pulled a large folio-sized book from the shelf, his T-shirt stretching across his back with the movement. For a professor, he kept in pretty good shape. There was something to be said for those free university gym memberships. “Clem? Clemmie?”
“What?” She looked down at the book he was shoving under her nose. There was a castle on the front of the book, atmospherically shot in the midst of a fantastical garden of topiary, the sun setting behind the battlements. Great Houses of England ?
“She reads!” said Jon.
“I do card tricks, too,” said Clemmie. She sat down with it on the daybed, bracing the heavy pages on her knees, trying not to think of her BlackBerry buzzing away in her bag. “What exactly am I meant to be seeing here?”
Jon flipped through the pages with a sure hand, his eyes on the book. “There.”
The makers of the book had spared no expense; the paper was glossy and double-weight, with more pictures than text. The page on the left featured a glamour shot of a square building built of golden stone, its dome both echoing and dominating the hills beyond.
“ASHFORD PARK,” read the heading on the right-hand page, all big black letters. Beneath it, in a prissy, curly script, was inscribed:
Thou still unravished bower! Token of England’s greatest hour!
Ne’er knew I true beauty ere I saw Ashford.
—J OHN K EATS , 1795–1821
Clemmie hadn’t realized that the Romantic poets had been for hire for marketing and publicity.
Although the Earls of Ashford trace their heritage back to a Sir Guillaume de Gillecote, the lands comprising the Ashford family seat were first acquired in 1486, following a successful bid on the correct candidate during the Wars of the Roses.
Successive generations of Gillecotes enlarged and expanded the initial structure, turning a Jacobean showhouse into a neo-classical fantasyland. With 135 rooms …
“It’s pronounced ‘Gill-cott,’” said Jon helpfully. “The G is hard.”
Clemmie looked up from the text. “I don’t get it. What does this have to do with the price of tea in China? Or Granny Addie?”
Jon plonked down on the daybed beside her. She could feel the mattress sag, tilting her towards him.
“This,” he said, tapping a finger against the dome. “This is where Granny Addie grew up.”
THREE
London, 1906
“Impossible!” said a female voice. “Simply impossible.”
Addie huddled in the hall closet, buried among the coats. The heavy leather coat her father used for motoring formed a wall to her left, the cracks and seams in the leather tracing their own peculiar geography. Her mother’s brown duster brushed Addie’s cheek, still smelling vaguely of her scent, soap and lilac. Addie scrunched herself up small between the bootjack and a set of old fire irons that someone had meant to be taken to be mended and forgotten.
Usually those fire irons became a castle portcullis or sometimes a garden gate, but today her imaginary worlds had failed her. Camelot with its bright pennants, the hidden gardens of the Hesperides with their golden fruit, Goblin Market with the goblins clucking and clacking, moping and mowing, all were flat and cold. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she squinched her eyes shut, trying to pretend that she wasn’t there.
They were coming to take her away, Fernie had told her. An aunt and uncle she had never met, who lived in a place of which she had never heard.
“You’ll like it there,” Fernie had said tearfully, packing up Addie’s dresses, her boots, her pinafores, and, on the very top, where she could reach it easily, her copy of The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. Addie was very attached to Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. “You’ll have cousins to play with. Won’t that be nice?”
“I’d rather stay with you,” Addie had said, wrapping her arms around Fernie’s waist.
Fernie was properly Miss Ferncliffe and her governess, but there was nothing governess-like about Fernie. She wrote poetry and sometimes tried
“What?” She looked down at the book he was shoving under her nose. There was a castle on the front of the book, atmospherically shot in the midst of a fantastical garden of topiary, the sun setting behind the battlements. Great Houses of England ?
“She reads!” said Jon.
“I do card tricks, too,” said Clemmie. She sat down with it on the daybed, bracing the heavy pages on her knees, trying not to think of her BlackBerry buzzing away in her bag. “What exactly am I meant to be seeing here?”
Jon flipped through the pages with a sure hand, his eyes on the book. “There.”
The makers of the book had spared no expense; the paper was glossy and double-weight, with more pictures than text. The page on the left featured a glamour shot of a square building built of golden stone, its dome both echoing and dominating the hills beyond.
“ASHFORD PARK,” read the heading on the right-hand page, all big black letters. Beneath it, in a prissy, curly script, was inscribed:
Thou still unravished bower! Token of England’s greatest hour!
Ne’er knew I true beauty ere I saw Ashford.
—J OHN K EATS , 1795–1821
Clemmie hadn’t realized that the Romantic poets had been for hire for marketing and publicity.
Although the Earls of Ashford trace their heritage back to a Sir Guillaume de Gillecote, the lands comprising the Ashford family seat were first acquired in 1486, following a successful bid on the correct candidate during the Wars of the Roses.
Successive generations of Gillecotes enlarged and expanded the initial structure, turning a Jacobean showhouse into a neo-classical fantasyland. With 135 rooms …
“It’s pronounced ‘Gill-cott,’” said Jon helpfully. “The G is hard.”
Clemmie looked up from the text. “I don’t get it. What does this have to do with the price of tea in China? Or Granny Addie?”
Jon plonked down on the daybed beside her. She could feel the mattress sag, tilting her towards him.
“This,” he said, tapping a finger against the dome. “This is where Granny Addie grew up.”
THREE
London, 1906
“Impossible!” said a female voice. “Simply impossible.”
Addie huddled in the hall closet, buried among the coats. The heavy leather coat her father used for motoring formed a wall to her left, the cracks and seams in the leather tracing their own peculiar geography. Her mother’s brown duster brushed Addie’s cheek, still smelling vaguely of her scent, soap and lilac. Addie scrunched herself up small between the bootjack and a set of old fire irons that someone had meant to be taken to be mended and forgotten.
Usually those fire irons became a castle portcullis or sometimes a garden gate, but today her imaginary worlds had failed her. Camelot with its bright pennants, the hidden gardens of the Hesperides with their golden fruit, Goblin Market with the goblins clucking and clacking, moping and mowing, all were flat and cold. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she squinched her eyes shut, trying to pretend that she wasn’t there.
They were coming to take her away, Fernie had told her. An aunt and uncle she had never met, who lived in a place of which she had never heard.
“You’ll like it there,” Fernie had said tearfully, packing up Addie’s dresses, her boots, her pinafores, and, on the very top, where she could reach it easily, her copy of The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. Addie was very attached to Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. “You’ll have cousins to play with. Won’t that be nice?”
“I’d rather stay with you,” Addie had said, wrapping her arms around Fernie’s waist.
Fernie was properly Miss Ferncliffe and her governess, but there was nothing governess-like about Fernie. She wrote poetry and sometimes tried
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