Mexico and all hands were lost. It is financial ruin, my son, three ships in one season. Captain Gardener was a dear friend and his sage counsel will be sorely missed in the trying times that lay ahead.

As you know the Argos was under-insured and I was depending on the cotton shipment to meet our outstanding debt. I know how much you where looking forward to entering Baneford Academy this fall, but I am afraid it will have to wait, son.

I have spoken to the bank’s representative Grayson Mansfield, I am sure you will remember him, he has been to our home several times, he has proposed marriage to Lorelei and has assented to pay off our debt in exchange for our property here and graciously offered us one of his holdings, a manor and lands near Ormsblood, the Crooling Grange Estate.

I have made various inquiries and from what I understand Crooling Grange has been unoccupied for several generations. I have no doubt that it is a crumbling old ruin. I have always tried to shield your mother from the financial realities of life. I am afraid taking her to a drafty old manor would be too much for her.

Once again, I must depend upon you, my son. I have every confidence in you. Please see to the necessary repairs and make the Grange as comfortable for her as you can. We shall be arriving as soon as I can fulfill my obligations here and make the necessary arrangements, if all goes well, we shall arrive about mid-June.

PS: Lorelei, should be arriving within a fortnight, she begged to go on ahead. She did not take the news of her upcoming nuptials well. I trust you will take good care of her, and convince her that it is in the family’s best interest that she complies with my wishes.

Yours truly,
Lord Pierson

***