It didn’t look like anyone actually lived in it. It was a showplace, not a home, and certainly not Granny Addie’s home.
“You’re pulling my leg,” Clemmie said. “Unless you’re going to tell me that she was a housemaid who made good or something like that.”
Jon choked on a laugh. “What have you been reading? Barbara Taylor Bradford?”
“What’s wrong with Barbara Taylor Bradford?”
Jon made a face amply illustrative of his feelings.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. And Terry Pratchett is high literature?” That was the danger: they knew way too much about each other; they always had. That was why they hadn’t … well. Clemmie poked at the picture. “Can you really see Granny there? I can’t.”
“Why not?” asked Jon.
Clemmie leafed through the pages. After the big glamour shot of the façade, the next five pages were dedicated to interiors, some whole rooms, others detail shots of intriguing bits of masonry. She couldn’t picture Granny Addie there, playing hide and go seek on that great double staircase, with the elaborately carved gallery that ran all around, taking meals in that long, red-walled dining room with the massive silver epergne on the center of the table. There was a detail shot of the epergne, the base made of trumpeting elephants.
There were no private areas, no bedrooms or nurseries. That wouldn’t have interested the author of the book.
“She had to grow up somewhere, didn’t she?” said Jon reasonably. “Where did you think it was?”
Funny, Clemmie had never really thought about her grandparents coming from anywhere in particular. They just were. Like pillars on a building. You never stopped to ask where the marble had been quarried and how it had been carved. It just was.
Granny sometimes talked about Kenya, about their early days there, getting the hang of the farm, learning how to run a business, but that was all. That was as far back as it went and Clemmie had never thought to inquire further.
“If it makes it better,” said Jon, “she wasn’t a housemaid, but she was a poor relation. She was the daughter of the sixth earl’s younger brother.”
Clemmie was reminded of that line from Spaceballs, the bit about the father’s brother’s nephew’s cousin’s former roommate. What’s that make us? Absolutely nothing!
Jon was in full lecture mode. “When her parents died in an omnibus accident in 1906, the earl and his wife took her in.”
Clemmie did the genealogical math. “So that would make Granny Addie the earl’s niece.”
“Yup.”
Clemmie shook her head. “It doesn’t wash, Jon.” She pointed at the book. “According to this, it says the Earl of Ashford and his family still live there. If Granny Addie grew up there, why don’t we have any contact with them? Why wouldn’t she say that she still had family left in England?”
“I gather,” said Jon carefully, “that she parted ways with them. There was a falling-out. Why do you think she doesn’t talk about this stuff?”
Maybe she would have if Clemmie had been around more. Clemmie shoved that thought aside, wiggling out from under the book. It made her feel better to stand. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly the Brady Bunch. No one in my family is big on talking about their personal lives.” Except maybe Aunt Anna, and even she had managed to perfect the art of talking a lot while saying very little. “We don’t do the whole sharing thing.”
Jon looked up at her from his comfy sprawl on the daybed. “There’s a difference between letting it all hang out and normal information flow. I don’t know much about my grandparents, but I do know the basic things, like where they grew up”—his face turned grim—“and where they died.”
Clemmie tilted her head in inquiry. All this looking down was making her neck hurt. She perched, gingerly, on the corner of the bed.
“Auschwitz. Both my dad’s parents.” Jon tapped a finger against the corner of the book. “Trust me, I’d trade you.”
“It’s just—it’s too weird,” said Clemmie. “It’s like something out of a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel.”
Jon grinned. “You make a very cute Little Lord Fauntleroy. Especially with the new haircut … What was that kid’s name?”
Clemmie held up her hands. “Search me. I was always more a Secret Garden girl.”
Jon plopped the book back in her lap, leaning over her arm to turn the pages.
“You see that?” He was pointing at the massive epergne, the one with all the elephants.
“It would be hard to miss it.” He smelled of generic dandruff shampoo, Old Spice, and laundry detergent. Guy smells. Lazy Sunday morning hanging out in bed smells.
She really needed to get back out there on the dating market. Clemmie forced her attention back to what Jon was saying.
“Apparently, Granny Addie’s uncle was almost appointed Viceroy of India.” At Clemmie’s blank look, he explained, “The viceroy was the Governor of India. It’s basically playing king on behalf of the king. The viceroy had semi-regal powers. Hence the name. Vice. Roy. Roy from the French, roi. Demi-king.”
“Your students must love you,” said Clemmie dryly. “So what happened?”
Jon grinned. “They appointed someone else. But apparently, Lord Ashford never really got over being passed over. He picked up any Indian knickknacks he could, to remind people that he might have been there.”
“That’s quite a knickknack.” Clemmie pushed her hair back behind her ears, asking the question that was eating at her. “Jon, how do you know all this?”
“Because I asked.”
Clemmie gave him the stare she used on annoying junior associates.
“This is my time period,” he reminded her. “Modern Britain. I stumbled on some stuff about the family—your family,” he corrected himself, “when I was working on my dissertation. So I asked Granny Addie about it.”
“When?” Clemmie asked.
Jon did some mental computation. “It was right after I did my research year in London. That would have been … nine years ago? Awhile.”
“So you’ve known this for a long time.” Clemmie moved the book away from him and closed it, resting her palms on the cover.
Jon sighed. “Look,” he said, and, for a moment, he sounded eerily like Aunt Anna, her favorite expression in her favorite tone. “I think it was easier for Granny Addie to talk to me. I wasn’t part of the family. It made things … simpler.”
Clemmie nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said, “I get that.” Although she didn’t, really. “And you asked.”
Jon leaned towards her, bracing an elbow on the bookshelf. “It’s not a unique art,” he said, his hazel eyes intent on hers. “You can ask, too. If you really want to.”
Yes, but would Granny Addie still be able to answer? “That sounds like a dare.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Jon levered himself up off the daybed. It felt, somehow, colder without him there. He stood, looking down at her. “Knowledge can be a double-edged sword. You need to decide whether it’s worth cutting yourself on it.”
“Did you get that out of a fortune cookie?” Clemmie got clumsily to her feet, her legs stiff from sitting. “You have my coat somewhere, right?”
“On the chair. In the hall.” Jon followed her out into the hallway as she retrieved her coat. She felt his hands take the back of her coat, relieving the pressure as she tried to struggle into the sleeve. “Are you sure you want to go poking around in the past, Clem?”
Clemmie tugged sharply on the lapels of her coat, pulling it into place. “You do.”
“Yes, but I do it for a living.” His breath was warm on the back of her neck. “And about people who aren’t related to me. You love Addie. Addie loves you. That’s the important thing.”
She turned, awkwardly, at the wrong moment, so that they bumped together and had to disentangle themselves. “Thanks, so much, Dr. Phil,” she said, shoving her hair out of her face. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
Jon leaned over to fish out her scar
f from under the chair, thigh muscles showing to good advantage beneath his snowmen. “I think the appropriate answer to that is probably something along the lines of ‘yeah, right.’”
“Strange as it is,” said Clemmie, taking the scarf from him, “I think I’m actually glad to have you back.”
“Strange as it is,” said Jon, reaching around her to unlock the door, “I think I’m actually glad to be back. I’ll let you know once I’ve found a place.”
Clemmie wrapped her scarf around her neck, shaking her too-short hair out of the way. “Good luck with the apartment-hunting. Tell Aunt Anna I stopped by.”
“Will do.” He held the door for her with exaggerated courtesy. “And, hey, if you need me for anything—”
“—I’ll think of someone else to call,” said Clemmie.
He gave her a thumbs-up and the door swung shut behind him.
It was only after the door had closed that she realized: He had never told her what Aunt Anna meant to tell her. And he had never explained about Bea.
FOUR
Ashford, 1906
“Is it true that you were raised by heathens?”
It was Addie’s first night at Ashford. She lay wide-awake, her covers pulled up to her chin, doing her very, very best not to cry. She was afraid that if she did, her tears would freeze on her face. The fire in her room had long since burned down and it was bitterly cold. There was no Fernie to fix it for her, no Mother to come kiss her on the temple and tuck the edges of the blanket around her chin.
Addie rolled onto her side, but the creak of the mattress sounded uncomfortably loud in the silence. It was darker than she had ever imagined it could be. The white-painted wardrobe and nightstand were gray shapes in the general gloom. Addie missed the light of the gas lamps shining through her window through the chink in the drapes. She missed the comforting sounds of London, the creak of carriages, the dull rumble of automobiles. There were other sounds here, strange creaks and rustles that made her shrink beneath the sheets for safety.
Imagination was all very well in the daylight, but it was an uncomfortable thing late at night. This was the sort of house where ghosts seemed less a superstition and more a certainty, white ladies and phantom cavaliers and carriages that thundered down the lane with no one driving. Her parents’ friends used to have competitions to see who could tell the ghastliest tales, but it had been one thing in the well-lit drawing room of the little house on Guilford Street, quite another here at Ashford, with the strange, keening cry of an unknown animal coming from the woods.
They had arrived at Ashford late, late enough that Addie’s only image of the house was a confused impression of burning torches at the entrance and gray stone walls that had seemed to go on forever. There had been servants lined up, waiting for them outside, but Addie hadn’t been introduced to them, just shooed along the row, up an endless flight of stairs, and into a hall bigger than her parents’ entire house, with a ceiling that went up and up. Addie had craned her head to look back at it, bending back as far as her neck would let her to goggle at the painted people cavorting in tiers so far, far above her.
Don’t gawk, had said Aunt Vera.
Aunt Vera was full of don’ts. Don’t run, don’t fidget, don’t disturb your uncle.
Uncle Charles had, in his own way, tried to be kind. Your father and I used to race up that, he told her, pointing to the double staircase, although Addie couldn’t imagine Uncle Charles racing anywhere.
Don’t encourage her, said Aunt Vera. That’s the last thing we need, the children racing around like heathens.
Uncle Charles patted Addie distractedly on the shoulder and told her he hoped she would be happy at Ashford, then disappeared somewhere behind the curve of the staircase, followed by an imposing personage in a black suit whose conversation was larded with Your Lordship.
Yes, yes, Badger, said Uncle Charles. Have it brought to me.
She wasn’t allowed to climb the curving stair. Addie looked longingly at it over her shoulder as Aunt Vera took her out of the hall along a side way, through room after room, paintings hanging off the silk-hung walls, one on top of the other, in big gilt frames. Despite Aunt Vera’s admonition not to gawk, Addie couldn’t help it. She had never seen anything like it before, the pictures hung from wires, tilting slightly forward so that they all seemed to be leaning towards her, bowls of fruit and smirking ladies and birds sprawling with their feathers hanging limp over the ends of rustic tables.
There was one picture of two boys that made her stop and pause. The older, tall and thin and blond, gazed solemnly out at the viewer, one elbow resting on a stylized pillar. He was quite old, at least ten, and seemed to feel all the dignity of his advanced years.
But it was the boy next to him who caught Addie’s attention. His hair was blond, too, but it was a darker blond, the color of taffy chews. Instead of lying sleek, like the older boy’s, it curled in ringlets around his face. He wore a black velvet suit with a lace collar, but his collar had pulled slightly at the side, rumpling. His head was tilted away from the viewer, his attention caught by a butterfly that flapped its wings just out of reach.
His cheeks were flushed and deeply dimpled, his round child’s face alight with happiness and interest as he lunged for the butterfly.
It was Father, quite unmistakably Father, even though he was unimaginably young, younger than Addie.
LORD MALTRAVERS AND THE HONORABLE HENRY GILLECOTE, said the brass plaque below, in curly script. Behind Father’s shoulder, Addie could see the dome of Ashford Park.
Don’t dawdle, said Aunt Vera over her shoulder, and Addie scurried to catch up, her buttoned boots slap, slap, slapping against the floor. It felt somehow comforting to know that Father had lived here, that he had walked these same corridors, chased butterflies in the garden. It made him seem less far away.
At least, it had, just for a moment. But then Aunt Vera had tugged her along again and Addie had found herself spiraling up, up, and up, along a twisty staircase that went around and around for what seemed like forever, pale stone blending into pale stone.
Addie had only the most confused impression of the schoolroom before Aunt Vera herded her into a room she called the day nursery. It was long and rectangular, with windows on two sides and a dollhouse whose sides were open, spilling out a confusion of dolls and furniture, of different eras and sizes.
It seemed, to Addie’s tired eyes, to be full of people. There was a girl sprawled across a chair, her feet over one side, and another lying on her stomach by the hearth, flipping through fashion papers and disputing their possession with a rosy-cheeked toddler who seemed to think that they were made to be stepped on. They were all very tall and very blond, except for the baby, who was very small and very blond.
Aunt Vera cleared her throat and they all shot to attention, except the youngest, who was snatched up by a wiry woman in a white pinny.
Nanny, said Aunt Vera. This is Miss Adeline. You’ve prepared a room for her? Good. I leave her to you. Diana, your top button needs buttoning.
Addie thought of Hans Christian Andersen’s Ice Queen, turning the world to winter. While Aunt Vera was there, the entire room stood frozen. It wasn’t until she said her good nights and sailed out again that the ice cracked and the inhabitants of the room could move and speak again.
The one who had been flipping through the fashion papers started forward. We’ve been waiting forever for you to arrive! Did you drive all the way down in the car? Did you—
Bedtime! said Nanny, clapping her hands. She took the cousin by the shoulders and turned her firmly in the direction she wanted her to go. No dawdling, Miss Bea. Go along with you.
The cousin—Bea?—made a comical face over her shoulder at Addie, shrugged, and skipped off.
The older cousin, the one who had been sitting on the chair, nodded at Addie. See you in the morning! she said, and was gone, too.
Nanny hoisted the toddler up to her shoulder, where she wiggled, agitating to be put down. As for
you, Miss Adeline, said Nanny, you’ll sleep here.
There was something very ominous about the way she said it.
Nanny took her down the same hallway into which Bea and the other cousin had disappeared. There was a cluster of doors and a curious half stair that paused briefly at a landing with two doors before meeting up with another, longer stair. Addie had never seen so many doors. Their house in London had been constructed on far simpler lines; this hallway alone had more rooms than the entirety of Addie’s old home put together. And this was just a tiny corner of Ashford. Her mind boggled at it.
Nanny had made sure Addie scrubbed behind her ears and said her prayers, performing the tasks with a sort of grim determination. Then Nanny had shut the door and Addie had been alone. She slipped Fernie’s book under her pillow, touching it as though it were a sort of talisman.
If this were home, Fernie would have kissed her good night. If this were home, Mother would be poking her head around the door to see if she were asleep.
That was when the door opened and a slender figure slipped through.
“Is it true that you were raised by heathens?” she demanded, plunking herself down on the foot of Addie’s bed. “It did seem unfair that you came in so late, we never got to talk to you. I’ve been half-dead of curiosity.”
She didn’t seem half-dead. She seemed incredibly alive and making a large dent at the bottom of Addie’s bed. Addie could see her only as a combination of shadows, but she recognized the voice; it was the fashion-paper cousin, the one who had been waiting forever for her to arrive.
Addie wiggled herself up. “You’re Bea, aren’t you?” she said, unsure what the etiquette was under the circumstances.