Ashton Park (13 page)

“I thought you said they’d be gone until late,” Charlotte said.

“It’s only my sister,” Edward replied.

“Where did she leave the suitcase she was carrying?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? It’s her suitcase to do what she wants with.”

The two were crouching behind a thick ash tree. Once Victoria was well out of sight on her way back to the manor, Charlotte put a hand to her mouth and began to giggle.

“What is it?” Edward asked.

“I’m with the lord’s and lady’s son and we’re hiding behind a tree like children up to mischief, afraid of getting a spanking.”

“Well, we are up to mischief of a sort.”

She leaned back against the tree trunk, her hair black and gleaming about the shoulders of her maid’s uniform, her lips a deep red from the warmth of the sun, her blue eyes caught up in all the light of the day.

“It’s mischief, is it?” she teased. “Well, it must be. All we’ve done with our time together is lurk behind trees while your sister goes back and forth in front of us.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“And all because you were tired of meeting in the hut by night.”

“Not tired of it. Just tired of not seeing you in the sunlight.”

“Oh, sure you see me every day, Edward.”

“But I can’t touch you. I can’t take the pins from your hair. I can’t hold you in my arms and tell you what a beautiful woman you are. Absolutely stunning as the sea.”

“You and your sailor words. That a girl should be so lucky. Come here.” She stretched out her arms.

He came to her and she gathered him in, kissing his forehead and face. He did not respond, just closed his eyes and smiled, taking it all in—her arms tight around his back, her hair over his eyes, the heat of her kisses, her scent.

“What happens to us?” she murmured, kissing his ear. “What happens when you go back to Rosyth next week?”

“We write. You send me perfumed letters.”

She drew her head back and her eyebrows arched. “Do I? And will your letters be scented with the North Sea? How do you expect me to get them without your mother noticing?”

“I have a plan.”

“Yes? And what is it?”

“I will speak with Harrison. He can be trusted. I write to you and mail the letters to him. He will bring the letters to you. Discreetly.”

“Every day?”

“Yes. Every day.”

She laughed and laced her arms around his neck, the starched sleeves rubbing against his skin. “Not every day, love. It would be wonderful. But I am sure your mother would notice that too. Why on earth would you be writing Harrison every day? To ask after the ash trees and oak trees and sheep? Once a week will have to be enough.”

“It won’t be enough.”

“Then write me every day and send them once a week.” She ran her hand through his hair. “But I will write you every day. Every night. So you don’t forget about me.”

“No man forgets beauty like yours. No man breathing and likely few men dead.”

She kissed him on the eyes. “Your silly words. I love them.”

Victoria was not expecting the coach with her sister and Jeremiah. She was walking her mare Robin through the ash trees later in the day when she saw it drive up and Emma step down, followed by her husband. She had been brooding on the morning and all the things she had brewed in her heart for the past year. Seeing Emma was like a vision from God. She leaped from Robin’s back and ran toward her sister.

Emma had been doing a lot of brooding of her own. In the bishops’ garden, in the coach he had lent them along with his driver, in the miles leading up to Ashton Park. A dark feeling had settled over her. The last thing she expected to see was Victoria running across the lawn toward her, calling her name and crying. Before she knew it they were in each other’s arms and Victoria was kissing her cheek again and again.

“Em, I’m sorry, so sorry, forgive me, I love you, I love you.”

Her astonishment kept Emma from returning the embrace and affection for several seconds. But when she realized it really was happening, that Victoria really was weeping in her arms, something immediately broke inside her and the tears came and a rush of love for her younger sister. She hugged her fiercely.

“Never you mind then,” Emma soothed. “We’ll not let it happen again. Not ever again. And we’ll get Ben back. I promise. We’ll find his regiment and write him and we’ll get him back.”

“He…he might not be alive, Em…”

“No, Vic. He’s alive. I swear to God. I have been praying every day now about that young man. It’s in my bones. He has to be alive.”

“There! There! It’s done!”

Mrs. Seabrooke looked up from her newspaper. “What are you going on about?”

Mr. Seabrooke jumped to his feet and brought the
Times
to her, jabbing with his finger. “Look! Whitecross! It’s him—he’s dead! I knew he’d be with that great offensive at Arras!”

Mrs. Seabrooke bent over the paper. “Stop poking with your finger! I can’t read a thing!”

Then she saw the name and she smiled. “Thank God then.” For a moment her whole body relaxed—the Ben Whitecross problem was dealt with. But reading the full name across the line of type she came up with:
Whitecross. Peter. Major.

She flung the paper at her husband. “You fool! It’s the wrong Whitecross! Did you think to look at his Christian name then? Peter. Peter! And a major! Do you honestly think Ben Whitecross could have been promoted from private to major in one year?” She turned back to her ledgers in disgust, tossing her Liverpool paper to the floor. “The war will be over before he’s killed and then what?”

Mr. Seabrooke picked up the
Times
and returned to his chair. “You said yourself he might be one of the unknown dead.”

“So and what if he is then? We’d never be able to relax, would we, because we wouldn’t know for certain. Five years after the war was over he could show up at the door with a wedding ring for Victoria Danforth. No, he has to be dead and dead. We must read about him in the papers. Nothing else will do.”

Victoria saw Todd Turpin and Harrison standing by the stables in the lamplight a few evenings later and walked over to them.

“Gentlemen.”

They both took off their caps. “Miss Danforth.”

“I wanted to thank you for the other day. I was—a little worked up. The shopping hadn’t gone well. Particularly the suitcase. I bought it and then I changed my mind but they wouldn’t let me return it. It cost several pounds. I was upset about that.”

“No harm, Miss Danforth,” said Todd.

“Don’t fret.” Harrison smiled. “We all have our days, don’t we?”

“I’d rather not have such days at all. But thank you both for your understanding. I wish you goodnight.”

Todd put his cap back on his head. “Goodnight, Miss.”

Before she turned away, Victoria hesitated, then smiled at Harrison. “I should convey Aunt Holly’s best wishes. When she found out I was paying a visit to the two of you she requested that I ask after your health, Mr. Harrison. I take it she thinks highly of you and values your service to her and our family.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Victoria. Please express my gratitude to Miss Holly, and you might mention I include her along with all the family in my daily prayers. I hope she is well.”

“She is. Goodnight, Mr. Harrison.”

Victoria had only gone a few steps before Harrison added, “One more thing, if I may, Miss Danforth.”

She turned around. “Certainly. What is it?”

“Ben Whitecross had us promise to look after you, rain or shine.”

“What? Has he written you?”

“I’m sorry. We’ve not heard a word from him. But before he went off to enlist last year he took me and Todd aside.
Keep an eye on her,
he said.
Don’t let any harm come to her. Sometimes she gets wild notions in her head.
So we’ve done that. Kept an eye out.”

“Why, thank you. I’m sure you have.”

Harrison’s face grew almost rigid as she watched. “Not only on the estate. But in the city. In the streets. At the train station. You understand.”

Victoria felt everything inside her go completely still. “I believe I do.”

“Todd was thinking you were acting off the last little while. That’s why he asked me to ride along the other day. No harm done, I hope?”

“No. No harm done, Mr. Harrison.”

“All’s well that ends well, then.” He put his brown fedora back on and winked. “G’night to you then, my lady.”

“Thank you. But I need a lord. I’m no lady yet, Mr. Harrison.”

He nodded. “Yes, you are.”

May 1917

Smoke was blowing through the sky as Kipp put his Nieuport 17 into a quick dive. The German triplane corkscrewed past him to the left, still firing. Kipp quickly jumped on his tail, not thinking anything out, just acting and reacting. His guns erupted, hammering shells into the back of the red and white aircraft. A plume of smoke spurted from the plane’s engine. A moment later it burst into a fireball of orange and black. Surprised, Kipp had no time to do anything but fly through the middle of the explosion. Burning debris showered his Nieuport and part of one wing narrowly missed slamming into the cockpit. Squinting through his goggles, he pushed through the thick smoke and flame until the sky was clear and blue and empty.

All the planes that had been snarling under and over one another five minutes before were gone. Kipp banked to the right and away from the parts of the German triplane that traced gray lines through the air as they fell. He lifted his goggles a moment and rubbed a gloved hand roughly over his face. He had never seen a plane blow up like that in combat. It had disintegrated in seconds. Along with the German pilot. He pulled the goggles back over his eyes. His fuel was low, his squadron gone. It was time to head back to the aerodrome near the town of Amiens.