Ashton Park (61 page)

Mrs. Seabrooke clapped her hands at the servants. “Come along then, see the people seated and served. A storm could brew up. This is England. Table of honor first, then see to the rest. Lively, lively.”

Red tablecloths fluttered in a warm June breeze like banners on a field where medieval knights might gallop armored horses. Emma and Jeremiah and their boys sat with Catherine and her baby, Sean, the infant taking everything in with startled eyes. Mrs. Longstaff had been cooking for three days and Holly thought her husband would jump out of his chair with joy at finding toad in the hole, cock-a-leekie soup, and rabbit stew on the menu.

“Why, it’s amazing,” he said as he dug into the meal. “Did you have anything to do with this, Holly?”

“Not a bit. But I think Mrs. Longstaff knows you pretty well after all these years.”

“We scarcely ever get things like this at table downstairs.”

“Maybe we can change that. What would you say to a Saturday-night meal once a week in the Castle? Of the sort of simple fare common when the keep was built a thousand years ago?”

“I’d love it. But will your brother agree to such a scheme? Every week? I can’t see it. “

“Let me handle my brother.”

“All right. What shall I do then?”

She smiled. “Handle me.”

Sir William had just stood up from his seat at the table of honor with a glass in his hand, when the roar of a motorcycle made him pause. Kipp and Ben had talked about getting a pair of motorcycles for the nearby airfield, and both stood up to look as the bike found its way along the road between the oak trees.

“It’s a Douglas,” said Ben.

“It is,” responded Kipp.

“Lovely.”

The rider stopped in front of the keep. He was clothed in a long leather coat, leather helmet, and boots. Peeling off gloves that were more like gauntlets he yanked the goggles up off his eyes and looked at the scores of guests seated at tables on the vast stretches of grass around the Castle. Finally he approached Sir William.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said, every eye on him. “But I do have an important message I was asked to deliver today.”

“Very well.” Sir William set down his glass. “Have you come from the village?”

“Liverpool, sir.” He reached into a leather satchel that was slung over one shoulder. He handed Sir William a flat package tied with string. “Here you are. My lord.”

Sir William tried to open the package, struggling with the string. “Just sir, my boy. I’m not entitled to any sort of lordship.”

The courier did not reply. Sir William continued to wrestle with the string. Finally, his face red, he handed it back.

“They might as well wrap these things in barbed wire. If you will do me the honor.”

“I know what’s in it, my lord.”

“Young man. Please stop that. I am Sir William.”

“And it please you, my lord, you are not. Not anymore.” The courier straightened. “The documents come from Buckingham Palace. King George V wishes it to be known in what great esteem he holds you and your family. In particular for your help spread over many years in bringing the Irish crisis to a peaceful resolution. As a measure of that esteem he appoints you First Marquess of Preston. The investiture ceremony will be held in August.”

“I…ah…Preston…why, I’m often in Preston. Our textile business is there. A charming spot.” Sir William remained rooted behind the table with its red tablecloth, the unopened package by his plate. “I don’t know what else to say.”

The courier touched his hand to his helmet. “May I wish you every happiness, The Most Honorable The Marquess of Preston.” He walked back to his Douglas motorcycle and straddled it, adjusting his goggles over his eyes and starting the engine. The bike growled and rumbled and he sped down the dirt track, past the oak trees that bent over his head.

Edward stood up at his table. “You were going to toast the bride and groom, Father. And you should. But first I think we must toast you and Mother—Lord and Lady Preston of Ashton Park.”

Lord Scarborough was on his feet, glass raised. “Hear, hear.”

Everyone rose.

Edward drank from his glass. “God bless you!” He began to clap. In moments the applause was thunderous and prolonged.

Sir William remained standing, but he reached down to take his wife’s hand. He smiled at his family and friends and his servants as they clapped and called out. The breeze picked up and parted the branches of the oak trees and he caught glimpses of Ashton Park and the ash grove that surrounded it. Looking up to the top of the Castle he saw a Union Jack flying for the first time from the battlements and beneath it the ancient flag that bore the coat of arms of the Danforth family of Lancashire. A thought sprang into his mind…he saw the floor of the central lobby at Westminster, a floor he had crossed ten thousand times over the years. It had been laid down in a complex pattern with Minton tiles. Among the tiles lay Latin words he had grown accustomed to—they came to him with unusual force, so that he almost gasped.

“
Nisi Dominus aedificat domum in vanum laboraverunt qui aedificant eam,
” he said out loud in astonishment, but no one heard him.

It had never occurred to Sir William that the words might apply to his family and his house, that they might apply to Ashton Park and a castle that had been built almost a thousand years before. But now the feeling pressed in on him that they did—and that the day was not only about Holly and Harrison or about what had been bestowed on him and his wife, but about the honor due the One who had been with his family through war and peace in all generations. And he began to clap along with the others because he saw and understood what a great work had been done.

Nisi Dominus aedificat domum in vanum laboraverunt qui aedificant eam.

Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it.

If you loved
Ashton Park,
watch for book two of The Danforths of Lancashire,
Beneath the Dover Sky
, available July 1, 2013.

Murray Pura earned his Master of Divinity degree from Acadia University in Wolfville, Nova Scotia, and his ThM degree in theology and interdisciplinary studies from Regent College in Vancouver, British Columbia. For more than 25 years, in addition to his writing, he has pastored churches in Nova Scotia, British Columbia, and Alberta. Murray’s writings have been short-listed for the Dartmouth Book Award, the John Spencer Hill Literary Award, the Paraclete Fiction Award, and Toronto’s Kobzar Literary Award. Murray pastors and writes in southern Alberta near the Rocky Mountains. He and his wife, Linda, have a son and a daughter.

Visit Murray’s website at
www.murraypura.com/

My thanks to my great editor at Harvest House, Nick Harrison, and the crew he works with who helped bring
Ashton Park
to light—special people like Shane White, Paul Gossard, Georgia Varozza, Katie Lane, and Laura Knudson. Thanks also to my agent Les Stobbe for his ongoing and tireless support and my publicist Jeane Wynn of Wynn-Wynn Media for her bright spirit and hard work on my behalf. I’m always grateful for my wife Linda’s love and encouragement and the enthusiasm of my son Micah and my daughter Micaela for their father’s writing. And to Brendan and Jacqueline Cook and their sons who always make a home for me whenever I’m in England—cheers and thanks for making the green hills of Lancashire come to life every time I visit you there.

A final word. If the accomplishments of Ben Whitecross in his Sopwith Camel seem incredible, my readers should know they are based on the exploits of World War I ace William George Barker of my home province of Manitoba. On October 27, 1918, Barker tangled with scores of enemy aircraft and single-handedly shot down four of them in a short span of time before being shot down himself. He survived and was awarded the Victoria Cross by King George V at Buckingham Palace in 1919.

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