Chapter One #3
The fireplace was choked with ash and debris, an iron grate tipped sideways, half-buried beneath old soot.
A tarnished hearth brush leaned forgotten in the corner.
Framed silhouettes hung askew on the walls, some with their glass smashed, others missing entirely, their outlines marked by faded wallpaper shadows.
A pianoforte sat in the far corner, keys yellowed and warped, one leg splintered.
A single music sheet still rested on the stand.
Sophia was learning to play in the months before their father’s arrest. He’d forgotten that until now.
On a small escritoire, a drawer hung half-open.
The once-luxurious Axminster carpet, now threadbare and water-stained, was stiff with time and grit underfoot.
In the corner, near the window seat, a child’s forgotten wooden horse leaned on its side, one wheel missing, the paint flaking from its saddle.
“It was once my favorite room in the house,” James said. “We spent many happy times here as a family.”
“Then we shall bring it back to what it was,” Georgiana said stoutly.
He had to admit, there was something very reassuring about the woman. Hopefully, she would be as competent as she seemed to think she was.
Georgiana stepped lightly across the worn rug, seeming to take in the ruined moldings.
“We will fix it, Lord Ashford. You will have happy times here again. When my husband was alive, he allowed me to decorate the interiors as well as the structural elements of our projects. I like nothing more than making a room beautiful again.”
“I see.” Was it true? He really hoped so.
James took them to the ballroom next. “The floor’s warped from water damage. There’s a leak above the ceiling, which will have to be repaired before we do anything in here.”
“Will you host a ball, Lord Ashford?” Cecily asked.
“I suppose I will. I hadn’t thought much about it,” James said. “The house needs so much work that I’m afraid to get too far ahead of myself.”
“Very wise,” Georgiana said.
Across the corridor, he paused outside a tall set of double oak doors. “This is our library. All of the books are still in there. But mold has gotten into a lot of them.”
“Oh dear,” Cecily murmured. “How sad.”
“I’ll have to sort through them and decide what to keep and what to toss,” James said.
“We can save some of them, if you wish. They’ll need to be dried out before we dust any mold spores from their pages.” Georgiana turned to her sister. “Please note that we’ll need to make some drying racks.”
Cecily nodded and scribbled the directive into her notebook.
Down a narrow passage, they reached the dining room. A long mahogany table bowed in the center. A single candelabrum still stood, tilted at a mournful angle.
“What a beautiful room it once was.” Georgiana ran a gloved hand along the table. “We’ll have this table restored somehow.”
“Servants’ stairs are here.” He lifted a tarnished latch and gestured for them to follow. They descended into the dim, cool underbelly of the house. The smell of damp stone and ash met them at the base.
“The kitchen’s over this way. It used to feed twenty on staff and whatever guests came calling.
” He pushed open a door to reveal the cavernous space—blackened hearths, rows of rusted pots, a butcher’s block scarred with decades of use.
The scullery beyond was filled with overturned basins and a cracked pump handle.
“We’ll have staff again soon. But not until it’s habitable again. Right now, it seems unsafe.”
“Yes, agreed,” Georgiana said. “But none of this is impossible. In fact, the structure of the manor seems intact, although we’ll have much to repair. Inside, will be mostly cosmetic changes.”
“Staff quarters are down that corridor,” James said. “There’s mold on the walls and furniture, which will have to be cleaned up before I can think about hiring anyone.”
They returned to the main staircase, its carved balustrade worn smooth beneath his palm. He took them upstairs to show them the bedrooms, all of which were in similar states to the other rooms.
“This is the main bedchamber, where I’ve set up a temporary living space,” James said.
James slept on a narrow cot with a wool blanket he’d brought with him and relied on the fire for warmth.
Georgiana looked around the room, nodding to herself. “Soon enough, these will be quarters fitting a gentleman.”
He paused at the room that had once been the nursery. He’d not had the courage to open this door but it must be done. Georgiana should see everything if she was to help him.
“This was our nursery,” James said. “I’ve not looked at it yet. I couldn’t face it.”
The door stuck slightly as James forced it open, the wood swollen from years of damp.
The air inside was colder than the rest of the house and heavy with the scent of mildew, old wool, and something sweeter underneath, like lavender sachets long gone stale.
Wallpaper, once pale blue and patterned with tiny stars or flowers, peeled in wide, curling strips.
Mold traced the corners of the ceiling. A child-sized rocking chair sat overturned near the hearth, one of its rockers splintered clean through.
A faded rag doll, its stitching unraveling at the mouth, lay nearby, half-covered by a crumbling quilt.
“My sister was only eight when we were sent away,” James said. “It’s as we left it.”
In the corner stood a narrow iron bed, the mattress sagging, sheets grayed with time and stained by mice.
The pillow still bore the faint indent of a small head, though whether that was memory or imagination, James couldn’t say.
A once-bright toy chest, its lid warped and open, revealed a scatter of wooden blocks, a tin whistle rusted to silence, and the shredded remains of a storybook nibbled at the corners.
Near the window, a child’s chalkboard easel stood crooked.
A stick of white chalk still lay in the tray, and on the slate Sophia had once drawn a crooked sun with rays and a smiling face.
The smile had faded, washed half away by time.
Rain had seeped in through the roof, staining the far wall with a long brown streak and warping the floorboards.
In the worst corner, a puddle had formed beneath a hole in the ceiling, fed by every storm since the house was abandoned.
Tucked beneath a windowsill, a small book of fairy tales sat open, its pages fused together, the ink bled into clouds.
He sighed, memories flooding him of the happy afternoons they’d spent in the room with their governess.
Sebastian and Sophia had been good, obedient students, but James had been fidgety, wishing he could be outside instead of stuck inside learning his lessons.
Looking back, he could see how good he’d had it.
If only things had been different. They should have had more time together.
They should have been allowed to grow up and leave this room when it was the right time, not pushed out as they had been.
“This will be a wonderful place for your children someday, Lord Ashford,” Georgiana said.
“I don’t plan on having any,” James said. “But perhaps my nieces and nephews will enjoy it.”
“May I ask why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t imagine I’d be a good father. In addition, it seems cruel to bring another life into the world. Not after everything I’ve seen.”
He led them back downstairs to show them his father’s abandoned study. Knowing it would take an emotional toll, he drew in a deep breath. This was where his father had spent many hours, running the estate with a benevolent hand.
James paused with his hand on the door, the worn brass handle cool beneath his fingers. “This was my father’s study.” He pushed the door open.
Dust swirled in the shaft of light from the tall, narrow window.
Old smoke, paper, and time had worked its way into the oak-paneled walls.
The great desk dominated the room, its surface littered with scattered papers, a cracked ink pot, and a stack of ledgers long gone stiff at the edges. One drawer sagged open slightly.
A cracked brandy decanter sat on a silver tray, alongside two dusty glasses, one of which bore a long fracture spidering through the rim.
He didn’t touch it. The fireplace was cold, the iron grate bent at one corner.
In the ash, he could just make out the blackened scrap of a letter, words burned to illegibility.
Above the hearth, the map of Ashford lands hung askew, the parchment yellowed and curling at the edges. His father had traced those lines with pride, explaining acre by acre to a boy who didn’t understand any of it yet.
His mother’s portrait still hung on the far wall.
In it, his beautiful mother sat in a simple chair, with her hands folded in her lap and a gentle smile splayed on her rosebud mouth.
James felt the old pressure behind his ribs and looked away.
He’d been only two when she died, leaving him with no memories of her whatsoever.
Instead, Papa had been his and his siblings’ whole world.
Regardless, he wished then and now that he could have known her.
It gave him some comfort to think of his father and mother somewhere together in an eternal love match.
“You look like her,” Georgiana said.
“Yes, I do,” James said. “My sister as well. Our mother died in childbirth.” He wasn’t sure why he’d felt compelled to tell her that detail but it was out of his mouth before he could think too much about it.
“I no longer have my parents either,” Georgiana said. “No matter what age we are when we lose them, grief remains.”
For a second, he and Georgiana locked gazes and a mutual understanding passed between them. She, too, had had troubles. He felt certain of it. What were they exactly? Who was this woman? And why was he so intrigued by her?
She walked toward the hearth, running her gloved hand gently along the mantel. “This is lovely. We can make it so again.”
Cecily followed in silence. She knelt near a small table tucked under the window and lifted a faded book from the dust. A dried flower slipped from its middle.
“Someone pressed flowers in this.” She knelt to fetch the dropped flower but the petals were paper thin and disintegrated between her fingers.
“I’m sorry. I should have left it alone. ”
James looked away again, a painful knot in the back of his throat. “My sister used to press flowers often in a few of our books.” Did Sophia remember that?
No one spoke for a moment.
He cleared his throat. “We’ll likely turn this into a receiving room, eventually. Or a second library.”
Georgie turned to face him then, eyes steady. “Or you could restore it as it was. And use it while you run the estate as it should be run.”
He held her gaze. “Maybe.”
“It’s strange how rooms can bring emotion and memory to us in an instant,” Georgiana said. “That’s one of the reasons I love architecture. The spaces in which we dwell become a part of us. Losing them is painful.”
“Restoring them will be less so,” James said. “Or at least I hope so.”