Ashton Park Read Free Page B

and burial and repose in the tomb. Very well. Shall we pray then?”
    Heads bowed and Sir William spoke a few words of blessing, then the family sat while the staff moved about to serve them. Sir William asked after his daughter Libby, who was nursing in France, and then wondered if there was any news he had missed regarding his sons since he had been at Westminster. There was nothing to report, his wife told him—Edward, the eldest, remained with the Royal Navy and had seen no action at all, a great relief to her; Kipp, next in line, was flying with his squadron in France and had not been injured in the past fortnight, another relief; their youngest son, Robbie, was still with the army at Dublin, safely stationed with other officers in the Hotel Metropole, and chafing that he was not with the British army in France or Belgium—this also suited her admirably.
    “I’m grateful everyone is where they are,” she said, sipping at her water. “I hope the navy never has to fight and Robbie never has to leave Ireland. It’s quite enough to worry about Kipp and Libby in France.”
    “Lib is far from the front lines, Mother,” responded Emma. “I shouldn’t worry too much about her.”
    Lady Elizabeth glanced across the table at Emma and Catherine and Victoria. “I have four daughters and I want to keep all of them. The front, as you call it, Emma, has a way of changing position altogether too frequently and putting persons where they have no business being—like nurses and doctors who are suddenly caught up in bombs and bullets and barbed wire. So I have committed my Easter prayers to Libby and Kipp. I will remember all of you, and all of my sons, but it is Kipp and Libby I shall be asking God to pay particular attention to this weekend.”
    Sir William nodded and rapped the table gently with his knuckles. “Hear, hear.”

    O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down,
    Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown.
    How pale Thou art with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn!
    How doth that visage languish, which once was bright as morn!
    What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered, was all for sinners’ gain,
    Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain.
    Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ’Tis I deserve Thy place,
    Look on me with Thy favor, vouchsafe to me Thy grace.
    Victoria’s pure, strong voice filled the chapel. The room was dark but for a dozen white candles placed at different stained glass windows. The chapel was connected to the manor and nestled in a rose garden. Even at dusk light glowed in the windows. But now they were covered in black crepe so that moonlight could not penetrate. Victoria felt as if she were singing in a tomb.
    The chapel could accommodate one hundred. Her family sat facing her in the flickering gloom as well as a dozen of the servants, including Tavy, Mr. and Mrs. Seabrooke, Harrison, Todd, and Norah, her own maid. As she sang she saw her father’s eyes fill and he sank his head in his hands. It was never religion for religion’s sake with him. He felt everything he believed deep in his heart and his blood. Her mother did as well, caring a great deal about the life and teachings of Christ, though she was never as emotional or as demonstrative as her husband.
    The dimness of this space suits you, Catherine . Her sister’s anxiety and weariness, cut in lines below her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, softened in the shadows and became the strokes of an artist working with sticks of charcoal. Her black hair, gathered at her neck, framed her face like a veil. You feel the death and sufferings of Christ as deeply as father does.
    Emma smiled directly at her as Victoria began the fifth verse of the hymn. Dear Emma could never feel anguish like father or Catherine or even their mother. Of all of them, including Libby and her brothers, Emma was the most even-keeled, the one who never got into a flap, or laughed too loudly, or cried too long. She believed in