Page 6 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #1)

The village of Canons Ashmore lay in the valley of the river Ash, built along either side of one long street, which had been a coaching route until the railway came.

It was a pretty street – the wealthy second earl had added stone facades to the old Tudor and medieval houses, so now only the wavering roof line and jumble of chimneys suggested what mismatched horrors might lie behind.

The same earl had built the dower house for his mother when he succeeded at the age of thirty – his mother and his wife did not get along – but it was his grandson, the fourth earl, who had been railway-minded.

He had sold the necessary land and helped push the Bill through Parliament, against the wishes of most of his neighbours.

The railway ran along the high ground to the north of the village, while Ashmore Castle was built halfway up the slope on the opposite side of the valley, so it was of little daily inconvenience to him.

Indeed, he loved to travel, and as the railway provided him with a quicker escape to the Continent, he could see nothing wrong with it.

Giles was almost asleep at the end of his long journey when he arrived at Canons Ashmore station.

He had to scramble to gather his effects together and descend to the platform, looking around rather wildly, afraid the train would move off before he’d got his trunks out of the luggage van.

He needn’t have worried. The telegram he had sent to tell his mother what train he was taking had not passed unnoticed through the village post office.

There was a welcoming committee waiting for him, headed by Persons, the station master, flanked by his two porters, and supported by a number of worthies Giles felt he ought to recognise but didn’t.

Because of the solemnity of the occasion, his father’s death, they were trying to look mournful while attempting to convey how happy they were to see him.

Words stuttered out at him. ‘Tragic circumstances … shocking accident … our noble patron … her ladyship’s fortitude … homecoming in happier circumstances …’

Giles had the impression that if he weren’t in mourning, there might have been bunting and a band.

‘My luggage,’ he managed to suggest.

‘All will be taken care of, I assure your lordship. The Castle brake is here. Please do not concern yourself for an instant. And there’s a carriage outside waiting for you, my lord.

Hossey, take his lordship’s portmanteau!

This way, your lordship. Oh, your ticket – no need, I assure you, your lordship, but – oh dear!

– thank you.’ Persons was caught between shame that the lord of Ashmore Castle should have to show the same permit as ordinary mortals, and the awareness that Head Office would expect his returns to tally.

Outside, a closed carriage awaited Giles, drawn by a pair of his mother’s greys.

The black leather harness lay in satisfying contrast against the shining dappled curves of flank and neck.

They tossed their heads a little in their eagerness to be off; their breath smoked on the chilly air.

He had forgotten how beautiful English horses were, sleek and well fed, round bodies and delicate heads – so unlike the poor thin scrubs of hot countries.

There was also quite a crowd of villagers, who parted to make passage for him to the carriage door, but stared in frank curiosity, whispering to each other.

Some tried to catch his eye, smiling ingratiatingly.

He recognised Millet, the proprietor of the Crown, and Mrs Albright, who ran the post office stores.

He gave them a rather dazed nod and hurried into the carriage, disconcerted by the reception.

This, he supposed, was what it would be like from now on – constantly in the public eye. He felt a weight of gloom descending.

The greys trotted him briskly down the high street, turned sharply left at the end into Ash Lane, and moments later they had passed over the hump-backed stone bridge, through the gates, and were on Stainton land.

He stared through the window at the lush wetness all around him.

Even in winter, England was green, and Buckinghamshire was surely the most verdant county of them all.

But the sky was low and grey, seeping moisture, and there was so little natural light it felt as though night was coming already.

He had grown used to acid blue skies and a white sun, and to having to seek the shade.

So much green was depressing. He felt ever more out of his place.

In all the years of arriving home as Lord Ayton, he had been content to be driven round into the stable-yard and to go in by a side door.

But, presumably on orders, the coachman swung the horses left at the top of the slope and then right, up the shallow incline to the paved terrace in front of the main entrance.

Someone – either his mother or Moss, he supposed – had evidently decreed that his first entrance as earl should be a grand one.

Shallow steps led up to the great door, and the servants were arranged in two rows slantwise down them, creating a sort of deer-trap to funnel him in.

No escape! One or two he recognised and he tried to remember names, but they had never been important to him – the staff, not his staff.

But they were his now. They bowed and curtsied as he passed, and one or two looked keenly up into his face, as though he had answers for them. I know nothing! Leave me alone!

At the head of the lines, nearest the door, were the housekeeper, Webster – he remembered her name, and greeted her by it, and she bobbed a curtsy – and Moss. The butler had been in situ most of his life. He felt it appropriate to shake his hand.

Moss seemed moved. ‘Welcome home, my lord,’ he said fervently, his eyes moist. ‘A sad occasion.’

‘Very sad,’ Giles responded, though he meant something different from Moss.

‘But we are most glad to see you, my lord, even so,’ Moss said. ‘Ashmore Castle welcomes you home.’ He made a little gesture with his hand, as though reminding Giles that all this was now his.

But I don’t want it! Giles thought. He took one last look round at the grey twilight of deep winter – even the skies seemed to be weeping for him – and went in.

In the great hall, there were good fires in both fireplaces, and lamps were lit.

His sister Linda was the first to reach him.

Good God, how thin she’d grown! She seized him in an embrace, an unaccustomed exercise in which she had no skill.

She grasped him like a sheaf of corn she was about to stook.

She felt like a bundle of broomsticks to him.

Her hair smelt sour and her cheek was lean and cold.

‘My dear, dear Giles! Little brother! How wonderful to see you again! It’s been so long – too long. We’ve missed you so much while you’ve been away. You must never go away for so long again!’

She had never been a gusher. And ‘little brother’?

He was only a year younger than her. Giles eased himself out of her grip, frowning.

If Linda was being nice to him, she must want something.

But what? He had nothing she’d be interested in, he thought – forgetting, with frightening ease, that he now had everything.

‘Good to see you, old girl,’ he said awkwardly. She was beaming at him – beaming ! She clicked her fingers behind her and her husband shuffled up shamefacedly to shake his hand.

‘Stainton,’ he muttered, embarrassed.

‘Cordwell,’ Giles responded. He heard Linda hiss, and saw a little exchange between them, her scowl at Cordwell’s inadequacy and his little moue of regret – I can’t help it .

But there were others to greet, and he was passed from hand to hand.

They were all in black, which looked particularly odd to him after Thebes.

Grandmère, still elegant, though dressed in the style of twenty years ago – which suited her – had diamonds at her ears.

She kissed his cheek – hers smelt of scented powder – and addressed him in French, Poor boy , don’t let them eat you up!

Then Uncle Sebastian, actually his father’s uncle, with a stomach that arrived first, cigar ash on his front, brandy on his breath.

Genial, gripping his shoulder with unexpectedly strong fingers.

Uncle Sebastian lived mostly at the Castle, though he actually had a small house of his own in Henley.

He used it only when something interesting was happening on the river.

Here was Aunt Caroline, his mother’s sister, very fashionable, with many jet beads and a smile for him that seemed to offer real sympathy – she had always been kind to him when he was a child.

Uncle Stuffy, his mother’s younger brother, Lord Leake, so immaculately dressed he looked almost out of place in the shabby surroundings.

Two little children, six or seven years old.

They were thrust at him by Linda, who seemed to be everywhere.

She gave him an ingratiating look, as though being offered her children were a great treat.

Some cousins he vaguely remembered. Last and least, his two younger sisters, hanging back, but staring at him with great interest. They smiled uncertainly and shyly but did not speak, looking oddly waif-like in black.

And again he had been funnelled, this time to the place where his mother stood, all in heavy blacks, her back stiff and her face grim, her lips set tight as though she did not mean to speak for several years at least.

‘Mama,’ he said, and since she did not move a muscle, he leaned forward and dutifully kissed her cheek. He felt he should have some words for her, but he had no idea what they might be. She was surveying him now with a sharp, critical eye.

‘Your hair needs cutting,’ she said. ‘And why are you not in mourning?’

‘I’ve been travelling ever since I received your telegram. I’ve had no opportunity to—’