England, 1905 At Ashmore Castle, scandal is never far away...
When a train crash rocks Ashmore, unlikely heroes emerge - and old secrets begin to stir. Kitty is still finding her feet at the castle, though her sharp-tongued mother-in-law and the old earl's dark secret threaten her newfound confidence. Richard is certain he'll never love again now that Molly has sailed for America - until a new arrival catches his eye.
Downstairs, hearts and tempers are just as tested. Mr Moss nurses a quiet heartbreak, new footman Frederick isn't all he seems, and someone from Afton's past returns with unfinished business.
Meanwhile, Nina is facing motherhood and marriage with mixed feelings, Rachel's love life is teetering on disaster, and Alice's artistic ambitions lead her into dangerous territory.
From whispered secrets to forbidden passions, life at Ashmore Castle is full of surprises - but as rivalries flare and loyalties shift, the harmony of the castle is more fragile than ever...
The fifth novel in the captivating Ashmore Castle series. Perfect for fans of sweeping family dramas like Downton Abbey, The Crown and Bridgerton.
Readers love the ASHMORE series:
'Like a comfy pair of slippers. Cynthia Harrod-Eagles never fails to excel...The saga continues and you are drawn into the upstairs downstairs world...so grab a cuppa, some chocolate biscuits and enjoy!' 5-star Reader Review
'I always read anything published by Cynthia! The history is always really well researched, the characters realistic and the story fascinating.' 5-star Reader Review
'I have read all 3 books and loved it.' 5-star Reader Review
'Well written story and a wonderful read!!' 5-star Reader Review
'A great series! Hope there's another instalment.' 5-star Reader Review
'If you are a Downton Abbey fan this is for you!' 5-star Reader Review
'Loved it. Excellent story. Fabulous characters all blended by a tantalising web. I want to read the next book. Can't wait.' 5-star Reader Review
Release date:
August 13, 2026
Publisher:
Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages:
150000
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— her friend and neighbour Lady ‘Bobby’ Wharfedale
— her friend Lady Clementine Leacock
IN LONDON
Mrs Alexandra Schofield, Nina’s aunt
Henry ‘Mawes’ Morris, Mr Cowling’s friend
— his wife Isabel and daughter Lepida
Eleanor Bronte Strachan (‘Bron’), Alice’s friend at the Edith Mary Blackwell School of Art
Mrs Poole, Richard’s housekeeper in Bolton Street
January 1906
‘You will be nice to Miss Rowsham, won’t you?’ Kitty asked.
‘I’m nice to everyone,’ Richard replied, with a hint of irritation.
‘But especially nice,’ Kitty urged.
‘If this is an attempt at match-making, Pusscat, it doesn’t become you. Also, it would have been less blatant if you had invited some more people for this Saturday-to-Monday, and not just the Ravenscars.’ Miss Rowsham was Lady Ravenscar’s sister.
‘I did invite other people, but they couldn’t come,’ Kitty protested.
That made Richard laugh, breaking the tension. ‘Oh dear! Don’t ever go into the diplomatic service, will you? Deviousness is not your forte.’
Kitty didn’t mind him laughing at her. She knew it was affectionate, and she preferred mockery to his recent withdrawn and unhappy air. ‘But, dear Richard, she’s such a sweet girl, and she has a sad past.’
Richard leaned in and gave his sister-in-law a valedictory kiss. ‘So have we all, love,’ he said, and went away. He ran up the stairs, and stopped at the first landing to rub his shoulder.
Alice, his youngest sister, was coming down, and gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Is it bad today?’
‘The damp weather gets into the old war wound,’ Richard said lightly. He had indeed taken a wound in the South African wars, but then the same arm had been injured in a car smash. The second injury was more troublesome than the first.
‘Poor Dicky! I thought you looked uncomfortable at breakfast. Will it stop you hunting on Saturday?’
‘Oh, it’s not as bad as that. When do you go back to school?’ Alice was about to start her second year at the Blackwood School of Art in London.
‘Two more weeks,’ Alice said. ‘I’m really looking forward to it. I’m to join one of Mr Wentworth’s special classes.’
‘Ah, yes, the famous Ivor Wentworth! I must say his paintings are easier on the eye than some of the modern stuff that’s raved about these days. And you’re really going to live in lodgings, not with Aunt Caroline? I can’t believe Giles agreed to that.’
She frowned. ‘It sounds as if you trust me less than he does.’
‘No, I care more about you than our illustrious brother. You have too few legs to interest him.’
‘You’re the one who’s obsessed with cows,’ Alice retorted.
‘Please don’t say that in front of company at the weekend. I’m supposed to be making a good impression.’
‘Oh, has Kitty “had a word” with you about Miss Rowsham? I told her she shouldn’t. I told her you weren’t ready for it.’
‘And what do you suppose you know about it, miss?’
‘Don’t be miffed. Grandmère told me at Christmas you’d had your heart broken. But I think I’d have known anyway. I can tell the signs,’ she concluded wistfully.
Richard’s expression softened. ‘Don’t tell me you have a crush for someone? Won’t he love you back, the villain?’ He had a thought. ‘It’s not that stout lad you danced with at the Shacklocks’ ball, is it?’
‘Bentham Farocean is not stout! How can you say so?’
‘You jump to his defence so readily, it makes me suspect that he’s the one.’
Alice was about to refute it indignantly, then paused. It was a useful misdirection from the real object of her passion – a man everyone would think far below her station. She thought of that line in Jane Eyre: Your station is in my heart, and on the necks of those who would insult you. She imagined herself saying it to Axe Brandom. But Jane Eyre had been a poor female looking higher – it was somehow so much worse the other way round.
Richard was eyeing her curiously, so she had to distract him. ‘Who was it who broke your heart?’ she asked. ‘It must have been someone in London – you never pay any attention to local girls.’
He tweaked her nose. ‘None of your business, Lady Alice!’ And went on towards the library.
Adeline Rowsham knew herself to be a middling sort of girl. She had been neither the prettiest nor the plainest debutante of her year. She had been popular enough, without being one of those shining creatures other girls swooned over – the ‘delicious’ Lady This and the ‘heavenly’ Miss That. There had been a craze for autograph collection during her come-out year, and she had written in the pretty morocco-bound blank books of as many girls as had written in hers.
She had not danced every dance at the balls she attended, but neither had she sat out much. And the young man who had eventually asked for her hand, Mr Summerhill, had been an ordinary nice boy, lifted above the average only by being her ordinary nice boy. His death from diphtheria shortly before they were to have married had shocked her, but five years later she could hardly remember his face. She had mourned him the correct amount, but (she often thought) what they had felt for each other must surely have been just the middling sort of attachment to be expected from two people so very young.
Perhaps other girls had grand passions, and she was the odd one out. What about Romeo and Juliet? They had been very young. It seemed strange to her now, at this distance, to think of tying yourself for life to someone when you were barely more than a child. However, that was how the world went. If you missed your chance, you found yourself at twenty-three regarded as practically middle-aged, and definitely on the shelf.
What was not apparent to the outside world was that the neat, unexciting Miss Rowsham led a rich inner life. She had always read a great deal, and after finishing a novel would often rewrite the story in her mind with herself as protagonist. In this way she’d had many adventures and fallen in love many times. And throughout her ordinary day, an inner dialogue would be carrying on inside her head, which, had anyone been able to hear it, would have had her expelled from polite society. Her inner voice was very critical – though it criticised her as much as everyone else, so perhaps she was not a bad person. That she so often blushed in company was put down to shyness, but it was actually because her own thoughts so often disconcerted her.
She was resigned to never marrying, but her elder sister Vanessa, Lady Ravenscar, had raised her own status so splendidly from banker’s daughter to viscountess, she would not give up on her. Adeline was aware that Richard Tallant was the man Vanessa had fixed on: an earl’s son, and though he was a second son and already had two nephews so was unlikely ever to come into the title, he was well-connected, and an attractive man into the bargain. It was the whole reason they were at Ashmore Castle for a Saturday-to-Monday in the dead time just after Twelfth Night. They had been invited to arrive on the Friday so that they could hunt on the Saturday, with Lord Stainton kindly offering to mount them, and Vanessa was pleased because she thought Adeline looked well on a horse.
Adeline liked Richard and found him amusing, but he was no fool and it embarrassed her that he might suspect her of throwing her cap at him. It made her tongue-tied, afraid of saying anything that might sound come-on-ish. Her inner voice told her that he must wonder why on earth anyone would expect him to offer for a girl past her first flush and with nothing to say for herself.
At least, though, she would enjoy the hunting. It was impossible to have coherent inner thoughts while scrambling madly over the country on a horse. It was a shame that the weather was so bad: it poured all day, and they were all soaked to the skin.
Richard had no particular views about Miss Rowsham: she blended for him into the great multitude of females who weren’t Molly Sands, the woman who had captured his heart, and broken it by refusing to marry him. She had been his late father’s mistress for a while back in the day, and believed it was therefore Biblically forbidden for her to mate with Richard. He understood but rejected her scruples, but there had been no moving her, and now she was in America with her daughter Chloë, a talented pianist, the protégée and soon to be the wife of impresario and conductor Sir Thomas Burton. They were all going to make a life over there; Richard was abandoned and bereft.
His heart therefore was not available to be given to Miss Rowsham, though that was obviously Lady Ravenscar’s wish and perhaps Kitty’s too. Miss Rowsham seemed, in that most damning of phrases, a nice girl, which was hardly enough to rouse him from his romantic hibernation. He gave her credit that she did not seem to be trying to ‘catch’ him. He actually felt quite sorry for her: it must be humiliating to be dangled, by one’s nearest and dearest, in front of any available man. And he thought better of her by Saturday evening after she had acquitted herself impressively on the hunting field: she rode well, and threw herself wholeheartedly into the business without fussing about wind or rain, mud splashes or thorns. In that respect she reminded him of Alice, who was far and away his favourite of his sisters.
On the Sunday it stopped raining at last – the wind had gone round in the night to the east and it was colder but with a clear sky – and everyone wanted to be out of doors. When he heard Miss Rowsham express a vague desire to walk to the village, he was only half surprised to hear himself offer to escort her. He determinedly did not see the pleased look on the face of Lady Ravenscar. Kitty offered to show Lady Ravenscar the gardens and Rachel said she would accompany them, and Alice had already gone out with the dogs on her own solitary ramble, so he resigned himself to being à deux.
Then Giles said, ‘I was going to ride down myself – I have to see Bexley about those illegal snares we found – but I don’t mind driving in the trap if you want to come with me. It will be rather muddy for walking,’ he added, which caused Kitty to throw him an exasperated look.
Amused, Richard consulted Miss Rowsham. ‘Walk or drive?’
She responded, ‘I should like to walk, if you don’t mind it. I never worry about mud.’
And he felt again that little tug of approval. ‘Then walk we shall. It’s not going to rain again today, and I undertake to find the driest path down the hill.’
By the time Alice reached the village street, the dogs were tired enough to walk quietly at heel, but she leashed them anyway in case of cats, and wandered along the shops. She knew the content of their windows pretty much by heart, but it was good after weeks of rain to look at something other than wet green fields.
As she reached the corner of Church Lane, the dogs dashed away from her so suddenly they yanked the leash out of her inattentive hand. They had spotted Axe Brandom, just coming out of the sexton’s yard behind the church.
Her heart jumped. She hadn’t seen him since church on Christmas Eve. Once she had been a regular visitor to his woodsman’s cottage, but now she denied herself the pleasure. She was reminded of the rector talking about ‘avoiding the occasions of sin’. It was not sin to love him. But it would not be allowed, and he would be much more harmed by the consequences than her: he would be blamed, vilified, driven out. It had been a hard and suddenly grown-up thing to understand that, and to take responsibility. She was only nineteen, but no longer a heedless girl.
It would have been best to give him a polite nod and turn away, but the dogs were fawning on him and licking his hands, and would certainly not leave him if she called. So she crossed the road to him, feeling as though she were being pulled like a compass needle to her personal north.
He didn’t smile, but there was more than a smile in his eyes, which warmed her like sudden sunshine. ‘Lady Alice,’ he said. ‘How are you?’ He pushed the dogs down and they dropped their rumps obediently to the pavement and sat, one either side of him, like heraldic statues, panting with pleasure, unfurling yards of pink, frilled tongue, and looking at Alice as though she were the outsider and Axe their master. He always had that effect on animals.
‘What are you doing here? Did you walk down?’ she asked, a truant part of her mind thinking they might walk back together.
‘Drove down,’ he said, thinking wistfully that he might offer her a lift back. He jerked his head towards the sexton’s yard. ‘Della’s in there, with the cart. Brought a load of logs for rector. I was going to poddle along and see how Eli’s doing.’ Eli Rowse was the village blacksmith – Axe had been assistant blacksmith before he took the job as woodsman to the Ashmore estate. ‘I heard he was poorly. Rheumatism in the hands.’
‘I expect it’s the damp weather,’ Alice said. ‘Richard was complaining about his shoulder this morning.’ It didn’t really matter what they talked about. Just being close to him eased something in her. ‘Is Dolly not with you?’ Dolly was his terrier.
‘I asked her if she wanted to come, but she said she’d rather stay by the fire,’ he said, smiling at the whimsy.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Alice said. ‘Not come out with you?’ I would never choose that, she thought.
‘She’s getting old. She’s eleven now.’ He gave a tiny shrug. ‘Dogs don’t have long enough lives.’
She felt a pang, imagining how much he would miss the little bitch when she died, how lonely he would be out there in the cottage in the woods. ‘If only—’ she began, hardly knowing how the sentence would end.
But there was a tremendous, shocking bang, followed by a long, rending, crashing noise of terrible destruction. Her eyes widened, her scalp felt cold as the hair lifted. They both turned to look; the dogs stood up and whined.
At the far end of Church Lane, at the top of the hill, was the railway station: the line ran along the ridge.
‘That sounded like—’ she began, dry-mouthed. But her words were cut off by a heavy explosion. A column of black smoke rose. Faintly they heard screams and voices shouting.
They must go – had to go – must try to help. ‘The dogs!’ she said.
‘Shut ’em in the stable with Della,’ Axe said, with a jerk of the head towards the sexton’s yard.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Go on! I’ll catch you up.’
He turned and ran.
Richard had done his best by Miss Rowsham, pointing out the architectural beauties of the village, telling as much of its history as he remembered. She had listened and asked intelligent questions: away from other company she was less reticent, and he found himself relaxing and talking to her as a normal human being rather than a female who had been foisted on him and of whom he had to be wary. They had paused for some time outside the Crown, which was ancient and picturesque. It had been a coaching inn and was now quite the magnet to visitors from Town, who liked to sketch it, then lunch in it.
He showed her the church next, and she expressed an interest in seeing inside. He wasn’t an expert on finials and ogees and such – Giles was the man for that, could talk for hours about a flying buttress or a reredos – but there were a lot of family memorials, and he could be amusing on the lives and peculiarities of the ancestors who had left their mark in one way or another. So they had passed an agreeable half-hour, and Miss Rowsham had laughed several times at his stories, which fed his vanity.
They had left the church door open, so even inside they heard the sound of the crash, and looked at each other, startled. Then came the explosion, and they hurried out with one accord and across the churchyard to the street to look. Already people were running up the road towards the station. A column of greasy black smoke was rising ominously.
‘I must go and see if I can help,’ Richard said urgently. ‘Can you find your way back to the Castle all right?’
‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.
‘Oh, but—’
‘Don’t waste time arguing. If a train has crashed they’ll need every hand.’
He glanced down a moment at her sensible walking-dress, which cleared the ground, revealing her sturdy boots, and said, ‘Come on, then!’ And they ran.
Notwithstanding every good intention, it was impossible not to stop and gape for a moment at the terrible alteration to normality, a destruction that imagination could not have prepared them for. Two engines were locked together in unholy, twisted union; from them came the flames and smoke. It seemed as though the down train had just been leaving the station and the up train had somehow ploughed into it. Carriages had reared up and seemed to be trying to climb over each other. The first behind the tender of the down train was splintered and compacted.
There were people – including the porter, Hossey – standing on the platform staring in horrified silence. Further down, carriage doors were opening and people were beginning to get down. A woman with the sleeve of her coat torn away and blood running down her arm was walking unsteadily towards them, her face blank with shock.
Miss Rowsham’s clear voice cut through Richard’s momentary fog as she said to the injured woman, ‘It’s all right. I will help you,’ and to Hossey, ‘Bring me a bucket of water and all the clean cloths you can find.’
Richard shook himself and said, ‘I’ll start getting people out. You and you’ – to men standing nearby – ‘come and help me.’
It took little time for Alice to secure the dogs, who whined unhappily at being left when the atmosphere was so tense, and she was lighter than Axe and younger, so she caught him up at the top of the hill. It was a shocking scene. It was apparent that the up train had somehow jumped the rails on the curve before the station, because it had struck the down train at speed and its locomotive was now on fire – presumably the explosion they had heard was its engine. Of its seven carriages two had concertinaed and were poking up in the air like an inverted letter V. The other five had slewed off the rails and slid down the embankment, the last one on its side, the others upright as if hanging by their couplings.
And there had been a horse-box at the rear. It had broken free and rolled down until it hit a tree – somehow, thank God, still upright. But Alice could hear a horse screaming.
Axe met her eyes in understanding. It was a sound impossible to ignore. ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do up here.’
She scrambled down the slope. She could heard frantic banging inside. The ramp-door was held closed by a bolt on either side. Her hands were shaking and she made herself pause and take a deep breath. You can’t help anyone unless you keep calm, she told herself sternly. Horses, in particular, reacted badly to nervous handling. The bolts were heavy, as they needed to be, but moved easily enough. But as she tried to lower the heavy ramp it was shoved from the other side and she lost her grip on it. As she jumped out of the way (a broken foot would serve no-one at this moment) it thudded down and a horse bolted out. Its tethering rope must have broken, and in a blind panic it scrabbled down the ramp, wildly jumping the last few feet, knocking Alice down, catching her a sharp blow on the upper arm with a shod hoof. She barely felt the pain, scrambling to her feet too late to catch it: it was gone, down the hill, rope swinging from its headcollar.
But there were other horses inside – three of them. One was panicking, jerking at its tethering rope, desperate to get free. The other two were down in a worrying tangle. She couldn’t get to them past the upright horse: she had to get it out first. She got up to its head, trying to calm it with words, slipping her finger through the headcollar to pull its head down and ease the rope. It resisted her, eyes wild and white, past reason. The rope was in a quick-release knot: the pulling of the horse had tightened it, as it was meant to, but too much, so that the free end would not come out. Desperately she struggled with it, cursing her small fingers; then a voice behind her said, ‘I got a knife, miss.’
It was a boy of about twelve, small and skinny and poorly dressed. He passed her a clasp knife, the blade well-worn but sharp. ‘Cor, this is a mess!’ he said, in awed tones, as she sawed at the rope.
As the last strands parted, she said, ‘Look out!’ The horse, feeling the rope slacken, jerked round, swivelling on its haunches towards freedom. Alice hung on with both hands as it dragged her with it down the ramp, but instead of bolting it stopped at the feeling of grass under its hoofs and stood rigid and shaking.
‘Can you take it?’
‘Yes, miss, give him here.’
‘See if you can tie it to that tree. I’ll need your help inside.’
She went back up the ramp. The downed horses hadn’t risen. It was the ropes, of course. When they fell, the tethering of their heads prevented them from freeing themselves: their heads were strained up at unnatural angles. She crawled in, found a rope and began sawing. She was close to the head of the horse that was more or less on top, and its frightened eye looked into hers. She held its gaze steadily and spoke soothing words. It was breathing in the short snorts of fear, but it was trusting her.
The boy was back. ‘Cor!’ he said again. ‘What a mess. Them’s expensive ’orses.’
‘Come and hold his head,’ Alice said. ‘I want to see if that foreleg that’s bent under him is all right.’ If it wasn’t, she’d never get him up. But it felt all right as she ran her hand down it. And as if at that signal, the horse began to heave itself up. She led it a step away from the other one. It was trembling all over, but did not seem lame. A miracle, she thought.
‘I’ll put it with the other one,’ the boy said, taking what was left of the rope from her. He caught her glance and said, ‘I’ll use me belt. Don’t worry, miss, I’ll manage.’
Thank God for an intelligent helper, she thought, and turned to the last horse. It had got a leg over the rope in the fall so its head was jammed against its knee, and she could see several cuts, perhaps from the other one’s shoes. She crouched, stroked the bay face and cold ears, and got to work on the tether.
A voice, a male voice, angry and shaking, said, ‘Who the devil are you? Get away from that horse!’
It was a man dressed like a groom, darkening the doorway, hatless, blood on his face that seemed to be trickling from a scalp wound. His jacket was torn across the breast and dust was thick in his hair. ‘Leave it alone!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘Get away from there! Get away! I’ll have the law on you!’
The boy had returned. ‘Leave it off, mister! She’s saving it.’
Alice spoke over her shoulder. ‘One of them bolted – I couldn’t stop it. Two are tied up out there. I think this one may be hurt. Are they yours?’
‘I’m Lord Shacklock’s groom. They’re his hunters. You get away from that mare or you’ll be sorry!’ He made a threatening gesture with his fist.
The boy was indignant. ‘’Ere, she’s a lidy, mister! Don’t you talk to her like that!’
The groom used the kinetic energy already generated in his arm to fetch the boy a side swipe that knocked him on his behind, but he was up again like a bouncing ball, more interested in the horses than himself.
Alice, meanwhile, had cut through the rope and freed the horse’s head, but it didn’t move, lying rigid and terrified, its foreleg held awkwardly.
She got to her feet. ‘Can you manage now?’ she asked the groom, who was staring almost as wildly as the horse.
The groom swallowed hard and seemed to come to himself. ‘Course I can manage. I don’t need you bloody kids poking around. Clear out, both of you!’ He waved his fist again.
Alice went past him at a careful distance, and said to the boy, ‘Can you help him? I don’t think he’s quite the thing. But I must see who else needs help.’
The boy seemed to hold no resentment. ‘Yes, miss, you go on. I’ll stop here with him. You all right, mister?’ And to Alice, confidingly, ‘I reckon he’s had a blow on the noggin, miss. He ain’t thinking straight.’
Alice gave him back his knife, patted him on the shoulder, and went up the slope towards the wounded snake of the train to look for Axe.
Richard had fought in South Africa, and was not to be overset by the sight of injuries or dead bodies. There were more willing helpers arriving all the time. His most important role, he realised, would be to direct them, to create order, to devise a system.
The first period – he had no idea how long it was, whether minutes or half an hour – was the worst, when he had seemed alone: the chaos seemed to defy reason and the whole responsibility rested on his shoulders. There were passengers trapped in the ruined first carriage, dead and badly injured people in that and in the second carriage, which had reared up trying to jump over the first. In the third and fourth were what he thought of as walking wounded.
There was little provision for accidents in the station: a first-aid box and a single stretcher in the station-master’s office, and an axe that was used to chop wood for the waiting-room fire. But at a moment when he might have felt despair, a man appeared at his shoulder (he thought vaguely that he recognised him but couldn’t place him): a labouring sort of man, strong in body, ready of mind, who said, ‘I’ve got my horse and cart outside. Cottage hospital’s just down the hill. I can take some of the bad-off there, sir.’
And Miss Rowsham seemed to be performing first aid on the walking wounded on the platform in a manner so calm you would think she was a trained nurse.
So a system almost set itself up. The dead to be placed with as much kindness as time allowed in the waiting-room. The slightly injured to be bandaged by Miss Rowsham and a group of motherly women she had gathered around her. The seriously wounded to be conveyed by the first man and, soon, more volunteers with wagons to the cottage hospital. There, he was informed after a while, Dr Arbogast had set up stall.
The police in the form of PC Holyoak arrived and added official sinew to the activities. Dr Welkes, who had been out delivering a baby on one of the farms, arrived at last and took the responsibility of medical decisions from Richard’s shoulders. There were enough strong men now under the joint direction of Richard and Tom Holyoak to get into the harder-to-reach places in the broken carriages. And the fire-engine arrived, though there was little they could do about the mangled and burning engines. No-one in them could have survived. But they were able to douse a promising fire that had started up in the first carriage of the up train, and some burning bushes.
Of course, there was the up train to deal with as well, and rescuing people from its carriages was a degree more complicated. At one point Richard saw Giles carrying one end of a hurdle on which an injured woman was lying, coming from the direction of the up train, and felt vaguely comforted that he was there helping. But mostly there wasn’t time to think: it was just see something that had to be done, and do it. It was rather like war, he thought vaguely.
It took Alice a long time to find Axe.
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