Ashton Park (17 page)

“I have enjoyed coming to Dover Sky since I was a child,” Victoria said, holding her mother’s hand.

“I love our visits too, dear. Late May is one of the loveliest times of the year in southern England.”

Sir William’s cottage of forty rooms was easy to spot from miles away because it stood alone on a small hilltop. Unlike Ashton Park it had no forest surrounding it, only neatly trimmed hedges and a small orchard of apples and plums, so its walls and chimneys of white stone shone unobstructed in the sunlight, while the sky over its roof seemed as limitless as the nearby sea.

“It looks like it’s made of snow when it gleams like that,” Victoria almost whispered. “Or ice.”

“I think it looks like the cliffs themselves.” Aunt Holly leaned out of the carriage window. “I look forward to my room here.”

“What’s special about it?” asked Victoria.

“I can catch a glimpse of the Channel from my window. Just a glint of light on water and a bit of the French coast. It’s wonderful. The only thing missing is a few of the people I admire.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wish some others could join us here from Ashton Park.”

“Such as who?”

Aunt Holly kept her eyes on the green landscape they were moving through. “Harrison for one. I feel nothing bad can happen to us if he’s nearby.”

“Who else?”

Aunt Holly smiled. “He’s the only one who comes to mind at the present.”

One of the few trees near the house was an apple tree that grew near Victoria’s window. As a girl, she had leaned out to pick the one or two apples that showed up in late August before they returned to Ashton Park. Now she opened the window to let the scent of the tree’s white blossoms fill her room. She perched herself on the sill and closed her eyes.

“Heavenly,” she murmured.

A thought of Ben sitting by the window with her brightened her face rather than darken it.

I will find you. I know you’re alive.

The next day was Friday, May twenty-fifth. A group was leaving Dover Sky and going into Folkestone, a nearby town, to shop. Mrs. Longstaff swore by a grocer in the main street. Fairburn took the family in the blue and burgundy carriage, and Adkins the Seabrookes, Mrs. Longstaff, and Tavy in a small black one.

“There’s a barber in Folkestone I trust with my head,” Tavy announced as their coach moved along the road, now and then passed by motorcars and trucks.

“Go on with you,” teased Mrs. Longstaff. “You’ve scarce enough hair to nest a cricket.”

“All the more reason to choose a good barber. I must take excellent care of what God’s left me.”

They arrived just after four. The day was still warm and brimming with spring light. Mr. Seabrooke wandered in and out of shops buying up various newspapers and took his time about it, chatting with the vendors, so that at six o’clock he still only had three or four in his hands. Mrs. Seabrooke had agreed to help Mrs. Longstaff select fresh vegetables from the green grocer, plums and pears from the fruiterer, as well as choice cuts from the butcher. Tavy spent the first two hours walking up and down the streets and looking out over the harbor where ships were anchored and troops milled about. No embarkations were scheduled for France and the Western front. Eventually he found the barber and settled himself in his seat. Fairburn and Adkins had parked by a tobacco shop so they could sample the pipe weed available as well as keep an eye on the horses. Victoria drifted in and out of shops with her mother and Aunt Holly, looking over dresses and shoes and perfumes. Sir Arthur detached himself from the women and found himself a sturdy bench that enjoyed a good amount of sunlight and composed himself for a nap, cane across his knees.

At six o’clock, Victoria slipped out of a hat boutique where Lady Elizabeth and Aunt Holly were involved in the long process of purchasing eight new hats between them. She watched three girls skip rope in a side street, two of them turning the rope over and over and chanting a rhyme while the third jumped. A clattering noise began to grow louder and louder and she thought it was a train. As she continued to listen, she decided it did not sound anything like a train and must be a motorcar or one of the larger trucks she had seen driving about full of soldiers, and not just one of them, but four or five. She soon rejected this idea as well, for the growling of engines was coming out of the air and over her head.

She stepped away from the boutique so she could get a clearer view of the sky. Others were craning their necks upward and shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. Planes sprang over the rooftops, flying in a ragged formation. Victoria had not seen many aircraft but she had observed enough to know these were enormous and had wings far longer than usual. Assuming they were British, she wondered what so many of them were doing on this side of the Channel instead of flying over the front.

“Germans!”

A man was pointing at one plane that had separated itself from the others. The black crosses on its tail and wings were unmistakable. Suddenly it dived and the rumble of its two engines became a screech. Dark objects hurtled from the plane. Fire broke the street open and a wall of hot air followed by a roar knocked Victoria to her knees. There was a second rush of air and noise and a third. She crawled against the wall of the hat shop as needles of glass and slivers of wood slashed through the streets and alleys. A chunk of brick, smoking with heat, smacked into her leg and she cried out. Black clouds and orange flame and shattering blasts forced her lower and lower.

A wounded horse screamed and lurched past dragging its back legs. Victoria shielded her head with her hands as a large pane of glass above her head flew apart. Hats with feathers went spinning through the bomb blasts and rolling over the paving stones. Her mother’s voice was shouting out her name. She tried to respond but her mouth filled with dust and ashes and she lost her breath, coughing violently into her hands while roaring in the sky and roaring in the streets blotted out any other sound.

We at the
Anglican Herald
wish to announce the birth of twins to Reverend Jeremiah Sweet, vicar of Ribchester in Lancashire, and his wife Emma, née Danforth, daughter of Sir William Danforth, MP, and Lady Elizabeth Danforth of Ashton Park. Peter and James were born at five in the morning on December third. Mother and sons are doing well. The christening will occur at eleven in the morning on Sunday, December ninth, after which the church will gather for a luncheon and a celebration of God’s goodness to Reverend Sweet and his family. The Bishop of Liverpool is expected to be in attendance as well as Sir William and Lady Elizabeth. Sons are a gift from the Lord, the psalmist tells us. In such bleak times it is good to see His graciousness to the Sweets and the Danforths, and we thank God for new life where so much has been taken by war and pestilence.

Spring 1918

“How is Mrs. Seabrooke?” asked Kipp.

Victoria shook her head. “It’s been almost a year since the raid on Folkestone and she just gets worse and worse. At first we thought she would pull it together. During the summer she kept things running like a clock at Dover Sky. But once we returned to Ashton Park in the fall she simply unraveled. This winter has been horrid. You can see for yourself. She’s much like Lady Grace now. Except she wanders through the ash trees in the forest and Lady Grace wanders through the rooms in the manor.”

Kipp thrust his hands in his uniform pockets, a frown on his windburned face, as he watched Mrs. Seabrooke limp across the lawn with the help of a black cane, heading toward the woods. “Bad luck. How long did Mr. Seabrooke live then?”

Victoria had her arms folded over her chest and wore a shawl against the March wind. “He was killed instantly. I’m sorry we didn’t write you sooner about what happened. No one wanted to.”

“I wish I had been there. My squadron would have made quick work of those Gothas. Bombing civilians like that is nothing short of murder.”

“It wasn’t the first time, was it? The Zeppelins did the same thing to Norfolk at the beginning of the war. The longer wars drag on, the nastier humans prove themselves to be. The Germans killed almost thirty children at Folkestone.”

“No real aviator would do that. Richthofen and his Flying Circus wouldn’t.” He put his arm around his sister. “But mum wasn’t hurt. You had a leg burn and a few others had cuts, but nothing bad, right? So I thank God for that. Is it true Sir Arthur hid under a bench?”

Despite watching Mrs. Seabrooke hobble along, Victoria could not suppress a quick smile. “The very bench he’d been napping on. Stuffed himself right underneath. When a bomb lifted it off him he just balled up and crouched lower.”

“That’s something.” Kipp kept his eyes on Mrs. Seabrooke until he lost sight of her among the trees. “Did you say Tavy’s been running the household now?”

“He is.”

“Tavy’s a good sort. He’ll keep things going smoothly here. Who keeps an eye on her?”

“You see Skitt there at the edge of the trees? He’s following her.”

“I like Skitt. Grown up fast as a groom, hasn’t he? Good for him. Speaking of the servants, just before I came out on furlough we got a batch of new lads for our squadron along with a brace of topnotch Sopwith Camels. Who do you suppose popped up with the pilots?”

Victoria shrugged one shoulder, still staring into the ash grove where Mrs. Seabrooke had vanished. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Do you remember a fellow by the name of Whitecross? Fancy seeing him there.”

Victoria snapped her head around. “What?”

“He’d been with different infantry regiments for a year. Applied for the Royal Flying Corps. Took to planes like a hawk to air, I gather. I haven’t been up with him yet. One of my mates, Ian Hannam, has young Whitecross under his wing—”

Victoria threw her arms around Kipp’s neck. “Oh, thank you, thank you, that’s the best news you could have brought me.”

“What’s all this?” Kipp kissed her on the forehead. “Do you care for this Whitecross fellow?”

“Yes—no…no, I’m just glad to get some good news from the war for once…”

Kipp looked at her eyes. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand.

“You don’t need to keep secrets from me,” he said. “I’m not Father. I don’t expect you to marry the Duke of Marlborough. If you like Ben, that’s perfectly fine as far as I’m concerned. He’s an officer in the Royal Flying Corps now. Mum and Dad can hardly object to that.”

She smiled up at him, still crying. “Do you think…do you think they might be favorably inclined towards him—one day?”

“As your suitor? If the war lasts a few more years he could be promoted to captain. So who knows? Look, I’ll take a letter back to him if you like.”

“I wouldn’t want to be forward.”

“Clearly you thought well of him before he enlisted. How could a letter be forward?”

“I’d prefer…that he dash a line off to me…if he wishes…”

“I’ll tell him you’d like to hear from him. How’s that?”

“Yes—all right.”

Kipp hugged her. “I don’t mind being a go-between for you and Ben. Don’t imagine me some sort of spectacular upper-class snob. I’m not Edward.”

Victoria patted her eyes with a pale-green handkerchief that was the color of her dress. “As a matter of fact, Edward’s not like that anymore.”

“He’s not? When did this startling change sweep over Lord High and Mighty, first son of Sir William and Lady Elizabeth Danforth and heir to the great manor of Ashton Park?”