Ashton Park by Murray Pura Page A

saw it drive up and Emma step down, followed by her husband. She had been brooding on the morning and all the things she had brewed in her heart for the past year. Seeing Emma was like a vision from God. She leaped from Robin’s back and ran toward her sister.
    Emma had been doing a lot of brooding of her own. In the bishops’ garden, in the coach he had lent them along with his driver, in the miles leading up to Ashton Park. A dark feeling had settled over her. The last thing she expected to see was Victoria running across the lawn toward her, calling her name and crying. Before she knew it they were in each other’s arms and Victoria was kissing her cheek again and again.
    “Em, I’m sorry, so sorry, forgive me, I love you, I love you.”
    Her astonishment kept Emma from returning the embrace and affection for several seconds. But when she realized it really was happening, that Victoria really was weeping in her arms, something immediately broke inside her and the tears came and a rush of love for her younger sister. She hugged her fiercely.
    “Never you mind then,” Emma soothed. “We’ll not let it happen again. Not ever again. And we’ll get Ben back. I promise. We’ll find his regiment and write him and we’ll get him back.”
    “He…he might not be alive, Em…”
    “No, Vic. He’s alive. I swear to God. I have been praying every day now about that young man. It’s in my bones. He has to be alive.”

    “There! There! It’s done!”
    Mrs. Seabrooke looked up from her newspaper. “What are you going on about?”
    Mr. Seabrooke jumped to his feet and brought the Times to her, jabbing with his finger. “Look! Whitecross! It’s him—he’s dead! I knew he’d be with that great offensive at Arras!”
    Mrs. Seabrooke bent over the paper. “Stop poking with your finger! I can’t read a thing!”
    Then she saw the name and she smiled. “Thank God then.” For a moment her whole body relaxed—the Ben Whitecross problem was dealt with. But reading the full name across the line of type she came up with: Whitecross. Peter. Major.
    She flung the paper at her husband. “You fool! It’s the wrong Whitecross! Did you think to look at his Christian name then? Peter. Peter! And a major! Do you honestly think Ben Whitecross could have been promoted from private to major in one year?” She turned back to her ledgers in disgust, tossing her Liverpool paper to the floor. “The war will be over before he’s killed and then what?”
    Mr. Seabrooke picked up the Times and returned to his chair. “You said yourself he might be one of the unknown dead.”
    “So and what if he is then? We’d never be able to relax, would we, because we wouldn’t know for certain. Five years after the war was over he could show up at the door with a wedding ring for Victoria Danforth. No, he has to be dead and dead. We must read about him in the papers. Nothing else will do.”

    Victoria saw Todd Turpin and Harrison standing by the stables in the lamplight a few evenings later and walked over to them.
    “Gentlemen.”
    They both took off their caps. “Miss Danforth.”
    “I wanted to thank you for the other day. I was—a little worked up. The shopping hadn’t gone well. Particularly the suitcase. I bought it and then I changed my mind but they wouldn’t let me return it. It cost several pounds. I was upset about that.”
    “No harm, Miss Danforth,” said Todd.
    “Don’t fret.” Harrison smiled. “We all have our days, don’t we?”
    “I’d rather not have such days at all. But thank you both for your understanding. I wish you goodnight.”
    Todd put his cap back on his head. “Goodnight, Miss.”
    Before she turned away, Victoria hesitated, then smiled at Harrison. “I should convey Aunt Holly’s best wishes. When she found out I was paying a visit to the two of you she requested that I ask after your health, Mr. Harrison. I take it she thinks highly of you and values your service to her and our