The Ashford Affair

( 23 )

Overview

As a lawyer in a large Manhattan firm, just shy of making partner, Clementine Evans has finally achieved almost everything she’s been working towards—but now she’s not sure it’s enough. Her long hours have led to a broken engagement and, suddenly single at thirty-four, she feels her messy life crumbling around her. But when the family gathers for her grandmother Addie’s ninety-ninth birthday, a relative lets slip hints about a long-buried family secret, leading Clemmie on a ...

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The Ashford Affair

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Overview

As a lawyer in a large Manhattan firm, just shy of making partner, Clementine Evans has finally achieved almost everything she’s been working towards—but now she’s not sure it’s enough. Her long hours have led to a broken engagement and, suddenly single at thirty-four, she feels her messy life crumbling around her. But when the family gathers for her grandmother Addie’s ninety-ninth birthday, a relative lets slip hints about a long-buried family secret, leading Clemmie on a journey into the past that could change everything.

What follows is a potent story that spans generations and continents, bringing an Out of Africa feel to a Downton Abbey cast of unforgettable characters. From the inner circles of WWI-era British society to the skyscrapers of Manhattan and the red-dirt hills of Kenya, the never-told secrets of a woman and a family unfurl.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Willig takes us from the twilight of the British aristocracy to colonial Kenya to modern-day New York City in her first historical romance outside of the Pink Carnation Series. In 1906, five-year-old Addie Gillecote leaves Kenya after her parents’ death to live in London with her Aunt Vera and Uncle Charles, the Lord and Lady of Ashford. Treated as a charity case by her aunt, Addie is taken under her cousin Bea’s wing. As the girls grow close and come of age, Bea is touted as the “Debutante of the Decade.” She lands a young marquess, Marcus, in a seemingly perfect match, and Addie joins them in their new home, taking a position at The Bloomsbury Review. In 1999, Addie is 99 and beloved by her granddaughter, Clemmie, a lawyer looking to make partner. Clemmie sees the marriage between her grandmother and grandfather, Frederick, as her model for love and has recently ended an engagement because her fiancé did not measure up. After Addie dies, Clemmie, aided by her step-cousin, historian Jon, learns that their family’s history is more complicated than she imagined. Well-researched details of life in the 1920s lends texture to this solid historical novel. Agent: Joe Veltre, Artists Literary Group. (Apr.)
From the Publisher
The Ashford Affair is a reader’s treat, an artfully-woven saga that sweeps us into the lives of three generations of a family entangled in life-changing secrets. Lauren Willig spins a web of lust, power and loss, taking us from England to Kenya to New York, from World War I to today’s modern world, posing a timeless question: what in our own family stories might surprise or shock – or change our lives – if we had access to the whispers from the past?” – Kate Alcott, New York Times bestselling author of The Dressmaker

"There are few authors who make you want to take a day off from life to devour their latest book, but Lauren Willig is one of them. The Ashford Affair is absolutely impossible to put down!” –Michelle Moran, bestselling author of Madame Tussaud

"Rich with detail and historical imagination, The Ashford Affair evokes the lives and passions of the interwar era with harrowing precision. The enthralling mystery kept me up late into the night, and the characters will remain with me forever. Lauren Willig has delivered a stunning masterpiece." – Beatriz Williams, author of Overseas

“With The Ashford Affair, Lauren Willig crafts a lavishly detailed saga readers will devour.” – Deanna Raybourn, New York Times bestselling author of The Dark Enquiry

 

 

 

 

Library Journal
In 1906 London, five-year-old orphan Addie Gillecote is taken in by her uncle, the Earl of Ashford, and his wife. Addie is instantly aware that her place in life is below the daughters of the house, no matter what her older cousin and protector Bea tells her. Remaining close as adults, Addie and Bea find that it's marriage for one and work for the other that mark the beginning of their troubles. Decades later nothing is as it was, and it may be for the better. Mysterious family secrets are slowly revealed through a variety of voices, none of which tells the whole story. All contribute pieces of the puzzle, however, as readers become more deeply acquainted with these endearing personalities. The dysfunctional nature of elite society in the 1920s, complacent in England or exiled in Kenya, adds intriguing social commentary to a story full of fabulous period details and complex relationships. VERDICT With this standalone, new readers will have the opportunity to enjoy Willig's talent for balancing multiple, connected storylines without the added pressure of a long-standing series, while returning fans will enjoy hidden "Pink Carnation" references and the pleasure of another novel well done. [see Prepub Alert, 10/8/12; library marketing]—Stacey Hayman, Rocky River P.L. , OH
Kirkus Reviews
Multigenerational tale, from an author of popular Regency/historicals, takes a family from estates in England and Kenya to a Manhattan law firm. Clemmie hopes to make partner after years as vassal to a petty tyrant in an Ivy League sweatshop. Her personal life is in shambles: Her engagement is off, and she's still smarting from a disappointing Roman holiday with her stepcousin Jon, with whom she's had a love-hate relationship since childhood. Now, though, her maternal ancestors are commanding more of Clemmie's angst. Her once indomitable grandmother Addie, 99, is failing fast. Addie's story intertwines with her granddaughter's. After a 1906 accident claims the lives of her parents, young Addie's uncle, an earl, takes her to live at his stately home, Ashford, ruled by his imperious countess, Vera. Almost immediately, Addie is welcomed as a sister and confidante by her impetuous cousin Bea. Back in 1999, Clemmie suspects that her mother is prevaricating about Addie's past. As the story of Bea and Addie evolves, so does the enigma. After the girls make their post–World War I debuts, Bea marries a marquess (to Vera's relief), and Addie, the poor relation, accompanies Bea to her opulent London pied-à-terre. However, as Addie occupies herself with intellectual self-improvement, Bea's social status is threatened by the marquess' philandering. To avenge herself, she steals Addie's beau, Frederick. Everything explodes when the marquess learns of Bea's pregnancy by Frederick. The action shifts to Kenya, where the characters re-enact an edgier version of Out of Africa. While on an ill-advised safari, Bea disappears. Since she is presumed dead, and husband Frederick, after a rather cursory investigation, is presumed innocent, Addie and Frederick are free to marry and become the progenitors Clemmie always thought she had. The panoramic canvas Willig chooses to cover is a bit overambitious--the law firm minutia, although entertaining, is essentially a digression--but she makes up for the unwieldiness with sharp, scintillating dialogue and expert scene-craft. Willig's crossover into mainstream fiction heralds riches to come.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781250027863
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 3/25/2014
  • Pages: 400
  • Sales rank: 88,272
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.30 (h) x 1.20 (d)

Meet the Author

Lauren Willig

LAUREN WILLIG is also the author of the New York Times bestselling Pink Carnation series and a RITA Award-winner for Best Regency Historical for The Mischief of Mistletoe. A graduate of Yale University, she has a graduate degree in English history from Harvard and a J.D. from Harvard Law School. She lives in New York City, where she now writes full time.

Biography

Although she may not have realized it at the time, Lauren Willig had her life pretty clearly mapped out when she was a mere nine-year-old. That's when she completed her first "novel" -- 300 handwritten pages of a Nancy Drew-inspired mystery titled The Night the Clock Struck Death featuring not one, but two teenage sleuths. (Twin detectives, if you please!) She sent it off to Simon & Schuster -- who promptly sent it back. "I was utterly crushed for at least a week," the young author admits.

Crushed, perhaps, but apparently the pull of becoming a writer was considerably stronger than the sting of rejection. Several years later, while she was in grad school, Willig began work on another novel -- although she wasn't sure which novel it would be. "There were three contenders: one, the Pink Carnation; another, a mystery novel set at Yale; and the third, a historical novel set around a group of Luddites in 1812. The Yalie mystery novel nearly won out... but the image of a masked spy on a rope tipped the balance the other way, and The Pink Carnation was born."

A witty melding of espionage thriller, swashbuckler, and the kind of classic "bodice-ripping" romance novels she first discovered at the tender age of six, The Secret History of the Pink Carnation was published in 2005. The premise is irresistible: A modern grad student researching her dissertation in London stumbles on the identity of a mysterious English spy from the Napoleonic Wars. With its clever book-within-a-book format, Willig's novel was an instant sensation. Almost immediately, she penned the sequel, The Masque of the Black Tulip. Willig was off and running with a hot and sexy – not to mention bestselling -- series.

Although the Pink Carnation books build on one another, each story focuses on a different pair of lovers and can be read as a stand-alone. Willig tries to weave in any information from previous installments that might be key to understanding the characters or plot. All her books have become Romantic Times Top Picks. In 2006 Lauren was nominated for a Quill Award.

Good To Know

Even before she committed her stories to paper, Willig was amusing herself with her very own fiction in the privacy of her head. "I remember lying in bed, staring up at the underside of my canopy, composing complicated narratives complete with dialogue, generally based on whatever movie I had just seen," she told The Readers Place.com. "Star Wars spawned weeks' worth of bedtime dramas in which I starred as Princess Lea's best friend. Who would, of course, wind up with Luke Skywalker as co-ruler of the Universe -- you know what they say, if you're going to dream, dream big."

According to Willig's official biography, she is a Native New Yorker. However, she admits that this isn't entirely true being that she was actually born in Philadelphia -- a fact that her "real" Native New Yorker siblings aren't quick to let Lauren forget.

Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Willig:

"Like my modern heroine, Eloise, I spent a year in England doing research for my dissertation (mine is about Royalist conspiracies during the English Civil Wars in the 1640s), and living in a little basement flat in Bayswater. Unlike Eloise, on my very first week in London, I ate a bad kebab, and got so sick that I wound up briefly back in the States, on the same medicine they give people who have anthrax poisoning. Not exactly an auspicious beginning...."

"I still don't have a driver's license. Having grown up in Manhattan, there was never any need of it -- other than as a means of getting into bars, and learning to drive seemed a bit extreme just to get a drink. Of course, that was before I moved to Cambridge for grad school and realized that in other parts of the world, you can't just walk into the middle of the street, stick your arm up into the air, and, lo!, immediate transportation appears. Since I really don't want to have to learn how to drive, I've decided the only remedy is just to live in Manhattan for the rest of my life."

"Many years ago, at my Yale college interview, the interviewer took one look at my resume, and announced, ‘You can't be a writer.'

Getting a little panicky -- since no one takes kindly to having their life's dream flung in their face -- I blurted out, ‘Why not?'

‘Writers,' he said firmly, ‘are introverts. You,' he indicated the long list of clubs on my resume, Drama Club, Choral Club, Forensics, interschool plays and public speaking competitions, ‘are not.'"

"It is true; I've never been able to resist a stage. There are embarassing videos (which may have to be confiscated and burnt at some point) from various family weddings, where I, as a wee child, coopted the microphone to serenade the wedding guests with off-key renderings of "Memory" (from Cats). It's a wonder I lived past the age of ten without being murdered by a bride wielding a sharpened cake knife. Point me to a podium, and I can talk indefinitely (and usually do, as anyone who was with me in the Yale Political Union can verify). I simpered through Gilbert & Sullivan Society productions, taught drama to small tots through Yale Drama Hands-On Theatre Workshop, and was chairman of a debating society in college. And those were only the official performances. Recently, I appeared in a toga and bare feet (well, really a chiton, but why be picky?) in front of a hundred-odd people at the law school to argue a mock Athenian trial. And, yes, those pictures will also be confiscated and burnt -- as soon as I find out where my camera-happy friends hid them."

"I've always had trouble with the ‘writer as introvert' trope. I argued then, and still believe now, that the performative arts and creative writing have a great deal in common. After all, music, drama, public speaking, writing... all involve words! My interviewer wasn't too impressed by that argument, but there is a bit more to it than that. Singing and public speaking create an enhanced awareness for the rhythm of language. As for drama, how better to get inside one's characters' heads than to walk in their footsteps? Frequently, while writing, I'll tumble out of my chair (literally -- my chair isn't all that sturdy) and act out bits of a scene for a more concrete grasp of a character's movements. Most of all, acting, singing, and writing all involve the desire to get out there and share a story, a desire that can't be balked by the threat of rotton tomatoes, or even bad reviews."

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    1. Hometown:
      New York, New York and Cambridge, Massachusetts
    1. Date of Birth:
      March 28, 1977
    2. Place of Birth:
      Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
    1. Education:
      B.A., Yale University, 1999; M.A., Harvard University, 2001
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

The Ashford Affair


By Lauren Willig

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2013 Lauren Willig
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9781250014498

THE ASHFORD AFFAIR

Lauren Willian

Prologue



Kenya, 1926



Addie’s gloves were streaked with sweat and red dust.

It wasn’t just her gloves. Looking down, she winced at the sight of her once pearl-colored suit, now turned gray and rust with smoke and dust. Even in the little light that managed to filter through the thick mosquito netting on the windows, the fabric was clearly beyond repair. The traveling outfit that had looked so smart in London had proved to a poor choice for the trip from Mombassa.

She felt such a fool. What had she been thinking? It had cost more than her earnings for the month, that dress, an unpardonable extravagance in these days when her wardrobe ran more to the sensible than the chic. It had taken a full afternoon of scouring Oxford Street, going into one shop, then the next, this dress too common, that too expensive, nothing just right, until she finally found it, just a little more than she could afford, looking almost, if one looked at it in just the right way, as though it might be couture, rather than a poor first cousin to it.

She had peacocked in her tiny little flat, posing in front of the mirror with the strange ripple down the middle, twisting this way and that to try to get the full effect, her imagination presenting her with a hundred tempting images. Bea coming to the train to meet her, an older more matronly Bea, her silver-gilt hair burned straw by the equatorial sun, her figure softened by childbearing. She would see Addie, stepping off the train in her smart new frock with her smart new haircut and exclaim in surprise. She would turn Addie this way and that, marveling at her, her new city sophistication, her sleek hair, her newly plucked brows.

"You’ve grown up," Bea would say. And Addie would smile, just a wry little hint of a smile, the sort of smile you saw over cocktails at the Ritz, and say, "It does happen."

And, then, from somewhere behind her, Frederick would say, "Addie?" and she would turn, and see surprise and admiration chasing one another across his face as he realized, for the first time, just what he had left behind in London.

Sweat dripped between her breasts, damping her dress. She didn’t need to look down to know that she was hopelessly splotched, with the sort of sweat stains that would turn yellow with washing.

Addie permitted herself a twisted smile. She had so hoped—such an ignoble hope!—that just once, she might look the better by comparison, that even a poor first cousin to couture might come off first in comparison to the efforts of Nairobi’s dressmakers. Instead, here she was again, an utter mess, a month and a week away from all that was familiar and comfortable, chugging across the plains of Africa—and why?

David had asked her that before she left. Why?

He had asked it so sensibly, so logically. Her first impulse had been to bristle, to tell him it was no business of his. But it was, she knew that. The ring he had given her hung on a chain around her neck, a pre-engagement rather than an engagement. Put it on when I come back, she had told him. We can make the announcements then.

But why wait? he had asked. Why go?
Because
… she had begun, and faltered. How could she answer him when she didn’t quite know why herself? She had mumbled something about her favorite cousin, about Bea needing her, about old affections and old debts.

All the way to Africa? he had asked, with that quirk of the brow that his students so dreaded, as they sputtered their way through their explications of Plato’s Republic or Aristotle’s Politics.

Perhaps I want to go because I want to go, she had said sharply. Hadn’t he thought of that? That she might want to travel beyond the borders of the country, just once in her life? That she might want to live a little before donning an apron and cooking his dinners?

It was a cheap shot, but an effective one. He had been apologetic immediately. He was very forward-thinking, David. It was one of the things she liked about him—no, one of the things she loved about him. He actually found it admirable that she worked. He admired her for throwing off her aristocratic shackles—his terms, those—and making her own way in the world.

He didn’t realize that the truth was so much more complex, so much less impressive. She had less thrown than been thrown.

Poor David. Duly chastised, he had made it his business to plot her trip to Africa, appearing, each evening, with a new guilt offering, a map, a travel guide, a train schedule. He had entered into the planning for her trip as though he were going instead of she. Addie had nodded and smiled and pretended an interest she didn’t feel. To do otherwise would be to acknowledge that the question was still there, hanging between them.

Why?

She jolly well wished she knew. Beneath her cloche hat, her hair was matted to her head with sweat. Addie yanked it off, dropping it on the narrow bed. The movement of the train ought to have created a bit of breeze, but the screens were tightly fitted, their mesh clogged with the red dust that seemed to me to be almost worse than mosquitoes. With the screens down, the car was dark and airless, more like a cattle car than a first class cabin, the clatter of wheels against track broken far too frequently by the high pitched wail of the whistle.

Kneeling on the bed, she wrestled the screen open. The train chugged steadily along on its slim, single track—the Iron Snake they had told her the natives called it, in Mombassa, as she had struggled to see her belongings from ship to train, jostled this way and that on the bustling, busy, harbor. In the distance, she could see a flock of beasts, rather like deer, but with thin, high horns, startled into flight by the noise of the train. It was nearly midday, and the equatorial sun made the scene shimmer in a kind of haze, like a glaze over glass, so that the fleeing beasts rippled as they ran, like an impressionist painting.

She had never imagined Africa being so very green, nor the sky so very blue.

Her imaginings, such as they were, had been in shades of siena and burnt umber, browns and oranges, with, perhaps, a bit of jungle thrown in, as a courtesy to H. Rider Haggard. Perhaps she ought to have paid more attention to the books and maps David had brought, instead of watching him, his thin face animated in the lamplight, feeling a familiar mix of obligation and guilt, affection and dread. She hadn’t bothered to think much about Africa at all. There were books she could have read, people she could have quizzed, but she hadn’t bothered, not with any of it. When she had thought of coming to Africa, it hadn’t been of Africa she had thought.

The wind shifted, sending a plume of wood smoke directly at her.

Addie slammed the screen down again, coughing in acrid haze. Her handkerchief came away black when she pressed it to her face. She stumbled to the little lavatory, scrubbing herself as clean as she could, avoiding the sight of her own face in the mirror.

Such a plain little face, compared to Bea’s glowing loveliness.

The Debutante of the Decade, they had called Bea, the papers delighting in the alliteration of it. She had been photographed by Beaton, not once, but a dozen times, as Diana, as Circe, as a beam of moonlight, as a bride, in lace and orangeflowers.

Addie tried to remember Bea, remember her as she had been, her face bright with movement, but all she could conjure up was the cool beauty of a Beaton portrait, silver blonde hair sleeked forward around a fine-featured face, lips a Roman goddess would envy, pale blue eyes washed gray by the photographer’s palette. She kept the photo on the mantel of her bed-sit, the silver frame an incongruous touch against the peeling paint and damp-stained walls, relic of a life that seemed as long ago as the "once upon a time" in a child’s story.

Addie wondered how that pale loveliness had held up under the equatorial sun. It was six years since they had seen one another. Would she be changed? Lined, weary, burned brown?

It was impossible to imagine Bea as anything but what she had been, dressed in silk and fringe, a cigarette holder in one hand. Try as she might, Addie couldn’t picture her on a farm in Kenya, couldn’t reconcile her with dirt and sun, khacki and mosquito net. That was for other people, not Bea. She found it nearly as hard to believe, despite the evidence of her cousin’s pen, that she was a mother now, not once, but twice over. Two little girls, her letter had said. Marjorie and Anna.

Addie had gifts for the two girls in her trunk, French dolls with porcelain faces and sawdust arms. She had bought them at the last minute, grabbing up the first ones she had found, just in case the children were real, and not one of her cousin’s elaborate teases. Motherhood and Bea were two concepts that didn’t go together. Rather like Bea and Kenya.

Addie worried at the finger of her glove. She should stop it and stop it now, before she got to Nairobi. She was being unfair. Bea might be a wonderful mother. She had certainly been a wonderful mentor to a lonely cousin; the best of guides and the best of friends. Careless sometimes, yes, but always loving.

People changed, Addie reminded herself. They did. They changed and learned and grew, just as she had.

Perhaps Kenya was what Bea had needed to bring out the best in her, just as emancipation had brought out the best in Addie. This might, Addie told herself hopefully, be all for the best. They could meet as equals now, each happy and secure in her own life, no more tangles of love and resentment and obligation. She wasn’t the charity girl in the nursery anymore.

She was twenty-seven, she reminded herself. Twenty-seven and self-supporting. She had been making her own living for five years, paying her own way and making her own decisions. The days of living in Bea’s household, trailing in Bea’s footsteps, were over, long over.

If anything, Bea’s letter had made it clear she needed her, not the other way around.

Addie slid Bea’s letter out of her travel wallet. It was stained and crumpled, read and re-read. Do come, she had written, sounding like the old Bea, no hint of everything that had passed before she left. I am utterly lost without you.

Distilled essence of Bea, thought Addie. Not just the sprawling letters, but the words themselves. Nothing ever was simply what it was, it was always utterly, terribly, desperately. Love or hate, she did neither by halves. Excellent when one was loved; not so entertaining when one was hated. She had seen both sides.

We should all so dearly love to see you.

We. Not Marjorie and Anna, they didn’t know her to miss her. Addie had sat up, night after night, parsing that one word, like a professor with a poem, twisting and turning it from every angle. We. Was it only another example of Bea’s hyperbole? A kindly social gesture? Or—

Addie put the letter abruptly away, cramming it back into her travel wallet. It would be what it would be. And then she would go back to David, David who thought he loved her and perhaps even did. He seemed very sure on the point.

Was he sure enough for both of them?

Yes, she told herself. Yes. David belonged to her new life, the life she had built for herself, piece by painful piece after—well, after everything had gone so hideously, dramatically wrong. The rest was all history, lost in the mists of time. She and Bea could laugh about it now, on the porch of the farm. Did the farm have a porch? She assumed it must. It sounded like a suitably rustic addition.

That was why she was going, she told herself. To make her peace. She and Bea had been each other’s confidantes for so long, closer than sisters. These last five years of silence had gouged like a wound.

She wouldn’t think about Frederick.

The whistle gave one last, shrieking cry and the train jolted to a halt. "Nairobi!" someone shouted. "Nairobi!"

It seemed utterly impossible that she was here, that the train journey wasn’t going to go on and on, jolting and smoky, the sun teasing her eyes through the blinds.

"Nairobi!"

Jolted into action, Addie scooped up her overnight bag, scanning the room for stray possessions. Her hat still lay abandoned on the bed. She plonked it back down on her head, skewering it into place with a long steel pin. Here she was. No turning back now. Straightening her suit jacket, she took a deep breath and marched purposefully to the compartment door.

Wrenching it open, she squinted into the brightness. Her silly little hat was no use at all against the sun; she had a confused impression of light and dust, people bustling back and forth, unloading packages, greeting friends in half a dozen languages, calling out in Arabic, in English, in German, in French. Poised on the metal steps, Addie shaded her eyes against the sun, ineffectually searching for a familiar figure, anyone who might have been sent to greet her. Car horns beeped at rickshaws drawn by men in little more than loincloths, tires screeching, while the sound of horses’ hooves clattered over the excited chatter of the people at the station. In the hot sun, the smells seemed magnified, horse and engine oil and curry, from a stand by the side of the station.

Over the din, someone called her name. "Addie! Addie! Over here."

Obediently, she turned, searching. It was Bea’s voice, husky and lovely, with that hint of laughter even when she was at her most reserved, as though she had luscious secrets she was longing to tell. "A mouth made for eating strawberries", one of her suitors had rhapsodized, lips always pursed around the promise of a smile.

"Bea?" Dust and sun made rainbows over her eyes. Dark men in pale robes, Europeans in khacki, women in pale frocks, all swerved and shifted like the images in a kaleidoscope, circling around one another on the crowded rail-side.

A gloved hand thrust up out of the throng, waving madly. "Here!"

The crowd broke and Addie saw her. Time fell away. The noises and voices receded, a muted din in the background.

How could she have ever thought to have outdone Bea?

Two children hadn’t changed her. She was still tall and slim, her blonde hair gleaming golden beneath the hat she held with one hand. It was a slanted affair that made Addie’s cloche seem both impractical and provincial. Her dress was tan, but there was nothing the least drab or dowdy about it. It fit loosely on the top and clung tightly at the hips, outlined with a dropped belt of contrasting white and tan that matched the detail at sleeves and hem. It made Addie’s suit seem both fussy and cheap.

Addie felt a familiar wave of love and despair, joy at the joy on her cousin’s face, so beautiful, so unchanged—so unfairly beautiful, so unfairly unchanged. She knew it wasn’t fair to resent Bea for something that was so simply and effortlessly a part of her, but she did, even so. Just once…. Just once….

"Dearest!" Bea had never been one to shy from the grand scene. She swooped down with outstretched arms as Addie clambered clumsily down the metal stairs, stiff and awkward from a day and night in a steel box. "Welcome!"

Addie put out a hand to fend her off. "Don’t touch me—I’m a mess."

"Nonsense," Bea said, and embraced her anyway, not a social press of the cheek, but a full hug. For a moment, her arms pressed so hard that Addie could feel the bones through her dress. She was thinner, Bea, thinner than she had been in London. Her arms grasped Addie with wiry, frenetic strength. "I have missed you."

Before Addie could reply, before she could say she had missed her too, Bea had already released her and stepped back, poised and confident, every inch the debutante she had been.

Looking Addie up and down, she grimaced in a comical caricature of sympathy. "That dreadful train. What you need," she said, with authority, "is a drink."

Addie looked ruefully down at herself, at her carefully chosen traveling dress, soiled and sweat-stained. So much for her grand entrance. So much for competing with Bea. She had lost before she’d begun. "What I need is a bath and my things."

"We’ll get you both. And a drink." Bea linked her arm through Addie’s in the old way, drawing her effortlessly through the crowd. "Travel is always ghastly, isn’t it? Those hideous little compartments and those nasty little people crowing about tea from the sides of the track." Bea had always had a gift for mimickry. She did it unconsciously, twisting herself into pose, and just as quickly twisting out again.

"It wasn’t so ghastly," said Addie, struggling to keep up. Her overnight bag was heavier than she had remembered, her shorter strides no match for Bea’s. She scrounged to remember some of David’s lectures. "I gather it’s much easier now that the railroad’s been put in."

"Much," said Bea absently. She smiled and waved at a man in a pale suit. "That," she said, out of the side of her mouth to Addie, "is General Grogan. He owns Torr’s Hotel. We don’t go there."

"Oh?" Addie’s bag banged painfully against her knee. "Is it—?"

"Common," said Bea dismissively. "Of course, you wouldn’t be staying there anyway, since you’ll be with us, but if we’re in town, it’s Muthaiga. Or the Norfolk. Never Torr’s." She gave the unfortunate owner a broad smile that made him trip over his own feet.

"Right," said Addie, although the names meant nothing to her. "Of course."

She craned her neck to look behind, but the man was already gone, and Bea was imparting more wisdom, something about race meetings, and drinks parties, and this couple and that couple, and whose farm had failed and who was worth knowing.

"—don’t you remember, Euan Gordon’s first wife? You must have met them, surely?" Fortunately, Bea didn’t wait for an answer, plunging on, even as she plowed through the crowd. "She divorced him ages ago—or maybe he divorced her. It’s so hard to keep track. Joss is her new one, although not so new anymore. It’s been—seven years now? Eight?"

"Mmm," said Addie, trying desperately to keep from panting too obviously. Sweat blurred her eyes, half-blinding her, but she couldn’t get to a handkerchief to wipe it off. She blundered determinedly on, trying to ignore the nasty sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach, the one that told her that this had been a terrible mistake.

Instead of being the worldly one, she was, instead, the neophyte, being introduced by Bea into the mysteries of her world, mysteries she would never perfectly understand, and which would, once again, render her dependent on Bea’s leadership and guidance.

In short, straight back to the same old pattern.

"How much farther?" she blurted out, breaking into Bea’s recitation.

"Not so very far," said Bea, looking at her in surprise. "Oh, darling, you do look done in. It’s the heat, isn’t it? It does take people by surprise in the beginning."

It hadn’t done anything to Bea; she looked perfectly cool and fresh. But, then, she wasn’t the one carrying a bag that seemed to have gotten considerably heavier over the past ten minutes. Nor had she spent the past twenty four hours in a closed train car.

"Don’t worry, darling," she said, "we’ll be at the car in a tick. Oh, look! There’s Alice de Janze." Bea waved languidly at a woman dressed as smartly as anything you would see in Paris. "American, married to a Frenchman. I can’t think what she’s doing in Nairobi. She’s usually off at Slains."

The social catalogue grated on Addie’s nerves. It was like being back in London, back in their deb year, Bea constantly surrounded by people, effortlessly making friends and friends of friends. What had happened to "we live quietly on our little farm"?

Addie asked, breathlessly, "Where are your girls?"

Bea’s pace picked up. Addie had to practically run to keep up. "They’re at the farm. They’re happy there. Like Dodo with the stables. There’s no accounting, is there?"

Addie sensed the edge of an argument, one not to do with her. Unsure how to respond, she said, instead, "Dodo sends her love."

Dodo was Bea’s older sister, the only one of the clan officially on speaking terms with her. With Dodo, though, it was hard to tell the difference between speakers and non-speakers; the only thing she ever talked about were her beloved horses. She came down to town once a month, always to the Ritz, where her battered tweeds made an odd contrast to the other women’s tailored suits and Paris frocks. Perhaps that was the nicest thing about Dodo; she always was what she was.

"Pity she couldn’t send cash," said Bea flippantly. "You have no idea what it costs to run a coffee farm, no idea at all. No crops for the first four years and then whatever the market will bear. It’s vile."

"Is Frederick at the farm?" No need to worry about tone. Her voice came out in gusty pants.

Bea winced sympathetically and slowed down. "No, he’s with the car. He’d have come to meet you, but he was waylaid by D."

"Dee?" Addie’s imagination conjured up a vamp with long, red finger nails.

"Lord Delamere. Frightful old bore."

Addie laughed, breathlessly. "Not one of the blessed?"

That was how they used to refer to people they liked, she and Bea, back in the nursery days, part of their own private code. It felt rusty and raw on her tongue.

Impulsively, Bea turned and hugged her, nearly knocking her off her feet. A wave of expensive French perfume blotted out dust and sweat. "Oh, I have missed you! Are you hungry?"

Addie swayed and caught her balance again. She set her bag down with a thump. She was hungry, she realized, hungry and a little dizzy with the heat and sun.

"They fed us at Makindu." There had been a British breakfast of eggs and porridge, looking oddly foreign in that setting, with strange, striped beasts grazing in the distance. Addie scrunched up her nose, trying to remember how long ago that had been. It felt like a different lifetime already. "But that must have been—oh, hours ago. Just about dawn."

"Don’t worry, we’ll see you fed, once we get you out of that frightful frock."

Addie tensed, instantly on the defensive. "What’s so frightful about it? Once it’s been washed and pressed…."

Bea looked her up and down with an expert eye. "Oh, my dear, no."

Addie suddenly saw myself as Bea must see her, frowsy and wilted, in an off-the-peg dress that had lurched at fashion and missed. Bea had always been, and was, even now, effortlessly and glamorously fashionable. She could make a pair of men’s trousers look like a Worth gown. Addie had no doubt that on her that sad little traveling suit would look like Lanvin.

"Don’t worry," she said, as one might to a child, and suddenly Addie was back at Ashford again, six and shy and unprepared, harkening unto the Gospel according to Bea. "We’ll find you something much better." Her expression turned speculative. Her pale blue eyes glinted as she looked at me from under her lashes. "And, perhaps, a man?"

"I already have one of those," Addie said tartly. She picked up her bag again, taking a firmer grip on the handle. "David Cecil. He’s a lecturer at University College. In Economics."

"My dear," Bea said. "How frightfully clever."

"He is," Addie said loyally, as though he hadn’t, over the course of the trip, become little more than a mirage in her imagination, David, whom she was supposed to love, and whom she might love, if only she could convince herself that the past was past.

Wasn’t that what David was always telling her? The world of her youth, with its house parties and servants, Lord This and Lady That— that world was gone. She had been in it but not of it, not really. It was David with whom she would build a life together, share a flat, share a bed, grow old and grow roses—or whatever other plant it was among which they would gently potter, surrounded by children and grandchildren, all as clever as he.

"We’re to be engaged when I get back," she said, and it came out more belligerently than she had intended.

"So you’re engaged to be engaged?" It did sound rather ridiculous when put that way. Bea smiled a crooked little smile. "Isn’t that funny. I had thought—well, never mind. Look. Here we are."

"Here" appeared to be a monster of a car, a massive, square thing that reminded Addie of the estate cars back at Ashford, designed for moving both men and game. There were two men standing by the side, deep in conversation, in which she could hear "elevation" and "fertilizer". The one on the right was shortish, on the wrong side of middle age, with a face like an amiable turtle beneath a round hat with a wide brim.

The other man had his back to them, but Addie would have known him just the same. He had always been thin, too thin the last time she had seen him, but the casual clothes of the colony suited him; he looked rangy rather than lanky, the short-sleeves of his shirt displaying skin that had acquired a healthy glow. Unlike his companion, he wore no hat. The sun had burnt lighter streaks into his dark hair.

"Look who I’ve found!" called Bea, and he turned, his face breaking into a smile of welcome.

"Addie," he said. "It is. It’s really Addie."

He smiled, and Addie’s heart turned over with a sickening lurch, five years gone in five minutes.

Addie felt suddenly cold, cold despite the warmth of the day. She looked at Bea, shining in the sun; at Frederick. The mustache he had once sported was gone; he was clean-shaven now, his face tan where it had once been pale. There were lines by his eyes that hadn’t been there before, white in the brown of his face, but they suited him. The circles of dissipation were gone, burned away by sun and work.

From far away, she could hear David’s voice. Why?

This was why. This had always been why. Addie fought against a blinding wave of despair and desire, all mixed up in sun and sweat, dust and confusion. She wanted to curl into a ball, to cry her frustration out into the dust, to turn, to flee, to run away.

David was right, she should have left well enough alone. She stood have stayed home in the cool of England, in her safe flat with her safe almost fiancé, instead of poking at emotions better left buried.

Frederick held out a hand to her, and there it was, glinting in the sun, the gold ring that marked him as Bea’s.

"We didn’t think you’d come," he said.

I can still go away again, she wanted to say. Forget that I was here. But that was the coward’s path. There was, as Nanny used to say, no way out but through.

Addie set her bag carefully down by her feet, flexing her sore hand. By the time she had straightened, she had her pleasant social smile fixed firmly on her face.

"Well, here I am," she said, and took Frederick’s hand. His ring pressed against her palm, a reminder, a warning. "How could I stay away?"

Copyright @ Lauren Willig 2013

Continues...

Excerpted from The Ashford Affair by Lauren Willig Copyright © 2013 by Lauren Willig. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 23 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 23 Customer Reviews
  • Posted April 28, 2013

    A very readable book, but nothing you have not read before. Not

    A very readable book, but nothing you have not read before. Nothing about this novel is original. 'Downton Abbey,' 'House at Riverton,' 'The Bolter,' 'Out of Africa'...take your pick. The so-called 'mysteries' of the plot seem overblown and sort of pointless at times--really? A 35 year old granddaughter getting bent out of shape because she finds out her beloved grandmother had not shared intimate secrets with her--when even the granddaughter admits they had drifted apart with age? The modern side of the story is set in 1999/2000 yet these people act like computer research was unheard of in trying to find out the great 'mysteries' of the family. Indeed, the so called 'modern' angle boasts young men and women who seem to be living 50 years in the past instead of the 21st century. To add to the frustration, the writing is not great. Lots of unnecessary repetition in words, phrases, I started to wonder at times if the author was capable of using a pronoun when referencing people. Some sloppy editing with multiple typos. Yet all that being said, this IS readable; it is well paced and while any experienced, savvy reader can see the plot 'twists' coming from miles away, it will probably keep your attention. It did mine--all the while I was irritated by all the elements listed here. This novel is one of these reads that I equate with a 'popcorn movie' in the summer: you have seen it all before but you sit through it anyway. This is a predictable, not very original but fairly filling read for a weekend beach read.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 25, 2013

    Vastly entertaining

    I saw some mixed reviews but as a fan of both the Pink Carnation and Two L, I gave The Ashford Affair a try. Happily I can say that I was in no way disappointed with my purchase. Willig is a very clever author and I enjoyed this book immensely.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 4, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    .The Ashford Affair is a standalone novel outside of the Pink Ca

    .The Ashford Affair is a standalone novel outside of the Pink Carnation series and it is amazing. Ashford is quite different from the Carnation series. It has a lot more depth and meaning and takes more “thinking” to read than her previous stories, but is well worth it. The novel is filled with complex relationships, family drama (which everyone can relate to at a certain point), and mystery (even when I thought I had everything figured out, another twist would pop up!).

    Ashford tells the tale of the confusing, heartbreaking, but oh-so-necessary transformation of two women from two different generations and lifestyles, Addie and Clemmie, from their follow-the-leader personalities to independent and confident ways. Addie is from 1920’s England when times were different, there were society rules to follow and women were supposed to be okay with whatever they were told to do and be. As a young girl Addie is thrown into a life of rules and formality after she is sent to live with her aunt and uncle at Ashford when her parents are killed in a tragic accident. Bea, Addie’s gorgeous yet wild and reckless cousin, takes her under her wing and tries to mold Addie, but how can Addie step out on her own? And when Addie finally finds a man she might love, will Bea let her make her own decision?
    Then there is the story of Clemmie in modern day New York City. Her transformation must come in another form. She’s been tied to work and school for as long as she can remember. Doing whatever she’s been told by her bosses; staying late, working holidays, throwing away relationships, but for what purpose? Is having a successful career more important than finding love and having lasting relationships? Or is there a happy medium?
    I loved this story it really made me made think about my life because all of the different issues it brought up. There are so many discussible topics in this book! World War I happens and its’ repercussions, the effects of divorce and affairs when they were first becoming more “popular” and the comparison to how they are viewed now, family secrets, the morals of marrying for love or for status, loving someone who is in a bad marriage, and the list goes on and on. This would make a great book club book; the discussion could go on for a very long time :) Plus part of the book takes place in Kenya in the post World War I era which I really enjoyed reading about because it was something totally new to me.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 27, 2013

    It took a while for me to get into this book. It is a good story

    It took a while for me to get into this book. It is a good story, but I felt it should have been longer. There was a lot material and back story missing. I would have liked more of a window into the relationship between Addie and Frederick after Bea disappeared. I would have liked to know more about Bea and her choices. I was less interested in the modern part of the story. I did enjoy it, but would have liked more.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted April 24, 2013

    This was a fun read - more than just another multi-genrational s

    This was a fun read - more than just another multi-genrational saga. The intrigue was sustained and the book was well written

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 19, 2014

    Very Literary in Nature!

    This book pulls in all the top literary writers of the time. It is set between 1900 and 2000 and a little beyond. Most characters were well written and note worthy. The story pulls you in from the very beginning and does not let you go. It is a must read for any book club!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 20, 2013

    I'm a fan of the Pink Carnation series, so I picked this up. I

    I'm a fan of the Pink Carnation series, so I picked this up. I liked this just as much- Willig did a great job crafting an intricate plot that keeps the pages turning, and I found both story lines to be compelling. A great read!

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  • Posted July 14, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    Addie Gillicote¿s life has evolved into a series of dramatic cha

    Addie Gillicote’s life has evolved into a series of dramatic changes, some of which fall upon her and some of which she inadvertently causes. Her granddaughter, Clementine (Clemmie), seems to be following the same journey.  It all begins with the sudden, accidental death of Addie’s parents when she is sent to live with her cousin, Bea’s family. Addie is really unwanted, the daughter of “bohemian” parents who really doesn’t fit into the aristocratic family she is now expected to call her own.  WWI looms almost immediately upon her arrival, but Bea and Addie promise from the very first day to be like “sisters.” What is to follow is far from sisterly behavior!




    The story goes back and forth between the late 1920’s in England to New York in the year 2000.  Addie is old and frail but we are treated to the story of her life, which includes falling in love with what she believes is the wrong man; Bea marries the wrong man, divorces, and then is forced to marry another man, Frederick; they quickly tire of each other and even come to loathe each other.  Bea believes she saved Addie from the likes of Frederick but the story shows otherwise with a shocking series of events that doesn’t come to light until Clemmie, years later finds out the truth that is really about lie after lie after lie.




    Frederick is a stereotypical character marred by the awful memories he carries from his time of service in WWI.  He is so shocked and marred that he is incapable of following his heart instead of reasoning what could possibly destroy the woman he truly loves!  He will change but not until he is so in love with a daughter that he fears to choose a lifestyle that might mean losing her and later his wife, Bea.




    In a time when couples married for social standing, love arrangements seem to be satirized, especially when they are reached through rebellion and from selfish interests.  Clemmie, after losing a senior associate lawyer’s position in which she hoped to become partner after seven grueling years of work and sacrifice, is circumspect about the possibility of love and finding where to fit in for one’s own worth, a position contrary to everything she was raised to believe would guarantee happiness.  Changing times often leave behind personalities who either refuse to change or who choose the most contrary opposite of lifestyles.  It’s all about finding one’s identity as one loses the old ways; for some it works, for others it’s tragic! 




    The Ashford Affair is a gripping story of love and hate gone awry and reaching out for a satisfactory union that will heal a mass of wounds almost worse than war itself!  Lauren Willig has crafted a stunning read that is quite reflective of the eighty year span of history that shaped and jettisoned generations into the twenty-first century.  Great Read!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 5, 2013

    I love to read...mhave lots of books.

    Happy with my B&N orders... Except for those through Marketplace... They take too long... But otherwise, love to read and love the frequent 20% discounts... thanks!

    0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 1, 2013

    Hard to put down!

    Great story and very entertaining.

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    Posted June 12, 2013

    Join faithclan at

    Tropical all results

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 2, 2013

    Loved it

    Read the whole book in 1 day. I loved it and could hardly put it down.

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