The Ashford Affair (11 page)

Someone had to get Binky back. Addie didn’t look to see if Bea followed. She set off after the mouse, dodging startled party guests, tracking her progress by the sound of shrieks and shattering champagne glasses.

“Binky!” she called, interspersed with “So sorry!” and “Pardon me!”

Perhaps it was stupid; it probably was; but Binky was her mouse and she couldn’t let her be squished.

“I assume this is what you’re looking for?”

She skidded to a halt as a hand stretched out before her, a bit of black sleeve, a white cuff with a carnelian cuff link. There was an oval signet ring, a heavy thing of very yellow gold, deeply carved. Above it poked out a familiar small, pink nose.

Addie looked up and saw a male face, lips creased with amusement beneath a narrow mustache. His eyes were a curious mix of green and brown, like moss and peat mixed together. Winded, she gaped stupidly up at him.

“Yours, I presume?” he said, and held out Binky to her.

SIX

New York, 1999

“So it was love at first mouse?” said Clemmie.

Granny Addie didn’t answer. She had slipped into the easy sleep of old age, her lids purple and swollen, her mouth slightly ajar.

Carefully, making sure not to bump the bed, Clemmie leaned over her, making sure that her breathing was regular, her color still good. Clemmie’s mother said this happened more and more these days, that Granny Addie would doze off mid-sentence, waking up again to pick up where she’d left off—or talking about something else entirely, finishing a conversation begun in a dream.

Clemmie sat herself gingerly back down in the chair. Even though it had been dark for hours, it was relatively early yet, not quite eight. She could give it a little time before going home to pack.

It felt good just to sit.

The shades were still up and through them she could see the lights of the building across the way. Through the windows, scenes in miniature were being played out, people coming home from work, families sitting down to dinner. Clemmie wrapped her arms around herself, leaning her head against the side of the chair. There was a strange sort of melancholy that came of looking into other people’s lives, watching them from the outside. It made her miss Dan.

Well, maybe not Dan himself. She was surprised at how little a gap he had left in her life, how little she thought of him, of him as him. But she missed the idea of him. She missed what he had represented.

Was it so wrong to want someone? Someone to call when she was stuck at the office, someone to snuggle up against on cold nights, someone who would remind her that there was a life outside of work. For a moment, she had thought she had that with Dan, even if Dan himself was, well, Dan. But he had seemed so sure, sure enough for both of them, and just having someone else in her life, even if she wasn’t entirely sure it was the right someone else, had made her feel more complete, more comfortable in her own skin.

He had shown up at a time when she was beginning to feel a little panicky, suddenly aware that her friends weren’t just marrying around her, they were having children already, and here she was, married to her desk, without a date in sight.

She had dated in college and law school, but none of them had seemed to last. At the time, it didn’t matter; she had plenty of time, years and years for that. Her mother had pounded into her the importance of being self-motivated and self-supporting. Marriage was the kind of thing that just happened; a career was something you had to work at.

But it hadn’t just happened, not for her. There had been a brief fling with another associate her second year at the firm and then nothing. Nothing for a long, long time. She had gone on the odd blind date, set up by college friends and colleagues, some awful, some okay, but none accompanied by a blinding clap of thunder. She had gone to cocktail parties—when her work schedule permitted—and been seated awkwardly next to the token single man at married friends’ Saturday night dinner parties, but, at the end of the day, she’d always found herself going home alone.

And then along came Dan.

Dan was an expert witness called in to advise her team on an IP case. As a fifth year, Clemmie was the most senior associate involved, and she didn’t know her UNIX from her eunuchs. Dan had found that hysterically funny, far funnier than the weak joke warranted. He had invited her for coffee, and Clemmie, more for the caffeine than for the company, had said yes. She hadn’t realized that when he said “coffee” he meant
coffee.

They’d gone downstairs to the Starbucks next door and he’d told her all about himself. He had his PhD in computer science from Yale, he told her, and his computer start-up was creating—something or other. Clemmie, who already knew all this from his bio, wondered why he was telling her until, hesitantly, he’d asked her what she thought about dinner.

Mine generally comes from a plastic bag delivered to the lobby,
she’d said.

Want to do something wild and crazy and have some with me?
he said.

So she had.

His life couldn’t have been more different from hers. As CTO of an Internet start-up, he’d knock off half a day to play foosball, then work forty-eight hours straight, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He got her out of the office on weekends, taking her places she hadn’t realized existed within reach of Manhattan: apple-picking, Renaissance fairs, Scottish games. His friends threw
Lord of the Rings
parties and brewed their own beer.

Bemused, Clemmie had come along for the ride. It was entirely out of the blue, and she had never thought it would last, but one month turned into two, and then into a year, and somehow, she had a toothbrush at his apartment and contact-lens solution under his sink. He had proposed with a candy ring, a big cherry one.

She had looked at it and thought, Is this it? Not the ring, but Dan, everything. Shouldn’t she feel … more? Not the rapturous passion promised by romance novels, but some sort of deep joy and conviction.

Sometimes, she wondered if everyone else was just faking it, if they felt this way, too, and were just better at hiding it, or fooling themselves. But then there were Granny and Grandpa, and however much Clemmie might allow for rose-colored glasses or selective retelling, the look on Granny’s face when she talked about Grandpa Frederick—Grandpa Frederick and that silly mouse—couldn’t be feigned.

How did one go about finding a true love? If such a thing existed, that was. Everything else in Clemmie’s life she had been able to work for or study for, but not this. It seemed like it happened completely at random—or sometimes not at all.

Elsewhere in the apartment, a clock chimed, eight high, metallic pings, one after the other.

Clemmie pushed the chair back carefully. Her grandmother was fast asleep, her white head against the pillows. Leaning over, Clemmie pulled up the covers, tucking in her grandmother as her grandmother used to tuck her.

“Good night, Granny,” she said softly. “Sleep well.”

Her grandmother slept on, smiling slightly in her sleep. Clemmie wondered if she was dreaming about Grandpa Frederick.

Maybe Clemmie needed a mouse.

Ashford, 1914

“It made a jolly crash,” said Bea with relish. “Did you see the look on Aunt Agatha’s face?”

It wasn’t the look on Aunt Agatha’s face that had stayed with Addie but Aunt Vera’s. It was a look that promised murder, or at least some sort of sufficiently gruesome retribution. Addie counted herself lucky that racks and thumbscrews had gone out of fashion.

It had taken the footmen quite some time to restore order, sweeping up the broken glass, administering hartshorn to those who had fainted. Aunt Vera had dealt with the whole affair like a viceroy’s wife. Without faltering for a moment, she had swept the entire party off to the long drawing room that spanned the back of the house. It wasn’t ideal for dancing, being too narrow, but with the rapid removal of unnecessary furnishings and some of the party spilling over into the gardens she had managed to create the impression that this had been her intent all along. With a smile on her face, she had chatted up dignitaries, pushed awkward young men in the direction of Dodo, and agreed that, yes, it really was too amusing.

This they had heard via Edward, who had stopped off at the nursery to report and commiserate. Although perhaps “commiserate” wasn’t quite the right word.
Jolly glad I’m not in your shoes
was the phrase that had been used.

Addie didn’t particularly want to be in her own shoes either.

“Poor Dodo,” she said. “And when she was looking so pretty.”

“Nonsense,” said Bea. “It’s done her a favor. People will be talking about her ball for months. Years, even.”

“Yes, but not in the right way.” The fact that poor Dodo herself had had nothing to do with the disaster wouldn’t factor into it; the story would grow and spread and Dodo would be the debutante with the mouse from now unto the ends of the earth. Addie knit her fingers together. “I do wonder what Aunt Vera is going to do with me.”

Bea’s face softened. “Poor you,” she said. “I hadn’t thought. I’ll tell them it’s my fault. It was.”

Addie shook her head. “They’ll never believe it. Your mother still thinks of me as a cuckoo in the nest.”

“A very creditable cuckoo,” said Bea encouragingly.

“Not at the moment,” said Addie glumly. “Your mother will say it just shows. She’s always waiting for me to sprout socialist tendencies and bring shame upon the family name.” No matter how she tried to make a joke of it, they both knew it was true. No matter how hard she tried, she would always be suspect.

“I’m so sorry,” said Bea. “I shouldn’t’ve—well, never mind.” She chewed on the side of a nail, her only unlovely habit.

“I doubt they’ll hang, draw, and quarter me,” said Addie, trying to make her cousin feel better. “The worst that can happen is that they’ll stop my pocket money again. I can make do without penny bars for a week.”

“You can have all mine,” said Bea. “All mine with interest.”

“Bea,” said Addie slowly. “I was wondering…”

“What?”

“Never mind.” It was a foolish question. Of course Bea hadn’t let Binky go on purpose. Instead, she said, “I’m going to go for a walk. It’s too maddening being cooped in here, waiting for my fate.”

“What if you run into
them
?” said Bea, sitting up on the sofa, the ends of the shawl dangling across her legs.

“They shouldn’t be back for ages.” Since Dodo showed to best advantage on horseback, Aunt Vera had got together a hunt, on the theory that Dodo’s good seat might win her what her dancing wouldn’t.

“Shall I come with you?” A clear sign that Bea was feeling remorseful. She hated country walks.

Addie glanced out the window. The morning’s rain had turned into a fine mist. Perfect walking weather.

“That’s all right.” She slid into an old beige coat, a long, narrow duster that had once been worn by Dodo. It was too long on her and the sleeves flapped over her hands, but it would keep the mist off. “I’d rather be alone.”

Bea subsided against the sofa cushions. She looked up over the edge of a month-old
Tatler.
“If you change your mind…”

“I’ll be back in a bit,” said Addie. “Happy reading.”

Bea’s head disappeared behind the magazine.

Addie took the side stairs down. After eight years at Ashford, she knew all the ins and outs, all the twists and turnings. Nursery life at Ashford felt a bit like being in the wings of a theatrical production; all their doings took place around the main stage set and seldom in it. She and Bea and Poppy roamed free around the outskirts of the house, through the back ways and the kitchens, seldom penetrating into those grand rooms on the first floor that had so overawed Addie on her first evening at Ashford.

Now that Dodo was “out,” she had graduated from the nursery to a bedroom on the second floor; Bea would follow in a little more than a year. Addie tried not to think about that. It was impossible to imagine the nursery without Bea. Whatever Bea thought, Addie knew that Aunt Vera was unlikely to include her in any of her plans; she had grand designs for Bea, designs in which a tagalong cousin had no place.

There had been talk recently of sending Bea to Paris for a year, for polish, to learn a little French, spend some time copying Great Works at the Louvre, and generally do whatever one did on one’s pre-debutante year abroad. Dodo had gone to Munich, but with the news in the papers what it was, it seemed unlikely that Uncle Charles would send Bea to Germany.

“You’ll come with me, of course,” Bea had said when she told Addie about the Paris plan, but, more than ever, it seemed unlikely.

Not after last night’s incident.

Addie let herself out through a side door, into the kitchen garden, rich with the scents of lavender and thyme. Addie lifted her face to the sky, relishing the feel of the light mist against her skin. Skirting the stone-walled kitchen garden, she crunched her way down the graveled path to the boxwood maze, breathing in the familiar scents of damp earth and old stones. Mist lay heavy over the hedges. The gardens appeared to be deserted, except for a bird that perched on a yew hedge, regarding Addie with beady black eyes. With a scornful glance, it cawed and flapped away.

Obviously, it had heard about the mouse incident, too.

Addie stuck her hands in the pockets of Dodo’s coat, kicking at the pebbles with the toe of her boot, trying not to think about just how furious Aunt Vera had been and just how serious her retribution might be. The delay was an additional form of torture, although, Addie knew, not by design. It was simply that with a household full of guests, punishing a wayward niece was a pleasure to be delayed until one’s duty as hostess had been done. There had been telegrams this morning, too, telegrams that had sent Uncle Charles into his study with a frown that boded worse troubles than mice in the offing.

What would her punishment be? Not the pocket money; for all her brave words to Bea, that was for minor infractions. Every now and again, Aunt Vera liked to threaten to send her to the cousins in Canada, but that was unlikely.