The Ashford Affair Read online

  The gardens were swarming with footmen hanging Chinese lanterns; Josh, their favorite groom, had his hands full with the sudden influx of strange horses down for tomorrow’s hunt; even the summerhouse wasn’t safe, having been colonized by a string quartet planted there like the last outpost of empire for those stragglers who braved the chill of the gardens.

  It ought to have felt impossibly gay, like something out of a fairy tale. It didn’t. All week long, as Aunt Vera had been meeting with Cook and Badger, Uncle Charles had been having his own meetings, tense ones, private ones, with other members of the Cabinet. They weren’t supposed to know about that, up in the nursery, but Addie had watched the cars come and go, a long trip from London for a few hours’ meeting, their hats tipped low over worried faces. She had recognized some from the papers. Others she didn’t know at all; she only knew they were important from the way Uncle Charles greeted them, from the worry lines on their faces.

  Just last week, she had heard Uncle Charles and Aunt Vera quarreling, a rare circumstance. It’s a bloody ball, she had heard Uncle Charles say, and that had been shock enough. Uncle Charles never cursed in front of Aunt Vera. A bloody ball when—

  For heaven’s sake, Aunt Vera had said, in much the same tone she had used, all those years ago, when trying to have Addie dispatched to the Canadian cousins, it’s not as though it was an English duke killed. The Continent is overrun with princelings. They’ll scarcely miss one.

  They’ve missed this one, Uncle Charles had said darkly, and Aunt Vera had made a snorting noise and reminded him that princes were princes, but daughters were daughters and had to be launched, regardless of the inconvenient posturings of foreign powers.

  Aunt Vera hustled Dodo to the dressmaker, but the foreign powers continued to posture, the telegrams mounted on Uncle Charles’ desk, and, up in the nursery, Bea continued to sulk.

  “It’s not fair,” Bea said again. “All that fuss and us up here.”

  “We’ll have our turn,” Addie said, although she knew that wasn’t entirely true.

  Bea would have her turn. Addie knew herself to be the poor relation, the charity girl in the nursery, and although Bea might not realize it, she had a fairly shrewd idea that Aunt Vera wasn’t going to be donning the family tiara for her benefit. When the time came, it was Bea who was destined for chiffon and diamonds, not she. Aunt Vera made no secret of her feelings about Addie’s presence at Ashford.

  She had been at Ashford for eight years now, more than half her life. It was hard now to remember how strange it had all been when she had first arrived, the scale of it, the assumptions, the rules. Bea had been her map and her guide, taking Addie under her wing as a sort of prized pet. If her situation was a comfortable one, she owed that, in large part, to Bea.

  They lived, mostly, in the nursery, a large, sunny room at the top of the house. The walls were papered in a faded print of flowers, climbing roses that they used to pretend would grow and flower when they weren’t looking. There were carpets scattered across the floor, rejects, mainly, from the main house, as were the squishy sofa with its snagged silk upholstery, the wide, chintz-covered chairs, and a particularly impractical stool with gold legs that was frequently pressed into service as a makeshift throne.

  Along one wall, they had their menagerie: a hedgehog named Tiggy, a rather drowsy rabbit named Lapin, and the nursery darling, a white mouse unimaginatively titled Bianca, although, in the nursery argot, her name had long since been shortened to Binky. Next to Binky’s cage presided Rosinante, the nursery rocking horse, who gazed nearsightedly out at the nursery through filmed glass eyes.

  Sometimes, it felt like forever, as if the nursery were its own little island, cut off from the rest of the world, rather like Ashford itself, unchanged and unchanging.

  It was that very quality that chafed at Bea. Bea kicked out at Rosie with a booted foot, sending him rocking back and forth. “They might at least have let us come down for dinner,” she groused.

  “With thirty at table and two of them dukes? Not very likely! Think of this as practice,” Addie suggested. “If they get it wrong for Dodo, they can get it right for you.”

  Despite all the fuss over Dodo, they all knew the truth, that Dodo was only a rehearsal for Bea. Bea had all her mother’s drive, as well as that elusive quality her mother lacked, the quality known in men as charisma and in women as charm.

  “Dodo,” brooded Bea. “It’s not as if she even enjoys it. She’d be happier if they let her make her debut from the back of a horse!”

  Addie giggled. “Think of it. Poor old Euclid slipping and sliding on the ballroom floor. Badger would have a fit.”

  Badger was the butler, and a very grand personage. His real name was Battinger, but subsequent generations of Ashford children had shortened it to Badger and Badger he remained.

  Bea permitted herself, reluctantly, to smile. “It would be a sight, wouldn’t it? They’re just lucky they got her out of her habit and into a gown. And in the meantime we’re left moldering up here.”

  “It’s hardly the Château d’If.”

  Bea gestured tragically towards Binky’s cage. “We even have a mouse. What more proof do you need?”

  Addie was unmoved. “Get a teaspoon. We’ll dig our way out.”

  “Oh, ha, ha. You want to go to the ball, don’t you, Binkers?” Bea crooned, bending over Binky’s cage. She scooped Binky up out of her comfortable nest of shavings. “I think it’s utter rubbish that Edward gets to go and we don’t.”

  “He is almost eighteen. And he does look so very grown-up.” She felt again that little shiver of unease. She’d heard Uncle Charles speaking with Edward, quite seriously, about the possibility of a war. At almost eighteen, Edward would be fighting. It was impossible to think of Edward, Edward just out of Eton, leading battalions, urging men into battle.

  “I look at least as old as he does,” protested Bea.

  “Truuuuue,” said Addie slowly. They were only a year and a half apart, but at fifteen Bea looked far older than Addie’s still childish thirteen. “But your mother would throw you out on the spot.”

  “We could dress ourselves up as footmen,” Bea said with relish, “and go that way.”

  “Very short footmen.”

  “Only you.” Bea lessened the sting with a hug. “Traveling musicians, then.”

  Addie tucked her legs up under her, hugging the mangled pillow. “With long, loopy mustaches. You mustn’t forget the loopy mustaches.”

  Outside the window, she could hear the sounds of the musicians practicing, warming up their instruments for the dance that would follow Dodo’s grand descent to the ballroom and adulthood.

  Pushing up off the sofa, Bea wandered towards the window. The nursery looked over the back, across the gardens, where Chinese lanterns sparkled like little stars, making up constellations never dreamed of by any astronomer. She stood there, slowly stroking Binky’s back, looking out over the gardens.

  Addie joined her there, resting her elbows on the sill. It had been a miserably cold and rainy summer, but it was clear tonight, the breeze bringing with it the smell of flowers from the garden. “Do you think it’s true they’ve got the Prince of Wales to come?” she asked idly.

  “Why don’t we go find out?” Bea’s face was alight with mischief. “They just said we couldn’t come to the dance. They didn’t say we couldn’t watch it.”

  Addie had a bad feeling about this. “Bea, but what—”

  “They’ll never see us.” She was already moving towards the door. “If we hide behind the balustrade, they’ll have no idea.”

  “Aren’t we a little old for that?”

  Bea waggled her eyebrows. “If we’re too young for the ball, we can’t be too old for looking through the railings, can we?”

  Addie sensed that there was something to be desired in her logic. “If we’re caught…”

  “We won’t be,” Bea said with assurance.

  Addie let out her breath in a long sigh. “At least lea
ve Binky, then.”

  “Nonsense,” said Bea. “Binky wants to see, too, don’t you, Binkers?” She lifted her up to Addie. “See, she’s even worn white for the occasion, poor thing.”

  Binky blinked pathetically, her little red eyes darting first one way, then the other.

  “If you keep doing that, she will make a mess in your hand,” Addie warned, holding out a hand for her. “You know she doesn’t like to be waved about.”

  Bea slipped Binky into her pinafore pocket. “Here. Now she has a tidy little balcony view, like a dowager at the opera. All she needs are the opera glasses.”

  Binky’s face just poked out over the pocket flap. Bea was right; she did look rather like one of the dowagers of Aunt Vera’s acquaintance.

  Addie giggled. “I’ve never noticed it before, but Binky is the spit of Lady Rushworth. She has the same nervous, whiskery look.”

  “Good blood,” said Bea solemnly. “It does show.”

  They both convulsed with giggles. “Good blood” was one of Aunt Vera’s favorite topics.

  “Onward?” said Bea.

  Addie nodded. “Onward.”

  Still giggling, they tiptoed out of the nursery. They had done this before, when they were smaller, during Aunt Vera’s house parties, hiding themselves behind a bust of the second earl that conveniently blocked them from view on the gallery that stretched above the Great Hall. The scent of flowers reached them even before they arrived at the gallery. Aunt Vera had denuded hothouses for miles around, ordering in blooms from as far away as London. On top of that were the perfumes of all the guests, some laid on with a heavy hand to disguise other, more natural scents.

  The girls settled themselves behind their old friend the second earl, one to each side.

  “Can you see?” Addie whispered.

  “Yes. You?”

  Aunt Vera and Uncle Charles presided from the landing in the center of the staircase as guests, announced by Badger, processed up one side and then back down the other, earning themselves a glass of champagne for their labors. They did look very grand up there, Aunt Vera in her diamonds, Uncle Charles in his medals, various orders of this and that. The signs of fatigue were there, in the new silver at his temples, the lines on either side of his mouth, but nothing could take away from the straightness of his spine, the air of authority he wore as naturally as his dinner jacket.

  But the real surprise was Dodo.

  Dodo had been transformed. Aunt Vera had wrestled her out of her tatty old riding habit and into a frock of white satin, overlaid with a silvery sort of tulle that gave her a deceptively ethereal air. She didn’t look like someone who was happiest mucking out a stall; she looked like she dined on ambrosia and slept on thistledown. Like all the Gillecotes, she was tall and thin; the cleverness of Aunt Vera’s dressmaker had contrived to make Dodo elegant rather than angular.

  She was still Dodo, though. Addie heard her “haw-haw” laugh all the way up from the balcony and saw Aunt Vera stiffen beneath her layers of diamonds and lace.

  At precisely the stroke of eight, Aunt Vera nodded to Badger, who closed the great doors. This served as a signal to the musicians, who struck a slightly ragged fanfare, and the guests settled into an expectant hush. Addie had a slight advantage over the guests; she had seen this all performed in rehearsal. She knew what was to come next.

  At least, she thought she knew.

  A footman appeared next to Uncle Charles, with crystal glasses on a silver tray. Downstairs, in the hall, identically garbed footmen were circulating with identical trays, handing champagne out to the guests in preparation for the toast, in preparation for the moment when Dodo, dull, horsey Dodo, so unexpectedly brushed into beauty, would be officially launched into the World.

  Uncle Charles raised his glass and the room fell silent. Once on the public stage, Uncle Charles, who ceded so much in private life to Aunt Vera, had what could only be called a presence. Next to him, Aunt Vera looked small and fussy.

  “I should like to thank you for joining us here today,” he said, and it was as if he were personally speaking to each person in the room.

  Next to Addie, Bea slipped Binky out of her pocket. She had that look on her face again, the one that meant deviltry was afoot.

  Addie gave her a warning look. “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Bea looked at her with limpid, innocent eyes. “Don’t what? Binkers just wants a better view, don’t you, Binks?”

  “—to raise a toast—” Uncle Charles was saying.

  “Oh, bother! She’s made a mess.” Bea shook her hand and Binky went flying.

  “—to my daughter—”

  “Bea—no!” Binky hit the ground running. “Binky!”

  “—Diana—”

  “Binky,” Addie hissed, but it was already too late. Binky was off like a shot, charging straight for the stairs. “Binky, no!”

  It was unclear who saw her first. By the time Uncle Charles instructed his guests to raise their glasses, the first shriek had already occurred, then another. Glass shattered as champagne glasses dropped to the ground, one after the other. Ladies rushed for chairs, for the stairs, for any higher ground they could find. At a gesture from Aunt Vera, the musicians struck up “Rule, Britannia!” of all things, but their distracted plucking, rather than masking the disaster, only added to the general cacophony.

  Someone had to get Binky back. Addie didn’t look to see if Bea followed. She set off after the mouse, dodging startled party guests, tracking her progress by the sound of shrieks and shattering champagne glasses.

  “Binky!” she called, interspersed with “So sorry!” and “Pardon me!”

  Perhaps it was stupid; it probably was; but Binky was her mouse and she couldn’t let her be squished.

  “I assume this is what you’re looking for?”

  She skidded to a halt as a hand stretched out before her, a bit of black sleeve, a white cuff with a carnelian cuff link. There was an oval signet ring, a heavy thing of very yellow gold, deeply carved. Above it poked out a familiar small, pink nose.

  Addie looked up and saw a male face, lips creased with amusement beneath a narrow mustache. His eyes were a curious mix of green and brown, like moss and peat mixed together. Winded, she gaped stupidly up at him.

  “Yours, I presume?” he said, and held out Binky to her.

  SIX

  New York, 1999

  “So it was love at first mouse?” said Clemmie.

  Granny Addie didn’t answer. She had slipped into the easy sleep of old age, her lids purple and swollen, her mouth slightly ajar.

  Carefully, making sure not to bump the bed, Clemmie leaned over her, making sure that her breathing was regular, her color still good. Clemmie’s mother said this happened more and more these days, that Granny Addie would doze off mid-sentence, waking up again to pick up where she’d left off—or talking about something else entirely, finishing a conversation begun in a dream.

  Clemmie sat herself gingerly back down in the chair. Even though it had been dark for hours, it was relatively early yet, not quite eight. She could give it a little time before going home to pack.

  It felt good just to sit.

  The shades were still up and through them she could see the lights of the building across the way. Through the windows, scenes in miniature were being played out, people coming home from work, families sitting down to dinner. Clemmie wrapped her arms around herself, leaning her head against the side of the chair. There was a strange sort of melancholy that came of looking into other people’s lives, watching them from the outside. It made her miss Dan.

  Well, maybe not Dan himself. She was surprised at how little a gap he had left in her life, how little she thought of him, of him as him. But she missed the idea of him. She missed what he had represented.

  Was it so wrong to want someone? Someone to call when she was stuck at the office, someone to snuggle up against on cold nights, someone who would remind her that there was a life outside of work. For a moment, she had th
ought she had that with Dan, even if Dan himself was, well, Dan. But he had seemed so sure, sure enough for both of them, and just having someone else in her life, even if she wasn’t entirely sure it was the right someone else, had made her feel more complete, more comfortable in her own skin.

  He had shown up at a time when she was beginning to feel a little panicky, suddenly aware that her friends weren’t just marrying around her, they were having children already, and here she was, married to her desk, without a date in sight.

  She had dated in college and law school, but none of them had seemed to last. At the time, it didn’t matter; she had plenty of time, years and years for that. Her mother had pounded into her the importance of being self-motivated and self-supporting. Marriage was the kind of thing that just happened; a career was something you had to work at.

  But it hadn’t just happened, not for her. There had been a brief fling with another associate her second year at the firm and then nothing. Nothing for a long, long time. She had gone on the odd blind date, set up by college friends and colleagues, some awful, some okay, but none accompanied by a blinding clap of thunder. She had gone to cocktail parties—when her work schedule permitted—and been seated awkwardly next to the token single man at married friends’ Saturday night dinner parties, but, at the end of the day, she’d always found herself going home alone.

  And then along came Dan.

  Dan was an expert witness called in to advise her team on an IP case. As a fifth year, Clemmie was the most senior associate involved, and she didn’t know her UNIX from her eunuchs. Dan had found that hysterically funny, far funnier than the weak joke warranted. He had invited her for coffee, and Clemmie, more for the caffeine than for the company, had said yes. She hadn’t realized that when he said “coffee” he meant coffee.

  They’d gone downstairs to the Starbucks next door and he’d told her all about himself. He had his PhD in computer science from Yale, he told her, and his computer start-up was creating—something or other. Clemmie, who already knew all this from his bio, wondered why he was telling her until, hesitantly, he’d asked her what she thought about dinner.