Creative Coupling - Lord Byron and the White Lady

Debi of Easel & Quill has set a challenge for Valentine’s Day of ‘Creative Coupling& Bleeding Hearts’ the idea being to take two characters whether from life, fiction or film/tv etc. and say who, why and how they met and became a couple. This is my offering.

Lord Byron and the White Lady of Newstead.

The Who

Lord Bryon had sold lovely Newstead to his old school friend Thomas Wildman and traveled far to Greece where he met his mortal end. His body returned home to England but burial at Westminster Abbey was refused due to what was termed by some as his ‘questionable morality’. His mortal remains eventually found a resting place in the local parish church of St. Mary Magdalene but mortal remains are never as strong in will as those of spirit, soul and heart and his heart had always intended it should return and reside at Newstead Abbey once more. He had years previously  build a magnificent tomb in Newstead grounds to his most beloved of dogs, the Newfoundland Boatswain with the intention they would eventually be reunited in death once again and buried together. The body did not make the return journey but his heart and soul did and once more Byron wandered his beloved Newstead grounds in Spirit alongside his faithful hound. 

The Lady in White as she was to become known because of her fondness for wearing light coloured clothing was named in life as Sophie Hyatt, a very shy young lady who being born deaf and unable to speak was nervous of people and had a habit of diving into nearby cover to hide as strangers approached. She found a life in books and words, both giving her new worlds to escape too and was often to be seen carrying a slate upon which to write her own words. Though loving his poems she never met Byron in life, moving close to Newstead to live on the farm of a relative after he had already sold the Abbey and moved to Greece but she struck up a friendship with the Wildman family who became fond of the young girl, allowed her to wander the Abbey grounds and often she was to be scene in the distance wandering the glorious gardens with the dog Byron had to leave behind, accompanying her. Unable to support herself she lived a rather perilous existence relying on the good will of relatives, when the kindly farmer who’d took her in died she was once more force to move on in the hope of finding further help but tragedy struck as she set off for Nottingham and not hearing the Drayman’s warning she was struck by the horse and cart and died outside the Black Boy pub. It was an added sadness that her journey was unnecessary as the Wildman’s had already decided to offer her a home in the grounds of their estate. Her body was buried locally but her heart and spirit returned to where it had known happiness and can still occasionally be seen to this very day wandering the Abbey grounds along the path now known as the White Lady’s Walk.

The Meeting

Byron was happy to be home once more and at least in spirit he no longer had the responsibilities of maintaining of the estate, never something he was good at, or huge debts hanging over his head, he was happy to see his friend Thomas was looking after the estate well. He was overjoyed to once more be reunited with his best childhood friend the large and ever faithful Boatswain. Still an air of melancholy did descend on his spirit, his soul still poured forth new words and poems but without anyone to share them with the words seem empty of meaning and were lost to the world. One morning he began his daily leisurely stroll of the garden but caught the quickest glimpse of another shadow spirit diving into cover of the shrubbery as he neared, was this another soul with which he could converse? This occurred for six days in a row but whenever he neared the spot there was no sign of another, either mortal or spirit. On the seventh day he rose early from his slumbers and waited at the spot of disappearance, he did not wait long before the shy spirit of Sophie made its present but seeing her root of vanishing blocked she became rather flummoxed as to what to do. Boatswain once more came to his master’s aid in spirit as he always did in life and wandered up to the lady in white with a friendly wagging tail and a head that just needed to be patted and stroked. The ice was broken and as so often happens in life, a friendship and love was born over a dog who brought two souls together. 

The Happy Ever After Conclusion. 

Now the White Lady no longer wanders alone on her walks and Byron’s spirit is no longer melancholy. They wander together in their eternal walks of the grounds, weaving new works of words between them, lost to the world but shared between those two, laughing and whispering of things the mortal world has no sense of.  In their wake the ever faithfully spirit of Boatswain follows his master and new mistress. 

Pretty Pink Magic

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing.

The old words reverberated inside Florrie's head, she clutched the plain paper bag closer to her. Her cheeks burned crimson as she asked for it to be put in a plan paper bag, the sales woman had at first wrapped it so beautifully in pretty flowered paper and then finished it all off with a lovely pink satin bow, but oh the shame if she had bumped into any of her friends while carrying such a parcel and the fuss it would spread around school. It wasn't that she was ashamed of who she was, she was a witch that walked proud of the title but why oh why did all the spells they taught at school have to contain yucky ingredients? Was it really so wrong to yearn for spells that were made of lace and ribbon, flowers and pearls, glitter and sparkles, couldn't magic also be pretty? She set her face in grim determination, if they wouldn't teach her how to do pretty spells, she'd make some up herself. 

Prompt taken from Magpie Tales and apologies to Shakespeare for pinching his words at the beginning. 

Quest for the Black Rose.

A thoughtful Ria checked in to her hotel, she so missed her own beloved rose garden yet she knew she’d left it in safe hands and now she’d started the search for her most wished for rose, the rare true black rose, she could not turn back. It was a quest she'd always dreamed about and now a small inheritance had turned it into reality. Her first point of call had been to visit Kew after gaining permission to view their private library, several books there had talked of the 'True Black' growing in the land of the shortest daylight hours. Taking out her old leather atlas she tried to ponder her next journey. She’d talked to a few people on her way back to the hotel and there seemed a mixture of opinion on which country had the shortest daylight hours. The general consensus was that she should head north and Iceland seemed to be the first obvious choice for her next destination.

As she stepped off her flight in Iceland, the chill air swirled around and Ria was glad she’d treated herself to new warm coat. Settling down in her small but chic hotel room in Reykjavik she tried to decide where she should be begin her search, thinking maybe the first stop should be the botanical gardens in the city. She flipped through the local paper she’d picked up and her eyes opened wide as she turned the page and a photo of what looked to be the blackest of roses appeared, she could feel her heart picking up it’s beat as she read under the photo of the ‘Midnight Rose’ native to Iceland and one park in particular Hellisgeroi Park in the town of Hafnarfjorour. Her mind quickly revised its plans. This was the place she needed to visit.

A tour of the gardens was just about to start as she arrived the next morning and excitedly she joined in the group of fellow garden enthusiasts. The gardens were truly delightful with many hidden lava grottoes around hidden corners, each turn of the meandering paths produced new treasures and views to remember. Their guide was in full flow talking of it’s many gems, 

“....and now we come to the gardens most treasured blooms the midnight rose, said to have been grown by the hidden people and wights of this land long before humans settled here.” 

Ria could hardly contain her excitement as she edged nearer to the flowers the guide was pointing to, only for her joy to slowly ebb away as she got ever closer, the rose was undoubtedly beautiful but sadly not that black elusive treasure she sought. Its stunning colour up close was unmistakably the darkest of blues. A fellow tour companion must have heard her heartfelt sigh “Do you not like the rose?” she turned to find herself staring in to the bluest of eyes and finding her breath caught once more, she felt herself blushing and though some explanation was called for.

“No the rose is indeed beautiful” but still her words couldn't hide her disappointment and her new companion ushered her to a nearby stone seat and the tour slowly moved forward without them. She started to tell of her quest to find the blackest of roses, but now sadly the trail seem to have disappeared on her and it looked like she would have to go home without achieving her dream.

Those blue eyes looked thoughtful as they gazed at her, “my dear dreams should always be followed and I too enjoy the search for those things of rare beauty, I have heard that the true black rose only grows in the hottest of climates and once belonged to the oldest of civilizations, I leave tomorrow on business in the land of the Pharaohs, will you not join me and see if those rumours I’ve heard are true?"

This is my part of a story I wrote for a fiction circle where someone starts a story off and gives a prompt at the end for the next person to carry on with and so it goes on, around the circle till the story is complete.

The Inheritance - Part One

Ice crunched under Ellen’s feet as she stepped gingerly out of the car.

“Well here we are Morton cottage” the lawyer’s voice dropped as he too got out the car to look on the view ahead of him. “Are you really sure you want to move in right away?” The dark of the night was already curling around them and the stone cottage ahead, on first glance, gave no sign of welcome.

Ellen cast him a glance, the look in his eyes was the same she’d had from everyone she told about her move from the city to reside in the country. It simply said ‘You’re mad’. Turning to glance again at the cottage, she stubbornly refused to listen to the voice in her head telling her the same thing.

“Yes, I am perfectly sure” Her voice sounding far firmer than she felt and was as crisp as the cool air. With a final look, her companion led the way to a little side gate, while he struggled with keys in a frozen lock. Ellen once again wrapped herself in her own thoughts. An exciting new life adventure had been bequeathed to her by some long forgotten relative was the story she sold to those who had asked. The truth was slightly harsher.

City life was all Ellen knew, it was her life, the bright lights, the wine bars, shops, lots of shops, but then why not she earned a good wage, correction she had earned a good wage. The failure of the banks had seen Ellen’s life crumple around her. In no way was this a new start the Ellen of old would have chosen, yet finding she had been left a cottage in the middle of nowhere was a life line. A life line that came in the same week she was due to be evicted from her apartment.

The squawk of the raven jolted her back to the present as the lawyer finally managed to push open the gate. Ahead the undisturbed snowy path led directly to the cottage door.

“It’s a good strong cottage, structurally very sound despite its age.  As the sole beneficiary you will find the cottage is still fully furnished as the deceased left it. The only clause in the will, as we discussed is to the erm, land attached" his sentence seem to drift at that point and Ellen just nodded absentmindedly, in truth she could hardly remember much of the conversation held little over a week ago in the plush offices of the lawyers in London. She wasn't a gardener but then up until now she'd never consider herself a country person either. She was sure that even she could manage  some weeding and mowing, if that was needed, it hardly seem like it would be a big problem.

She sensed the lawyer looking at her quizzically again but just walked on, not wishing to reveal feelings and thoughts she herself did not yet understand. He was now chattering to her again and had once more put on his, look on the bright side voice "As soon as you get a fire going, I’m sure it will feel more like home” he rambled on.

“Fire, he expected her to know how to make a fire” Ellen’s mind began to race

The door to the cottage thankfully opened much easier than the gate and soon they were standing inside a compact but cosy living room, already warm from a lit and roaring fire.

“Oh, strange,” the lawyer was frowning “I thought we had the only keys” Ellen barely heard him, too busy looking over her new surroundings, as far as she was concerned, who ever had kindly lit the fire for her arrival had done her a favour. May be she would find a friend even in the middle of nowhere. The lawyer was beside her and followed her gaze as it rested on a beautifully stitched sampler on the wall.

“Ah Latin, Mors janua vitae” he noticed her quizzical look

“It means death is the gate of life”

With that he briskly sorted the paperwork that needed to be signed and he was gone, back in his car, back to the city where she belonged. Leaving her behind to a life she had not asked for, yet was gifted all the same.

Two golden amber eyes had been watching her and now Obsidian thought that it was time he said hello. Uncurling his soft black body he leaped down from his resting place.

Merrily the Gypsy Witch

No folklore cottage built of stout walls for Merrily, her home was built of wood and dreams and together they travelled the lanes and byways as she pleased. No crystal palace for Merrily, her home was painted green and yet inside shone as bright with candle light as any palace home. Her furnishings were of simple fare but made of love and with much care. Patchwork covers upon her bed, each square a memory of treasured thoughts once enjoyed. Trinkets bartered through the years, jar's a plenty for her potions and books all lovingly created to hold her thoughts, dreams and recipes, all her life within one wagon.

Merrily’s garden was where ever she hitched her horse of grey, Foggy by name he pulled her home near and far by day and enjoy his rest upon the green in contentment of a job well done. Her friends and neighbours were of nature grown, her other companion, Ebony, a raven as black as night intended. The day shared it’s light and the night hold no terrors for Merrily, at one with the seasons, each turn of the moon saw her moving on to fresh pastures, eager to see what other delights the road had to share. Her clothing was a patch work of colours and matched the seasons each in their turn.

 In Merrily nature found an ally and keeper of secrets. In nature Merrily found a home and a bounty of magic which she wove in to potions to delight and cure the body and senses or to capture fleeting hearts. Footsteps were heard where ever she stopped, as down leafy lanes people did tread in search of the remedies so lovingly made with full intent of wish and knowledge. The spirits of the land gather by her wagon at night to talk of tales from long ago and Merrily did dance the night with those long though to be gone from this land. A gypsy witch was Merrily and happy in her life was she.

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Thanks for stopping to read my story about Merrily the gypsy witch, there will be more about her in the coming months so keep an eye open for her.

This is my offering for the lovely Gypsy Dreams blog party being hosted by Celia, click on the blog party button below to find the links to other great party bloggers.