Free The Ashford Affair by Lauren Willig Page A

couldn’t imagine Uncle Charles racing anywhere.
    Don’t encourage her, said Aunt Vera. That’s the last thing we need, the children racing around like heathens.
    Uncle Charles patted Addie distractedly on the shoulder and told her he hoped she would be happy at Ashford, then disappeared somewhere behind the curve of the staircase, followed by an imposing personage in a black suit whose conversation was larded with Your Lordship.
    Yes, yes, Badger, said Uncle Charles. Have it brought to me.
    She wasn’t allowed to climb the curving stair. Addie looked longingly at it over her shoulder as Aunt Vera took her out of the hall along a side way, through room after room, paintings hanging off the silk-hung walls, one on top of the other, in big gilt frames. Despite Aunt Vera’s admonition not to gawk, Addie couldn’t help it. She had never seen anything like it before, the pictures hung from wires, tilting slightly forward so that they all seemed to be leaning towards her, bowls of fruit and smirking ladies and birds sprawling with their feathers hanging limp over the ends of rustic tables.
    There was one picture of two boys that made her stop and pause. The older, tall and thin and blond, gazed solemnly out at the viewer, one elbow resting on a stylized pillar. He was quite old, at least ten, and seemed to feel all the dignity of his advanced years.
    But it was the boy next to him who caught Addie’s attention. His hair was blond, too, but it was a darker blond, the color of taffy chews. Instead of lying sleek, like the older boy’s, it curled in ringlets around his face. He wore a black velvet suit with a lace collar, but his collar had pulled slightly at the side, rumpling. His head was tilted away from the viewer, his attention caught by a butterfly that flapped its wings just out of reach.
    His cheeks were flushed and deeply dimpled, his round child’s face alight with happiness and interest as he lunged for the butterfly.
    It was Father, quite unmistakably Father, even though he was unimaginably young, younger than Addie.
    LORD MALTRAVERS AND THE HONORABLE HENRY GILLECOTE, said the brass plaque below, in curly script. Behind Father’s shoulder, Addie could see the dome of Ashford Park.
    Don’t dawdle, said Aunt Vera over her shoulder, and Addie scurried to catch up, her buttoned boots slap, slap, slapping against the floor. It felt somehow comforting to know that Father had lived here, that he had walked these same corridors, chased butterflies in the garden. It made him seem less far away.
    At least, it had, just for a moment. But then Aunt Vera had tugged her along again and Addie had found herself spiraling up, up, and up, along a twisty staircase that went around and around for what seemed like forever, pale stone blending into pale stone.
    Addie had only the most confused impression of the schoolroom before Aunt Vera herded her into a room she called the day nursery. It was long and rectangular, with windows on two sides and a dollhouse whose sides were open, spilling out a confusion of dolls and furniture, of different eras and sizes.
    It seemed, to Addie’s tired eyes, to be full of people. There was a girl sprawled across a chair, her feet over one side, and another lying on her stomach by the hearth, flipping through fashion papers and disputing their possession with a rosy-cheeked toddler who seemed to think that they were made to be stepped on. They were all very tall and very blond, except for the baby, who was very small and very blond.
    Aunt Vera cleared her throat and they all shot to attention, except the youngest, who was snatched up by a wiry woman in a white pinny.
    Nanny, said Aunt Vera. This is Miss Adeline. You’ve prepared a room for her? Good. I leave her to you. Diana, your top button needs buttoning.
    Addie thought of Hans Christian Andersen’s Ice Queen, turning the world to winter. While Aunt Vera was there, the entire room stood frozen. It wasn’t until she said her good nights and