Ashton Park (3 page)

They both turned quickly from the window. It was Tavy the butler. He inclined his head at the husband and wife, both as tall and thin as reeds in a pond, while he stood round and sturdy as a boulder with his full stomach and firmly combed gray hair. Mrs. Seabrooke hesitated. When she realized he wasn’t going to bring up her comments about the dogs, she smiled brightly.

“What is it, Tavy?”

“The household staff is assembled in the dining room as you requested, ma’arm. Did you wish to speak with them?”

“I did indeed. Thank you, Tavy. We’ll be along directly.”

“Do you think he heard?” she asked her husband when Tavy had left the room.

Mr. Seabrooke shrugged. “If he did, you’ll find out about it when he wants a favor from you.”

“Come, Tavy’s not like that.”

“You hardly know him. How long has Clifford been gone? Six months? And Tavy’s only filled his shoes for three of them.”

Mrs. Seabrooke pinched her lips together and rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger, closing her eyes. Suddenly she clapped her hands and headed for the hallway.

“They’re waiting for us, Mr. Seabrooke.”

The walnut table had been set for high tea with silver teapots and bone china. The maids and footmen and other staff were gathered in a half-circle at the far end of the long table from the Seabrookes and Tavy. Mrs. Seabrooke gave them a smile as bright as the one she’d given Tavy a few minutes before.

“The setting looks marvelous,” she began. “We do not have tea while Sir William is away but when he is at the manor it will be served every day at four. Dinner, as usual, will be at eight. A few of you are new here and have never met Sir William. He is a good man. Fair. You know he is a great politician, our MP for this district, a key voice for the Conservative Party, His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. Very religious—there will be devotions at every breakfast and staff members are expected to attend if they are on duty. As with Lady Elizabeth, grace is said at every meal. What else? Ah, yes, do remember Sir William is left-handed when you set his place or serve him tea or coffee—Maggie, you will need to switch his fork and knife and spoon around—that’s right—and his wine glass and water glass—excellent.

“Of course it is Easter week and tonight is Maundy Thursday. There will be a service in the manor chapel at ten. Completely voluntary in terms of attendance though both Sir William and Lady Elizabeth would be grateful to see you there. Bear in mind that Emma’s fiancé, the Reverend Jeremiah Sweet, will be leading the service and giving the homily, so no doubt our dear Emma would be happy for your presence and show of support as well. The youngest, Victoria, will be singing ‘O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
.
’ I don’t know what your religious beliefs are, but she has the voice of a lark—I would be hard put not to feel worshipful myself when that young lady lifts up her voice. Anything else, Mr. Seabrooke?”

His hands were folded behind his back and he nodded gravely. “Easter Sunday. The wedding.”

“Of course. Sir William will want the black crepe taken down early Sunday morning from the chapel and replaced with fresh-cut flowers, as much color as we can find on the grounds and in the gardens. It’s to celebrate our Lord’s resurrection, you see. There will be a service here at eight Sunday, close to sunrise—well, not so close, but it is symbolical, you take my point. Then the family will attend Easter Sunday services at St. Mark’s-among-the-Starlings. Our household staff is encouraged to attend if they do not have other pressing duties.”

“Such as cooking the Sunday lunch?” piped up Mrs. Longstaff, a small woman with curly, rust-colored hair and a voice and laugh that filled the room. The others laughed with her, easing some of the tension for those who were serving Sir William at his estate for the first time.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Seabrooke with a smile. “You and your assistants would indeed be hard-pressed to attend worship services and have the meal ready at one. Ben Whitecross and Todd Turpin will be busy driving the coaches back and forth from the church.”

Loud voices could be heard from the front door, and footsteps began to echo down the long stone hallway. Mrs. Seabrooke clapped her hands together quickly. “Right. Here they come. No, just stay where you are for the present. Sir William will want to address you as a group. As for the wedding of Emma to Reverend Sweet, you already know it will take place next Friday in the chapel here. There’ll be plenty of time to discuss arrangements after Easter Sunday is done.”

Sir William and Lady Elizabeth entered the dining hall with its high ceiling and walls and rich oil paintings of ancestors who bore the Danforth name. Their family followed them. Sir William opened his arms to the staff.

“It is very good to see all of you. Sally, Norah, Mrs. Longstaff, Mr. and Mrs. Seabrooke, Tavy, Harrison—wonderful. And there are new faces too—welcome. I’ll get to know you better this week, I’m sure, and Lady Elizabeth will help me put names to your faces as swiftly as possible. But for now, let us keep in mind that the days are upon us during which we remember our Savior’s sacrifice for us. We will honor Him in quiet and with Mrs. Longstaff’s good but simple meals for the first few days. But Sunday we will express our jubilation at His resurrection and His conquest of death. We’ll enjoy a rather spare tea tonight—it is, after all, Maundy Thursday, when our Savior was betrayed and put in chains—and both tea and dinner will reflect that, as our meals on Good Friday and Holy Saturday shall reflect His death and burial and repose in the tomb. Very well. Shall we pray then?”

Heads bowed and Sir William spoke a few words of blessing, then the family sat while the staff moved about to serve them. Sir William asked after his daughter Libby, who was nursing in France, and then wondered if there was any news he had missed regarding his sons since he had been at Westminster. There was nothing to report, his wife told him—Edward, the eldest, remained with the Royal Navy and had seen no action at all, a great relief to her; Kipp, next in line, was flying with his squadron in France and had not been injured in the past fortnight, another relief; their youngest son, Robbie, was still with the army at Dublin, safely stationed with other officers in the Hotel Metropole, and chafing that he was not with the British army in France or Belgium—this also suited her admirably.

“I’m grateful everyone is where they are,” she said, sipping at her water. “I hope the navy never has to fight and Robbie never has to leave Ireland. It’s quite enough to worry about Kipp and Libby in France.”

“Lib is far from the front lines, Mother,” responded Emma. “I shouldn’t worry too much about her.”

Lady Elizabeth glanced across the table at Emma and Catherine and Victoria. “I have four daughters and I want to keep all of them. The front, as you call it, Emma, has a way of changing position altogether too frequently and putting persons where they have no business being—like nurses and doctors who are suddenly caught up in bombs and bullets and barbed wire. So I have committed my Easter prayers to Libby and Kipp. I will remember all of you, and all of my sons, but it is Kipp and Libby I shall be asking God to pay particular attention to this weekend.”

Sir William nodded and rapped the table gently with his knuckles. “Hear, hear.”

O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down,

Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown.

How pale Thou art with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn!

How doth that visage languish, which once was bright as morn!

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered, was all for sinners’ gain,

Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain.

Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ’Tis I deserve Thy place,

Look on me with Thy favor, vouchsafe to me Thy grace.

Victoria’s pure, strong voice filled the chapel. The room was dark but for a dozen white candles placed at different stained glass windows. The chapel was connected to the manor and nestled in a rose garden. Even at dusk light glowed in the windows. But now they were covered in black crepe so that moonlight could not penetrate. Victoria felt as if she were singing in a tomb.

The chapel could accommodate one hundred. Her family sat facing her in the flickering gloom as well as a dozen of the servants, including Tavy, Mr. and Mrs. Seabrooke, Harrison, Todd, and Norah, her own maid. As she sang she saw her father’s eyes fill and he sank his head in his hands. It was never religion for religion’s sake with him. He felt everything he believed deep in his heart and his blood. Her mother did as well, caring a great deal about the life and teachings of Christ, though she was never as emotional or as demonstrative as her husband.

The dimness of this space suits you, Catherine
. Her sister’s anxiety and weariness, cut in lines below her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, softened in the shadows and became the strokes of an artist working with sticks of charcoal. Her black hair, gathered at her neck, framed her face like a veil.
You feel the death and sufferings of Christ as deeply as father does.

Emma smiled directly at her as Victoria began the fifth verse of the hymn. Dear Emma could never feel anguish like father or Catherine or even their mother. Of all of them, including Libby and her brothers, Emma was the most even-keeled, the one who never got into a flap, or laughed too loudly, or cried too long. She believed in the Christian faith, and was delighted to be marrying an Anglican minister—though Victoria was certain Emma would have married Jeremiah even if he were a bricklayer or fishmonger—but the flow of her faith through her heart was a gentle stream, never a torrent or a deep well.

Sir Arthur, with his large white curling mustache and shining bare head, her mother’s father, sat with his cane across his knees and his eyes closed. Victoria knew he wasn’t sleeping. It was his way of taking things in. He even did it in the middle of conversation at breakfast or dinner if he wanted to listen to what someone was saying as closely as possible.

On one side of him, Lady Grace, her father’s mother, sat in a black dress trimmed in white lace, with a dark veil dropping over her face from a dark hat. Her eyes were wide and bewildered as they usually were. But it was a mistake, Victoria had long ago learned, to assume by her vacant gaze that she was not altogether there. Her mind was quite precise and she recalled details of incidents and dialogue that had taken place weeks before as if they were happening in front of her at the present moment. Yet she always seemed distracted, drifting about the rooms of the manor as if she were in another world, spending her hours among lords and ladies of Ashton Park who were long dead.

On the other side of Sir Arthur was Aunt Holly, her father’s youngest sister. She was only in her thirties, and her teeth were white and straight, her figure slender and erect, her hair night-black and gleaming. The beauty of a young woman had never left her face or eyes or lips. One of her hands rested on Sir Arthur’s arm. Always bickering but always together, as if they were husband and wife instead of quarrelsome friends. The skin of her face, thin over her cheekbones, seemed lit as if by a candle placed by her head, and her blue eyes glittered with an animation Victoria would have expected from Libby if she were present. Smiles were constant with Aunt Holly, but never fixed—every part of her was engaged when it was time to smile. She was a good aunt now and had been a good aunt when they were young, Victoria remembered—the one who had the best stories, the best sweets in her pocket, the best energy of any of the adults. She could always outrun and outclimb and outjump everyone. Why she had remained single was unknown to Victoria and her siblings, and their parents never talked of it, but Victoria and Catherine speculated that there had been a long-ago love gone bad. At any rate, she seemed content to live out her years here with her brother’s family.

Victoria gathered her thoughts for the final verse of the hymn and left off thinking about her family to think about Christ instead. As she poured out her music from her throat, unaccompanied by any instrument, she knew Easter mattered to her as much as it did to anyone in the chapel, perhaps more, for she felt Christ cared about women, cared about the poor of Ireland, cared about the British and German and French soldiers dying in the mud of Flanders. That was why she worshipped Him. He was God with a human face.

My Savior, be Thou near me when death is at my door,

Then let Thy presence cheer me, forsake me nevermore!