Ashton Park (7 page)

Ben Whitecross took off his cap and set it on a chair just outside the door. From the kitchen down the hall he heard Mrs. Longstaff giving instructions to her staff as they prepared dinner. He smoothed down his curls with both hands, shrugged his shoulders to loosen the tight fit of his best jacket, and knocked on the door. Mr. Seabrooke opened it a crack.

“Who is it?” came Mrs. Seabrooke’s voice.

“Ben Whitecross, ma’am. You sent a message I should call on you today.”

“I did. Come in. Please, Mr. Seabrooke, open the door.”

Ben stepped into Mr. and Mrs. Seabrooke’s office. The door was shut firmly behind him. Mrs. Seabrooke looked up from the ledger on her desk and turned in her chair to face him.

“Mr. Whitecross, have a seat.”

Ben sat down. Immediately Mr. Seabrooke hovered over him.

“Well, that’s it, lad,” he growled. “You’re done.”

Ben glanced up at him, startled. “What’s that?”

Mrs. Seabrooke tightened her lips. “There’s no need for rudeness, Mr. Seabrooke. You are well aware that Mr. Whitecross has provided a fine service to the Danforth family up until now.”

Ben stared at her. “What do you mean, Mrs. Seabrooke?”

She raised the thin eyebrows in her thin face. “Did you honestly think no one would notice your midnight…romance with the young Victoria? That no one else on this estate has nocturnal habits?”

Ben was surprised but his face darkened as quickly as the feeling of shock ran through him. “Who has been talking to you? Who has been spouting such nonsense?”

“Someone of impeccable reputation, I assure you. You needn’t fear that this has spread over the entire estate or that Sir William or Lady Elizabeth knows of the matter. Mr. Seabrooke and I have kept it to ourselves. But there can be no more dallying with Miss Danforth on your part. You must leave the estate at once.”

“I will not.”

“You will, Ben Whitecross. I can assure you the repercussions of a refusal shall not be a pleasant experience.”

Ben leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a decent Christian man, Mrs. Seabrooke.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have not despoiled Miss Danforth in any way. But an embrace or two is enough. You are a groom, Mr. Whitecross, not a lord. Today you can leave with your reputation intact. We will provide you with excellent references to another noble family in Britain. Sir William and Lady Elizabeth continue to hold you in high regard for your loyalty and competence.” She lowered her voice. “If you choose to fight me on this matter, I will destroy you.”

Ben curled his hands into fists and said nothing. She waited. Finally he said, “I must have a few moments alone with Victoria.”

Mrs. Seabrooke shook her head. “Out of the question.”

“I must be allowed to say goodbye if I am to be forced out of Ashton Park today.”

“Not just today. This minute. Victoria is off on a day excursion with her sisters.” Mrs. Seabrooke picked up a pen and paper and extended them to Ben. “You may write a note. I will read it, so do not say anything foolish or she will never receive it.”

“What am I supposed to say? That I am dismissed?”

“You are not dismissed. Unless you try to make this a public scandal. You may tell her you have taken employment at an estate in Oxfordshire for the time being.”

“She won’t believe it. She knows I’d do anything to stay here beside her.”

Mrs. Seabrooke tapped her fingers on her desktop. “You must vanish entirely, you understand. There can be no correspondence beyond this note. No address where she can find you.” She stopped tapping. “Have you ever considered enlisting, Mr. Whitecross?”

Ben held the pen and paper loosely in his hands. “I have. Victoria is against it.”

“But Sir William would be for it. He would hold you in high esteem. Perhaps he has wondered why you are here safe and sound while he has three sons in harm’s way. His good opinion of you would secure your future.” She leaned back in her chair, narrowed her eyes, and smiled. “Write the note. Bid her a noble and heroic farewell. Tell her you are bound by all that is holy to do your patriotic duty. Say you love her, if you must. Then go to the stables and gather your things and be off. Skitt will take you into Liverpool.”

“Skitt!”

“Todd Turpin will be the new groom and Skitt will be his assistant.”

Ben hesitated, reluctant to put pen to paper. She continued to smile and watched him, resuming the tapping of her fingers.

“It is the Germans or me, Mr. Whitecross,” she said softly. “I believe you would be better off choosing the Germans.”

Later that afternoon, Colonel Harraway came up from Liverpool. It was not a long drive in a motorcar. Leaving his driver with the vehicle, he knocked at the front door and was ushered by Tavy into the library once again, where Sir William and Lady Elizabeth quickly joined him. He refused tea or water.

“I wished you to hear from me directly,” the colonel began as they sat together. “The game is pretty much up. The post office was the last position the rebels held and they are abandoning it. Scores have already surrendered. The fighting was brisk this week but it will all be over in matter of hours.”

“What have you heard of our son?” asked Lady Elizabeth as soon as he paused. Her hands gripped her husband’s.

“We have recovered some of the British soldiers the rebels held. Not all. They have been treated fairly, a factor that will tell in the rebels’ favor when they are tried for treason. But there is no word yet of your son. When there is, I promise you, I shall cable you or come in person.”

Lady Elizabeth struggled with her words. “Have they…have the Irish… shot any of…their prisoners?”

“No, my lady, you may rest easy on that score at least. They know the world is watching. The Irish want their cause to appear noble and virtuous.”

Sir William fixed the colonel with a sharp stare. “I take it the fighting was severe.”

The colonel nodded. “Yes, Sir William. We used artillery and incendiary shells, as I expected. We did not have a month to play with the rebels, not with a war in France. Fires swept through city blocks—some, I grant you, were started by our shells, but others sprang up due to looters and vandals. Dozens of buildings were devastated—whole streets really. Better that shellfire level the rebel positions than our troops attack them head-on.”

Sir William held the colonel’s eye. “Quite.”

The officer looked away and stood up. “I have every expectation your son will return to you unharmed.”

Sir William also stood while Lady Elizabeth remained in her chair, a hand over her eyes. “Thank you, Colonel, for your personal concern. I too have every hope that my prayers will be answered.” He shook the colonel’s hand.

After the officer had left, escorted by Tavy, Sir William remained standing, hands in his pockets. “He knows about my speeches in favor of Home Rule. Likely doesn’t approve. No more than I approve of His Majesty’s forces shelling Dublin. Well, if we had treated Ireland fairly years ago none of this would be happening right now and Robbie wouldn’t be in a fix. A lighter hand was what was needed. A lighter hand and a good dose of Christian charity.”

He walked to the window and looked out over the lawn to the oak trees and the Castle they ringed with green. Lady Elizabeth glanced up and followed him with her eyes.

“Home Rule ought to have been in place for Ireland under Gladstone. Under Queen Victoria. Why, it ought to have been in place as far back as Pitt or Wellington. But none of them did it. So now this.”

He turned to look at his wife, his face set in strong lines about his jaw and eyes. “We’ll have him home again, mother. Through a maelstrom of botched politics and ill-tempered guns, by God’s grace, we’ll get him back.”

That evening after dinner a cable was brought to the house from a telegraph station in the nearby town. Sir William opened it at the door while Tavy looked on. Sir William clenched a fist and shouted.

I AM SAFE. AM RETURNED TO MY REGIMENT. NOT A SCRATCH. LETTER TO COME. LOVE. ROBBIE.

Candles and lamps were lit throughout the manor. Tavy scurried about gathering family and servants in the Great Hall with its massive stone fireplace that could manage eight-foot logs. Sir William waved the telegram in the air as people came together, Lady Elizabeth beaming beside him, and offered a prayer of thanks for Robbie’s safe release. People began to clap. Sir William asked Mrs. Longstaff to bring up tubs of ice cream from the cellar and dish it all out in celebration.

Victoria noticed that Ben Whitecross was not present. While maids were handing out bowls and spoons she slipped out the door, cloak over her shoulders, and headed to the stables. They were dark and no lantern was lit, though she could see the horses that had been worked that day had been rubbed down and now stood quietly in their stalls. She lit a lantern she found dangling from a nail and went to Ben’s room.

It was attached to the stables and contained a washstand, desk, wardrobe, a hearth for a turf fire, and a bed. All of his belongings were gone. The room was bare of pictures and clothing and boots. Mementoes she had given him were not on his desk.

“What is going on, Ben?” she whispered.

An envelope that bore her name lay on a chair at the foot of the bed. It was Ben’s almost indecipherable handwriting. She opened it. A short note was inside. It did not take her long to read it. She sank down on the bed, lantern in one hand and the letter in the other.

“Enlisted!” she cried out. “France! It’s hell, Ben! Hell on earth! Why? Why, Ben Whitecross?”

May and June 1916

“Thinking of home, sir? Or your girl?”

The tall officer with the dark red hair grunted. “None of your business, McGrail. But since the fleet’s weighed anchor and we’re bound to come to blows with the Germans, I’ll tell you. I was thinking of my father’s dogs. I miss them.”

The two men were leaning against a guardrail as their battle cruiser sheared through water that looked like black glass. It was almost midnight and both had night watch. Over their heads, now and then, sharp, bright stars emerged from the cloud cover before disappearing a few minutes later. Neither of them noticed. Both had their eyes on the sea.

McGrail guffawed. “Dogs? You’re joking, Commander Danforth.”

“Never joke about an Englishman’s dogs, McGrail. What part of Ireland are you from?”

“Carlow, sir. The Garden of Ireland.”

“Is it? What did you think about that little muck-up back in April?”

McGrail snorted. “Dublin? The rebellion? Rubbish.” He dug into the pocket of his bridge coat, a pea coat that fell to his thighs. Danforth wore the same type of coat against rough weather. McGrail brought out a cigarette and lighter. “Would you care for a smoke, sir?”

“Not tonight.”

“Do you mind if I—?”

“Go ahead. Maybe it will warm us both up.” Even though he wore gloves he rubbed his hands together. “It’s almost June and the North Sea is still an icebox.
Join the army, Edward, and you can serve with your brother Robbie. Join the Royal Flying Corps and you can pilot a plane with your brother Kipp.
I should have listened to mother.”

McGrail blew out a stream of white smoke. “I dunno. There’s no way out of a burning plane. And no way out of a shell hole if the Hun have dropped one right on your head. We’ve got a better chance.”