ready for me. I had only to pay my bill at the Hog and Oak, get my things brought over here, and walk in.
Which was no reason why, leaning my elbows on the sill of the dormer window that looked from the bedroom eaves out over the apple trees, I should find myself, for the first time since my father's death, crying helplessly as if there was neither love nor hope left in the world.
Ashley, 1835
My God, he thought. I've forgotten the list. My father was right to rave at me for a vicious libertine. It had seemed amusing, once, to keep a list of them, like the stable books; physical marks, breeding, performance, staying power . . .
And her name on it, too.
I'll burn the list. Not even read it again. I'll burn the books, too, all of them. No more light-o'-loves. She is the last, I promise it. Only let her come tonight.
But something in him, remembering, cast a lingering backward look at the time past, and he felt heavy and full of dread, as if he were signalling in vain across a waste of blowing darkness.
Seven
I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
—Romeo and Juliet, I, ii
Two busloads of quarter-pounders were already lining up when I got to the gate. There was a trestle table set up the other side of the bridge, inside the gatehouse, and here a young woman sat taking the money. I had never seen her before, and she obviously did not recognize me. She didn't even give me a glance as I took my ticket, declined to buy a coloured brochure on Ashley Court, and wandered out into the sunshine of the courtyard to join the group waiting outside the main door.
The girl from the gatehouse escorted us round. She had read what there was to read, and did her best to make the place come to life.
"This is the Great Hall. It's from Henry the Eighth's time, but there's no record that the King was ever here. You see that little winding stair over there . . . ? It leads to the gallery. When Cardinal Wolsey was a young priest he lived here for a time; he was the family chaplain and had to read aloud to them during meals. I suppose he got his food afterwards. . . . Notice the carving on the gallery rail. It's original. But the shield in the center with the crest was added later, in the nineteenth century, when the family took the motto 'Touch Not the Cat but a Glove' from their Scottish connection. You can see the motto again carved on the stone shield above the fireplace. It was William Ashley the author who had the old Tudor chimney-breast taken out and this Gothic one put in. It was much admired.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes mentions this room in one of his poems. You'll find it quoted in the brochure. This way, please."
We straggled along after her. It was a comprehensive tour, good value for money. We saw it all.
The Tudor parlour where the priest's hole stood open to view, the Council Chamber with the carved ceiling and the coats of arms and the panelling polished like silk; the dining room with the Queen Anne ceiling where the water-light from the moat rocked and rippled as the swans floated by below; the long drawing room with its terrace of narrow lawn and rose-hung parapet edging the drop straight to the moat. We saw the pantries and the stillroom, the cellars, the kitchens with the spits and the vast chimney (we ourselves had done our cooking in one of the pantries); then upstairs to the bedrooms and the gallery, and, at last, the library.
This ran the full length of the north wing of the house. It was a tall room with a heavily corniced ceiling, and pillared Corinthian openings for doors and windows. The walls were completely clothed with shelves, and at intervals shelves stood out from the walls to create bays, each bay a self-contained room in itself, with table and heavy chairs of Spanish leather. Here and there stood glass-topped display tables for more valuable volumes; and in earlier days there had been, one to either side of the fireplace, a pair of ancient celestial and
Which was no reason why, leaning my elbows on the sill of the dormer window that looked from the bedroom eaves out over the apple trees, I should find myself, for the first time since my father's death, crying helplessly as if there was neither love nor hope left in the world.
Ashley, 1835
My God, he thought. I've forgotten the list. My father was right to rave at me for a vicious libertine. It had seemed amusing, once, to keep a list of them, like the stable books; physical marks, breeding, performance, staying power . . .
And her name on it, too.
I'll burn the list. Not even read it again. I'll burn the books, too, all of them. No more light-o'-loves. She is the last, I promise it. Only let her come tonight.
But something in him, remembering, cast a lingering backward look at the time past, and he felt heavy and full of dread, as if he were signalling in vain across a waste of blowing darkness.
Seven
I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
—Romeo and Juliet, I, ii
Two busloads of quarter-pounders were already lining up when I got to the gate. There was a trestle table set up the other side of the bridge, inside the gatehouse, and here a young woman sat taking the money. I had never seen her before, and she obviously did not recognize me. She didn't even give me a glance as I took my ticket, declined to buy a coloured brochure on Ashley Court, and wandered out into the sunshine of the courtyard to join the group waiting outside the main door.
The girl from the gatehouse escorted us round. She had read what there was to read, and did her best to make the place come to life.
"This is the Great Hall. It's from Henry the Eighth's time, but there's no record that the King was ever here. You see that little winding stair over there . . . ? It leads to the gallery. When Cardinal Wolsey was a young priest he lived here for a time; he was the family chaplain and had to read aloud to them during meals. I suppose he got his food afterwards. . . . Notice the carving on the gallery rail. It's original. But the shield in the center with the crest was added later, in the nineteenth century, when the family took the motto 'Touch Not the Cat but a Glove' from their Scottish connection. You can see the motto again carved on the stone shield above the fireplace. It was William Ashley the author who had the old Tudor chimney-breast taken out and this Gothic one put in. It was much admired.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes mentions this room in one of his poems. You'll find it quoted in the brochure. This way, please."
We straggled along after her. It was a comprehensive tour, good value for money. We saw it all.
The Tudor parlour where the priest's hole stood open to view, the Council Chamber with the carved ceiling and the coats of arms and the panelling polished like silk; the dining room with the Queen Anne ceiling where the water-light from the moat rocked and rippled as the swans floated by below; the long drawing room with its terrace of narrow lawn and rose-hung parapet edging the drop straight to the moat. We saw the pantries and the stillroom, the cellars, the kitchens with the spits and the vast chimney (we ourselves had done our cooking in one of the pantries); then upstairs to the bedrooms and the gallery, and, at last, the library.
This ran the full length of the north wing of the house. It was a tall room with a heavily corniced ceiling, and pillared Corinthian openings for doors and windows. The walls were completely clothed with shelves, and at intervals shelves stood out from the walls to create bays, each bay a self-contained room in itself, with table and heavy chairs of Spanish leather. Here and there stood glass-topped display tables for more valuable volumes; and in earlier days there had been, one to either side of the fireplace, a pair of ancient celestial and
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