by Diane Rios
The Artist stifled a laugh into his beard at the vision of Lord Winchfillin living frugally.
Brisco said jovially, “Well, when you get it all fixed up, you ought to throw a party! We’ll all come!”
Lord Winchfillin looked delighted. “That’s it!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “I’ll throw you all a party! Come to my house in the autumn. That ought to give me enough time, and it will be after your summer meeting, too. By September I’m sure it will be a whole new place! A new dining hall, a dancing hall, perhaps a pool, a gazebo of course, and a new stage? Oh, it will be wonderful, I assure you! The best food, wine, musicians, and plays . . .” His eyes glazed a bit as he imagined the wonderful party he would throw in his new chateau. The notion of a simpler life had completely evaporated.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” said the Artist, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
“Nor I!” said Chloe, excited at the prospect of a journey west to Lord Winchfillin’s house in the autumn.
Everyone agreed to meet at Lord Winchfillin’s house in September for the party. Just as they were all rising from the table, a clip clop clip clop was heard outside the open kitchen door.
Mr. Mason rose to go see who it was. He was back in a moment with a mysterious sparkle in his eye as he said, “There is someone outside to see you, miss Chloe.”
“Outside? Why outside?” asked Chloe, excitedly getting up from her chair. “Why don’t they come in?”
She rounded the corner to the open front door, and there, sitting on a fat black pony, was Faron the stable boy from Hotel Nell!
“Faron!” squealed Chloe. “What are you doing here?” She ran over to the boy on the back of the pony and grabbed his hands. Laughing, Faron slid down from the pony’s back. “I came from Tillamook Town, of course,” he said, laughing. “I heard about the trouble here, and came to help, and now I see you made it home safe and sound!”
Chloe gave her friend an embrace and answered, “Yes, isn’t it wonderful? And the Artist is here, too! And Lord Winchfillin!”
“That’s what they told me in town,” the boy said.
They were interrupted by a happy gasp from the doorway as Mrs. Goodweather spied the new arrivals.
“Why it’s Blossom!” cried out Mrs. Goodweather, running to embrace her old pony. “Whatever are you doing here? How did you get here, my dear?”
Blossom could not tell Mrs. Goodweather that she had followed the oily scent of that awful machine her mistress had driven away in, and it had led her to Fairfax. There she had been found by this boy, and coincidentally had been ridden straight to her own destination!
Mrs. Goodweather was overjoyed to see the cantankerous old pony and embraced her warmly. Blossom snorted and tossed her mane, more interested in a large bag of oats than anything else.
Chloe and Mr. Mason ushered Faron into the house to join the others at breakfast. The boy dug into the delicious food ravenously, while Mrs. Goodweather accompanied Blossom to the stables where she was fed a large ration of oats and fragrant hay.
Chloe told Faron all that had happened since she had last seen him, while the boy ate his fill of pancakes. He listened, raptly, his eyes bulging as she recounted the battle at the hospital. He was particularly impressed by how fearless she had been to go on that horrible boat, and that she had found Lady Ashton there.
“And surely you can stay here now, Faron, can’t you?” asked Chloe hopefully as the boy finished his last bite and pushed the plate away with a satisfied sigh.
“Well, no, actually,” Faron answered. “I have to return to the hotel, pretty soon now that I know you’re all right.”
“What? Back to Hotel Nell!” said Chloe. “Why would you want to return to that horrible place, Faron? You could stay here at Ashton House! You don’t need to go back to a place that makes you work so hard and sleep in the stable!”
“Well, actually, Chloe, I do need to go back, in fact—I want to!” said Faron. “You see, as it turns out, Mr. Nell is my father.”
“Your father?” gasped Chloe. “How do you . . . when did you . . .” She stopped in confusion.
“It turns out the baby that turned up on Hotel Nell’s doorstep so long ago—that would be me—was his own son! My mother left me with him, knowing he was my father but afraid to tell him, and then she died. He didn’t know, before, and now he’s dreadfully sorry about everything. He says he wants to change everything. He wants me to take over the business, and he’s promised to stop selling stolen goods. He says he never knew how much he counted on me, and it’s time he showed it to the world. Chloe . . . I have a dad!”
Faron’s eyes were so bright, and his face so lit with joy that Chloe’s heart melted, and she forgave Mr. Nell his past reprehensible behavior, and congratulated her friend wholeheartedly.
The mood was bright and festive all that morning, after so many surprises and promises of good times ahead. But it wasn’t over yet—there was still another surprise to come.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
IT WAS OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE THAT BRISCO and Celeste were in love. And the same morning that the Artist announced his intentions to go north, and Lord Winchfillin declared his desire to return home, Brisco and Celeste came forward to announce their engagement to be married. The entire company was truly delighted, including Avery. He beamed as he raised his glass to toast the happy couple, pronouncing Brisco to be the best brother-in-law he could ask for, and the perfect husband for his dear sister. Celeste for her part looked radiantly happy standing next to the dashing Brisco, who could not have been prouder of his kind, beautiful, and courageous bride.
No one could leave before the wedding, so they decided to have it the very next day. Neither Celeste nor Brisco wanted a huge affair and were more than contented at the thought of a small wedding at Ashton House with their new friends.
Instantly the house went into preparations for the nuptials. Mrs. Eames and Mrs. Goodweather started baking a multitiered wedding cake. Britta and her fellow kitchen maids organized the buffet. Mr. Mason would officiate, and he went off to clean his best black coat and practice the service. Chloe and Celeste and all the house maids gathered flowers by the armload from the gardens, and hung them everywhere, outside and in. Every vase, urn, and jar held a bouquet, filling the house with their sweet, fresh scent. They created an arched bower of blooms for the couple to stand under, and the footmen hung lights and lanterns in the trees and in the orchard, which danced in the breezes.
The next day’s dawn was radiant. It was one of those wonderful mornings where there is no dew or damp, no clouds, no chill breeze, just the fresh feeling of promise and possibility from the moment the sun rises. The morning light touched the tops of the pines, and the uppermost windows of Ashton House caught the rays and sparkled like jewels.
The wedding was to be that morning, and nobody stopped for breakfast. There was a table with coffee and juice in the hall, and everyone stopped by for a fortifying cup on their way to their duties. Upstairs everyone splashed their faces with water and carefully dressed in their best for the wedding.
This morning they were all extra-splendid in fresh attire. The Artist looked quite dignified in a black broadcloth suit and white shirt. Instead of his old blue silk scarf, which had been burnt in the fire, he had a new red scarf tied jauntily around his neck. His gray hair and beard were brushed as smooth as they could be, but soon fluffed up again in the morning breeze.
Faron looked only slightly uncomfortable in a new pair of trousers and jacket. His face was fresh-scrubbed (Mrs. Eames had seen to that), and he smiled ruefully at Chloe as she admired his appearance.
ord Winchfillin was almost his old self again as he made an entrance down the stairs, wearing a black velvet suit of Lord Ashton’s that Lady Ashton had thoughtfully had altered for the little lord. Now, Lord Winchfillin made his stately way down the stairs in the fine-fitting velvet, a fresh white lace cravat at his throat and lace at his cuffs. Somewhere he had found a walking stick, and Chloe
was reminded of her first sight of him at his house, at the top of his stairs with his silver-headed cane. She was glad to see the little earl so happy again.
Mr. Mason stood under the arched bower hung with flowers. Brisco stood at his side, dressed in a deep red velvet suit with black suspenders. He had a white magnolia in his buttonhole and his fine mustache was freshly groomed. Brisco’s handsome face beamed with joy at the sight of Celeste making her way down the aisle toward him.
Celeste was beautiful. Gone was the faded purple dress she had worn so long, and in its place Lady Ashton’s own wedding dress, made of the finest French lace. Its long sleeves and narrow waist were trimmed in ribbon, and a long veil trailed down the back. Celeste carried a simple bouquet of white roses and ferns, and seemed almost to float toward Brisco. As she took Brisco’s outstretched hand, Mr. Mason said the words that bound them together and pronounced them man and wife.
Brisco and Celeste kissed, and the company burst into applause. Mrs. Eames, Britta the kitchen maid, and Lord Winchfillin all cried and wiped their eyes with handkerchiefs.
“To the bride and groom!” said Mr. Mason.
“To the bride and groom!” cheered the company and the celebration began.
Champagne was poured, and footmen circulated with trays of filled glasses. The Artist struck up a lively tune, joined by one of the stable boys who played the fiddle, and one of the footmen who banged on a drum. Everyone danced while the tables were set, and after an hour or so, they all sat down to a delicious supper out on the lawn. Many toasts were made to the health and happiness of the bride and groom, and to everyone present, and to everyone everywhere. It had been a wonderful day—the best day Ashton House had seen in a long time.
As the sun began to sink and the shadows to fall across the fields, the lanterns hanging in the trees were lit, and the fireflies began to dance across the lawn. Everyone was very full and starting to feel sleepy. Some had celebrated a bit too much, and here and there a footman lay snoring off the champagne under the trees. A few guests were still dancing slowly to the Artist’s mellow tune.
Brisco kissed his new wife and stood up from the table. “I’ll be right back, darling,” he said.
A few minutes later Brisco returned, driving a carriage that had been decorated with flowers and ribbons. Everyone exclaimed in pleasure at the charming sight and walked over to it. Brisco scooped Celeste up in his arms and carried her to the carriage, placing her gently inside. Then he climbed into the front seat and chirruped to the horse.
“Follow us!” he called out to the company, and everyone fell in behind the carriage as it rolled slowly down the road toward the sea. The evening was beautiful, the sky a golden apricot as the sun began to set. The maids began singing and everyone took up the tune as they all walked contentedly down to the shore.
Once there Brisco led them to a little wooden dock where there was piled an enormous heap of all kinds of things. There was wood stacked high, and scraps of metal, and sheets of glass. There were nuts, bolts, and wooden pegs. There was a great mound of folded canvas and piles of rope. Everyone gathered wonderingly around the piles on the dock. What was Brisco up to now?
The carpenter turned to face the company, and laid his finger slyly against his nose. He winked at Chloe. Then, once again Brisco was a blur. Once again he zipped here and there, taking from the pile of goods and beginning to build . . . what was that he was building . . . no, it couldn’t be . . . yes, it was! It was a ship!
Beneath his flying fingers, a beautiful wooden ship began to take shape. Brisco was building a schooner for two, and it was truly a masterpiece. A tall and graceful hull formed quickly, growing a high, shining bow before their eyes.
Oohs and aahs came from those watching as the craft emerged under Brisco’s skilled hands. Polished and shining, the slender masts stood tall and proud, and even now the sails appeared and caught the rising wind, ballooning until they stood smooth and full. Emblazoned on the sails was a green-and-gold rose that Brisco had chosen as a crest for his bride. Long, fluttering flags flew from the top of the masts, unfurling and snapping their tails in the wind. Before ten minutes had passed, the beautiful schooner was finished and sat bobbing in the waves next to the dock, pulling impatiently at her ropes, waiting to take her crew of two off on their honeymoon.
Brisco helped Celeste on board the beautiful schooner, and the company cheered as the couple prepared to cast off. Everyone waved goodbye, Avery blew his sister a kiss, the maids waved their hankies, and Mr. Mason waved his napkin, which he had forgotten to take off from around his neck. The schooner slowly sailed away from the dock, toward the setting sun. A line of gulls followed the ship away from the shore, swooping over and around the tall masts and fluttering banners. No one was sad about the couple’s departure, for they would be back in three weeks’ time. They planned on sailing to visit some friends of Brisco on an island he claimed had the clearest water and softest sand found anywhere in the south. After that the couple planned to return to Fairfax and settle down.
After the boat disappeared, the crowd of well-wishers walked or rode in the carriage back to Ashton House where they spent the rest of the evening around a crackling fire in the backyard, singing songs and telling stories until everyone was too tired to sing and tell any longer, and went to bed.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE FOLLOWING MORNING WAS BOTH wonderful and terrible. The wonderful part was the delicious feeling Chloe had from waking in soft, clean sheets, freshly bathed, with the promise of a delicious breakfast ahead of her, and the memories of a beautiful wedding dancing in her mind. After all she had been through, Chloe would never take clean sheets for granted again. But the terrible part was that now the wedding was over, everyone was going to leave.
By midmorning the various carts and wagons had assembled in the front drive of Ashton House. Mrs. Goodweather was there, in a new hat, pulling on her gloves and speaking to Blossom who stood grumpily in the traces, waiting to go.
“Now you just wipe that look off of your face, Blossom dear,” said Mrs. Goodweather, not unkindly. “We have a long way to go and you might as well get used to the idea now and save us a lot of trouble along the way.”
Blossom tossed her head and snorted indignantly.
Mrs. Goodweather turned to everyone assembled on the steps and opened her arms to Chloe who ran into them.
“Goodbye, my dear.”
The woman kissed the girl’s head tenderly and smoothed her hair. “We mustn’t be sad, for it won’t be for long. I expect a visit from you and your mother just as soon as possible. And you too, dear Mrs. Eames, I must show you my garden!”
The cook smiled back. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, dear Mrs. Goodweather!”
“Do you have to leave?” asked Chloe one last time.
“Yes, dear, I do.” Mrs. Goodweather gathered up the reins and climbed onto the seat of the cart. “I have people back at home counting on me to get their pies, cakes, and cookies! I mustn’t disappoint them, you know. It will be good to get back to my own house and my own garden. Why I’ll wager that even cranky old Blossom here would like that!”
The pony whinnied her agreement and everyone laughed.
“Wait for me! Wait for me!” Everyone turned to see Lord Winchfillin hurrying down the steps, carrying a valise and waving a parasol.
“Don’t worry, your lordship, we said we would give you a lift, and we wouldn’t leave without you!”
Mrs. Goodweather reached down and offered Lord Winchfillin a hand. He hopped into the little cart with a bounce that made Blossom snort, and popped open the parasol to shade them from the sun. The popping of the parasol frightened Blossom, and she leaped ahead before they could say their final goodbyes.
“Goodbye, my dear!” Lord Winchfillin called back to Chloe, blowing her a kiss. “And goodbye, my lady!” he called to Lady Ashton. “Don’t forget! Look for my invitation! I will see you all in September! Au revoir, my dears!”
The little lord�
��s goodbyes died away as the cart rounded the corner and was gone.
Then, it was the Artist’s turn. He put his arm around Chloe’s shoulders, and she buried her face in his new soft coat.
“Oh, dear Artist!” she sobbed. “What should I ever have done if you hadn’t won me in that poker game!”
“That was a lucky night,” he agreed. “For me, too. For all of us, I’d say.”
The Artist turned to Lady Ashton and said to her, “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you for your kindness and generosity to all of us. I want you to know that I think as highly of your daughter Chloe as I have ever thought of anyone in this world. She is truly a special girl.”
“That she is,” agreed Lady Ashton, reaching out for Chloe’s hand and squeezing it. “And, dear Mr. Artist, it is I who should thank you. You saved my child. You saved me. You all saved our town!” Lady Ashton leaned forward. “I give you my heartfelt, eternal gratitude, and I hope you know you will always have a home here at Ashton House.”
“Thank you again, your ladyship,” said the Artist. “That surely is good to know. Although I am a man of the road, I will be back, you can count on that.”
The Artist put his fingers between his teeth and gave a low whistle. Greybelle trotted up to the Artist and tossed her silvery mane, whickering softly. She wore no bridle, needing no other direction than a spoken word, but she had a soft blanket spread over her back and several bags tied across her shoulders, holding supplies to see them both through on their journey north.
Greybelle went to Chloe and nuzzled her cheek, blowing apple- and hay-scented breath against her hair. “It’s only for a little while, my dear. We’ll soon see each other again. And when we do, I will introduce you to my family! My family, Chloe, isn’t it wonderful? I’m going to the Valley of Bree!”
Chloe hugged Greybelle fiercely and said, “I am so happy for you!”
