Ashford looked triumphant. Lord Ashford looked grave.
Lady Ashford gave Lord Ashford a significant look. “Grubbing in the dirt, I see,” she said meaningfully.
“Oh, no,” said Addie quickly, amazed at this lack of comprehension. “Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle doesn’t grub. She washes Lucie’s handkerchiefs for her and makes them nice and clean. She washes Henny-penny’s stockings and Tabby Kitten’s mittens and—”
“Addie,” said Fernie, very softly.
“But she does!”
“Com plete ly ungoverned,” said Lady Ashford. She turned to Fernie. “Have you packed her things?”
Fernie nodded. “I’ve packed Addie’s clothes, but there are still—there are still Mr. and Mrs. Gillecote’s things. I didn’t know what you would want to do about them, if you want to bring them, or save them for Addie, or—” She looked anxiously to Uncle Charles. “The house was let furnished, but there are, oh, little things. And all their books, of course.”
“We shan’t be wanting any of that,” said Aunt Vera dismissively. “There are books enough at Ashford.”
“If you would like to have any of it as a keepsake…” added Uncle Charles to Fernie diplomatically.
Fernie dumbly shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. But, surely, Addie should have her mother’s books—not to read now, of course, but for when she’s older.…”
Aunt Vera ignored her. “I assume the child has a coat?”
Addie opened her mouth to protest, but Fernie put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed, hard. Addie glanced up at Fernie and Fernie shook her head, warning her to silence. Addie looked at the aunt and uncle and back at Fernie and held tight to Fernie’s hand. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t, not in front of the new aunt with the hard, cold eyes or the uncle who ought to look like her father but didn’t.
As Aunt Vera and Uncle Charles’ chauffeur fetched Addie’s bags, Fernie buttoned Addie into her coat. “Don’t worry, darling,” she whispered. “Just pretend you’re a princess in a tower.”
Addie wrapped her arms around Fernie’s neck, squeezing as hard as she could, breathing in her rosewater scent for the very last time. “A very high tower.”
“But a very brave princess.” Fernie squeezed back, then let her go, gently untangling Addie’s arms from around her neck. “Wait. Wait here for a moment.”
She disappeared in a swirl of skirts and came back again a moment later, breathless, her cheeks pink with exertion.
“Take this,” she said, and pushed a thin volume into Addie’s hand, cheaply bound in pink, speckled paper.
It was Fernie’s own copy of Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market.
It was Addie’s favorite poem, with all the clucking and clacking and mopping and mowing. She had made Fernie read it to her again and again, acting out the goblins, alternately playing the parts of Lizzie and Laura, the daring sister and the prudent one.
“There.” Fernie closed Addie’s hands around the book. “Read that and think of me.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t let your aunt and uncle see it.”
Addie tucked it away under her coat. Somehow, she had the feeling that Fernie was right. Quiet and subdued, Addie took her place in Uncle Charles’ car.
“Ashford,” she heard him tell the driver.
The word echoed in her ears with the thrum of the engine and the rumble of the tires as they pulled away from Guilford Street, rolling their way mile by mile towards the home from which her father had so pointedly run away.
Ashford.
New York, 1999
“Isn’t that Brideshead Revisited ?” Clemmie looked at the image on the page. It was Masterpiece Theatre come to life.
“Nope,” said Jon. “That was Castle Howard. But close. Same architect.”
The golden stone of Ashford Park gleamed in the sunshine, the dome dominating the landscape for miles around. A multitiered flight of stairs led up to the front entrance, a massive doorway dwarfed by its frame of
Lady Ashford gave Lord Ashford a significant look. “Grubbing in the dirt, I see,” she said meaningfully.
“Oh, no,” said Addie quickly, amazed at this lack of comprehension. “Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle doesn’t grub. She washes Lucie’s handkerchiefs for her and makes them nice and clean. She washes Henny-penny’s stockings and Tabby Kitten’s mittens and—”
“Addie,” said Fernie, very softly.
“But she does!”
“Com plete ly ungoverned,” said Lady Ashford. She turned to Fernie. “Have you packed her things?”
Fernie nodded. “I’ve packed Addie’s clothes, but there are still—there are still Mr. and Mrs. Gillecote’s things. I didn’t know what you would want to do about them, if you want to bring them, or save them for Addie, or—” She looked anxiously to Uncle Charles. “The house was let furnished, but there are, oh, little things. And all their books, of course.”
“We shan’t be wanting any of that,” said Aunt Vera dismissively. “There are books enough at Ashford.”
“If you would like to have any of it as a keepsake…” added Uncle Charles to Fernie diplomatically.
Fernie dumbly shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. But, surely, Addie should have her mother’s books—not to read now, of course, but for when she’s older.…”
Aunt Vera ignored her. “I assume the child has a coat?”
Addie opened her mouth to protest, but Fernie put her hand on her shoulder and squeezed, hard. Addie glanced up at Fernie and Fernie shook her head, warning her to silence. Addie looked at the aunt and uncle and back at Fernie and held tight to Fernie’s hand. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t, not in front of the new aunt with the hard, cold eyes or the uncle who ought to look like her father but didn’t.
As Aunt Vera and Uncle Charles’ chauffeur fetched Addie’s bags, Fernie buttoned Addie into her coat. “Don’t worry, darling,” she whispered. “Just pretend you’re a princess in a tower.”
Addie wrapped her arms around Fernie’s neck, squeezing as hard as she could, breathing in her rosewater scent for the very last time. “A very high tower.”
“But a very brave princess.” Fernie squeezed back, then let her go, gently untangling Addie’s arms from around her neck. “Wait. Wait here for a moment.”
She disappeared in a swirl of skirts and came back again a moment later, breathless, her cheeks pink with exertion.
“Take this,” she said, and pushed a thin volume into Addie’s hand, cheaply bound in pink, speckled paper.
It was Fernie’s own copy of Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market.
It was Addie’s favorite poem, with all the clucking and clacking and mopping and mowing. She had made Fernie read it to her again and again, acting out the goblins, alternately playing the parts of Lizzie and Laura, the daring sister and the prudent one.
“There.” Fernie closed Addie’s hands around the book. “Read that and think of me.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t let your aunt and uncle see it.”
Addie tucked it away under her coat. Somehow, she had the feeling that Fernie was right. Quiet and subdued, Addie took her place in Uncle Charles’ car.
“Ashford,” she heard him tell the driver.
The word echoed in her ears with the thrum of the engine and the rumble of the tires as they pulled away from Guilford Street, rolling their way mile by mile towards the home from which her father had so pointedly run away.
Ashford.
New York, 1999
“Isn’t that Brideshead Revisited ?” Clemmie looked at the image on the page. It was Masterpiece Theatre come to life.
“Nope,” said Jon. “That was Castle Howard. But close. Same architect.”
The golden stone of Ashford Park gleamed in the sunshine, the dome dominating the landscape for miles around. A multitiered flight of stairs led up to the front entrance, a massive doorway dwarfed by its frame of
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