Ashton Park Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; iStockphoto / Delius

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  ASHTON PARK

  Book 1 of The Danforths of Lancashire series

  Copyright © 2013 by Murray Pura

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Pura, Murray

  Ashton Park / Murray Pura.

  p. cm.—(The Danforths of Lancashire; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5285-9 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5286-6 (eBook)

  1. Aristocracy (social classes)—England—History—20th century—Fiction. 2. Social classes—England—History—20th century—Fiction. 3. World War, 1914-1918—England—Fiction. 4. Baptists—England—Fiction. 5. Lancashire (England)—Fiction 6. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PR9199.4.P87A88 2013

  813’.6—dc23

  2012026144

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  For my sister June, who taught me my letters, with all my love.

  THE CHARACTERS

  Sir William Danforth—husband to Lady Elizabeth, father, Member of Parliament (MP), and master of Ashton Park estate

  Lady Elizabeth Danforth—wife to Sir William and mother to the seven Danforth children

  Sir Arthur—Lady Elizabeth’s father

  Lady Grace—Sir William’s mother

  Aunt Holly—Sir William’s younger sister

  Edward Danforth—eldest son, Royal Navy

  Kipp Danforth—son, Royal Air Force

  Robbie Danforth—youngest son, British Army

  Emma (Danforth) Sweet—eldest daughter and wife of Reverend Jeremiah Sweet

  Catherine (Danforth) Moore—daughter and wife of Albert Moore

  Elizabeth (Libby) Danforth—daughter

  Victoria Danforth—youngest daughter

  Mr. and Mrs. Seabrooke—managers of the household staff

  Tavy—butler

  Mrs. Longstaff—head cook

  Norah Cole—maid

  Harrison—groundskeeper

  Todd Turpin—assistant groundskeeper

  Skitt—assistant groundskeeper and sheepherder

  Ben Whitecross—groom and coach driver

  Tanner Buchanan—groundskeeper at Danforth hunting lodge in Scotland

  Lord Francis Scarborough—wealthy aristocrat

  Lady Madeleine Scarborough—his wife

  Lady Caroline Scarborough—daughter of Lord and Lady Scarborough

  Reverend Jeremiah Sweet—Anglican minister, husband to Emma

  Albert Moore—husband of Catherine and manager of Danforth shipyards in Belfast

  Michael Woodhaven IV—American pilot from wealthy family

  Charlotte Squire—maid

  Christelle Cevennes—waitress at café in France

  Shannon Dungarvan—young woman from Dublin

  Pilots of Kipp Danforth’s squadron in France

  Bobby Scott

  Kent Wales

  Ian Hannam

  Teddy Irving

  Gladstone and Wellington—the Danforth German shepherds

  Contents

  The Characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About Murray Pura

  Acknowledgments

  About the Publisher

  1

  1916

  April 1916

  “Go, girl, go!”

  Victoria Danforth leaned into her horse’s neck as it broke out of the forest and drove toward the sea cliff at full gallop.

  “Come on, Robin! The man is gaining!”

  A green ribbon flew from Victoria’s head and her long auburn hair burst loose. She struck the sorrel’s flanks with the heels of her black leather boots.

  “Give me more, my girl, just a bit more!”

  The shining sea drew closer and closer. A wind that carried the bite of salt water stung Victoria’s nostrils. Face flushed by the wild ride, eyes glittering like a cat’s, she cried out a final time.

  “All you’ve got, my beauty!”

  And then she hauled back on the reins, turned the mare’s head to the left, sprang from the saddle, and hit the ground boots-first with a shout. The horse dug in all its hooves and tossed up mud and stone and grass. The cliff edge was only a few yards away when she stopped.

  “Good, girl, that was lovely, that was grand!” Victoria stroked the animal’s neck and mane. Both horse and rider were panting. “What a gorgeous view! I’ll never tire of it.”

  The brisk ocean breeze pushed back the auburn hair from Victoria’s face, bringing its deep red color out to the light, then turning it over and bringing back its rich browns. It plucked at her forest green riding coat, her white blouse, and the green silk scarf at her throat. The scarf brought out the emerald fire in her eyes.

  “Miss Victoria,” came a man’s voice.

  She had closed her eyes to better dream of sailing on a ship across the Atlantic to America or Canada. There is land no white man has ever seen, her brother Edward the naval officer had told her once. Mountains where no man or woman has ever placed a foot. Animals that are the stuff of dreams.

  “Miss Victoria.” The voice was more insistent.

  “Mmm?”

  “If ye want to be there to greet your father, we must head back. Even though he’s using the coach he’ll still be at the manor house inside a quarter hour. The train would have arrived at Lime Street Station in Liverpool well over an hour ago.”

  Victoria shook her head and laughed. “Old Todd Turpin, my highwayman, you are so particular about clocks and minutes. Is that because your great-great-grandfather’s blood runs in your veins and you know where every coach is on any road at any given minute?”

  Todd, a short and slender man of sixty with a flat tweed cap who sat astride a black gelding, flushed. “I’m not related to Dick Turpin. I told ye that before.”

  “Just as your mate Brendan Cook is not related to the famous sea captain who also met an untimely end. Though Captain Cook was eaten, while Dick Turpin was merely hanged.”

  “Sure, your mother Lady Elizabeth shouldn’t like to hear ye talking like this.”

  “Well, she’s not here, is she? Or are you h
er spy as well as my guardian?”

  Todd’s face flushed a deeper red. “I’m no spy neither.”

  Victoria gave him a sudden savage glare. “Let us hope not, Old Todd Turpin, or I should have to challenge you to a duel. And you know how quick I am with a blade.” Seeing the startled look that sprang onto his face she laughed again, tossing her hair. “Oh, Todd, when will you ever get to know who I am? I wouldn’t hurt a finger on your hand. You’ve served our family since I was eleven, after all.”

  “Well, but ye are not eleven anymore, are ye, Miss?”

  Victoria swept up into her saddle, her long hair falling about her shoulders as she adjusted her black riding skirt and leather boots. “I may be eighteen but the eleven-year-old is still in there. Race you to Ashton Park.”

  She leaned forward and whistled softly in her mare’s ear. The horse bolted forward, away from the sea cliff and down the path leading back into the forest of tall ash trees. Todd rolled his eyes and muttered, “Ah, dear Lord,” and dug his heels into his gelding’s sides, urging it after the mare. He knew he would never catch Victoria but at least he could keep her in sight.

  The soaring ash trees, some two hundred feet high and hundreds of years old, flashed past on either side of Victoria as she and Robin hurtled along the track. She meant to get altogether out of sight of Todd Turpin, who, she was certain, reported to her mother all her goings-on, despite his protests to the contrary. Bending over the mare’s neck, she took a different path and galloped full out over a trail she could have ridden with her eyes closed. It was a shortcut she was certain Todd had never used.

  Sure enough, she erupted from the ash trees five minutes before a worried Todd emerged flustered from the main road through the grove. He saw her riding her mare slowly over the large green lawn that surrounded the manor house and called out to her.

  “Ye little devil! Ye ought not to do that, Miss Victoria!”

  Victoria smiled. “Do what, Old Todd Turpin? Outrace you?”

  “Do some kind of witchcraft or spell or whatever it is ye did to vanish from the road and get here ahead of me!”

  “Oh, I assure you I am still a good Christian girl, Todd, and all four of Robin’s hooves were planted firmly on the ground. We may have taken flight but we were never in the clouds. You just don’t know the ash grove like I do. Perhaps you don’t have a highwayman’s blood in your veins after all.”

  She rode Robin toward the great house with its stone walls and towering brick chimneys and hundreds of windows. Ivy grew green and lush over the entire back of the manor, the oldest part, completed in 1688. The newer wings, dating from the mid-1700s, were clear of growth and the stone shone, in some parts, a soft gray like pigeons, in other parts, a warm honey color, and in still other places, a ruby red that made her think of strawberries. She urged her mare onto the scores of flagstones that rimmed the house, and the horse’s hooves clicked and clacked as Victoria guided her to the front of the ancient and sturdy manor. There were a hundred and sixteen rooms and Victoria had been into most of them at least twice, including the ones her mother had locked up tight.

  A cluster of starlings burst from the trees and darted over her head, making the horse rear, nearly throwing her off. “Shhh, my lovely,” she said, quieting the mare, tugging slightly on the reins. “It’s all right.” She stared after the birds as they raced for the far corner of the manor.

  “Now what was that all about? Do you suppose they’ve seen hawks?” She glanced at the scores of windows. “Perhaps they saw a ghost. Old Todd Turpin always frightened me half to death with his stories of headless phantoms and Viking raiders swinging swords running with blood. The worst was the woman who burned to death when a candle set her gown on fire.” The horse nickered and Victoria patted her neck. “That really happened. That’s the trouble. A bride going up like a torch and no one could get her gown or corset off. The groom tried so hard and his hands were scarred forever from the flames. He never married again. She was a Danforth.” Victoria shuddered. “Why did I have to start thinking about that gruesome event? Servants say they’ve seen her burning and screaming in the room where it happened. One butler quit over it.” Robin nickered again.

  “Miss Victoria!”

  “What is it, Old Todd Turpin?” she asked in a tease. “Do you wish to have another race?”

  “I’m looking at my watch. Your father will be along in another few minutes. I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, then, I bow to the wisdom of your hoary head, and Robin and I shall proceed to the drive. Thank you.”

  The sun had been in and out of the clouds all afternoon. Now a light shower fell softly on Ashton Park and its stone and ivy and grass. It glistened on Victoria’s green sleeves and beaded on Robin’s mane. The oak trees that grew around the old castle that was hundreds of yards away, its turrets just peeking above the treetops, glistened in the fall of the drops.

  Victoria rode the mare over the front lawn to the drive and then toward the broad avenue through the gnarled and sweeping oaks, where she knew her father’s coach would soon come. As Victoria watched, the sun slipped back out and the oak forest and castle and avenue caught fire. The beauty of the moment overwhelmed her. Then into the flame of leaves and bending tree trunks, like a moving photograph, a black coach suddenly appeared pulled by two nut-brown horses in harness. Robin threw up her head and gave a short whinny.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s greet them.”

  She rode up to the coach as it slowed, its driver cloaked in black with a top hat and scarf. He lifted the hat to her.

  “Miss Victoria.”

  “Mr. Whitecross. How was the traffic in Liverpool?”

  “The usual dreadful mess of motorcars breaking down and wagons and carriages bottled up on narrow streets because of it.”

  “You look bundled up for February or March.”

  “The rains and winds of April, Miss Victoria. Are you out on your own?”

  “Ah, no, I’m much too young for that, aren’t I? Old Todd’s with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, just back of the manor there.” She bent down to the window of the coach. “Hello, Papa! It’s so nice to have you home again! Happy Easter!”

  A handsome head of brown hair with a dash of gray at the temples poked out, a smile opening up the man’s face. “My dear Victoria! How good of you to ride out to meet me, my dear. Though I will reserve the Easter greeting for its proper moment on Sunday morning.”

  Victoria and her mare followed the coach around the circular drive until Ben Whitecross brought it to a halt in front of the large oak doors of the manor.

  “Here you are, Sir William,” Ben said. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Ben. Thank you.” Sir William climbed down from the coach and removed his top hat as his daughter swung down from the mare. He took her into his arms and held her tightly.

  “Ah, it is always grand to come down that avenue through the oaks and see Ashton Park in all its glory in the sunlight.” Sir William kissed Victoria on the top of her head. “How is my youngest? What trouble have you gotten into with the suffragettes this week, hmm?”

  “I only marched three times while you were gone, Papa.”

  “Your mother wrote me. A number of your friends were arrested.”

  “Well, but not me.”

  “Not yet.” Sir William stood at six-four and towered over his daughter in his long black coat, with his broad shoulders and two hundred and thirty pounds of weight. At fifty-two, his eyebrows were still as brown as his hair and eyes as they slanted downward. “You know what an arrest and jail time would do to your mother. Never mind yourself. Or the family name.”

  Victoria’s own eyebrows came together sharply and her emerald eyes flickered. “You yourself made a speech in the House of Commons in support of votes for women. I read it in the newspaper.”

  “I do believe in it, yes. I’ve told you that before. But violence only makes the government resist your cause all the more.”


  “Yes, well, doing nothing ensures nothing happens, Papa.”

  He laid his two large hands on her shoulders. “I did not say to do nothing. But smashing windows and setting off bombs only hardens the public against you. And Parliament and the king become your enemies.”

  Victoria looked into her father’s eyes. “Setting off bombs is something I will never do. Human life is precious to me, Father. That is why I protest the war.”

  “I thought the suffragette movement declared they were stopping the marches until the war was over. In fact, I read a number of the leaders support the war effort.”

  “That’s the old group that’s run by Mrs. Pankhurst and one of her daughters. The other daughter is completely against the war in France and started a new group. That’s the one I belong to now, Father, the Workers’ Suffrage Federation. We have proclaimed no amnesty on demonstrations for the duration of the war. Indeed, we feel we must hold rallies against the conflict in Europe every time we march for the right to vote.”

  He groaned. “Yes, there is that too, isn’t there? Mass rallies against Britain’s involvement in the war. Mother tells me the neighbors think you are unpatriotic.”

  “I am a true patriot. I want England to be known for preserving life, not taking it in the wanton slaughter of the trenches.”

  “For heaven’s sakes, Victoria, you have three brothers in uniform—”

  “I love them enough to want them out of uniform and back safely at Ashton Park without a drop of blood on their hands and each of them with a clean conscience.”

  Victoria was aware of Ben Whitecross watching them uncomfortably as he stood by the team of horses, shifting his weight and averting his eyes, and of Old Todd Turpin approaching as slowly as he possibly could on foot, restraining two blond German shepherds on long leashes. Suddenly she smiled up at her father and put an arm through his. “I loved your speech about Home Rule for Ireland.”

  His lips curved up in a half smile. “But.”

  “No. I really did love it. I even cut it out for my diary.”

  “But.”