For Emily
The venerable relic known to most of the neighborhood as Old Martin stood stiff as a rod next to the well-worn door of the school as a crowd of eager children tumbled through it. The old man’s suitcoat and trousers still showed the telltale creases of a fairly recent pressing, though sundry wrinkles might have hinted to the careful observer that it had not been today. And although his expression was as staid as any city butler, a close examination of the seams of his weather-worn face would have put the lie to the idea that it had always been so.
But none of the children stopped to notice these things, or to spare more than a glance toward Old Martin as they scattered down the lane and across the fields. The old man paid them little heed in return; the red coat and wheat-colored hair he watched for never joined themselves to that noisy throng, though in his heart of hearts, he couldn’t help but ask if it might be a hopeful thing if they did.
But there was no time to ponder the question; the subject of his thoughts was even now approaching, her steps as unhurried and graceful as any lady of the house he’d ever seen. Old Martin retrieved the stack of books from her arms and balanced them in his own hands, and the little girl smiled.
“Thank you, Brewster.” The gracious sweetness of her expression threatened for a moment to sweep him back to the sun-kissed days of his own boyhood, but he shook off the temptation and fell into step with the girl as she turned her measured gait toward Ashford House.
“A pleasant day, Miss Emily?”
His companion hummed a vague acknowledgement that was clearly not an answer, and Old Martin held his tongue. They walked in silence another moment before the girl sighed.
“I hate fractions.”
“I see.” The barest hint of a smile tugged at the weather-worn corners of Old Martin’s mouth, but he quickly composed his features again before Miss Emily could look up. “If I may say, Miss Emily, I’m not all too keen on them myself.”
“Aren’t you?” Miss Emily’s voice seemed just a shade brighter, as if it was a comfort merely knowing that there were others who shared the opinion.
“I am not. But they’re helpful things in the world, Miss Emily. Suppose you had a garden you wanted to plant with three kinds of vegetables—how would you divide it up without fractions?”
“I suppose.” Miss Emily sighed, but a moment later, she lifted her face to look at him. “They’re wanting to plant vegetables in our garden, Brewster. At Ashford House.”
“I know it, Miss.”
“It’ll ruin all the beautiful lawns and flowers.”
“Yes, Miss.” It was Old Martin’s turn to sigh. “But we all have to do our bit, you know. For the war, and the boys who are fighting it.”
“I hate the war.” There was a slight catch in the girl’s voice, and the old man nodded solemnly.
“So do I, Miss Emily. But it won’t last forever, you know. Perhaps when it’s over, we can re-plant the flowers.”
“I would like that.” Miss Emily straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin as the gables of Ashford House appeared in the distance. “I wish—”
Old Martin let the silence stretch for a moment before prompting, “Yes, Miss Emily?”
“I wish you could come with me back to London. When the war’s over.” The words were more breathed than spoken, and Old Martin had to swallow a lump in his throat.
“I know, Miss Emily. But my place is here, with Ashford House. Perhaps it’s you who can come back again someday—when the war’s over.”
The girl nodded slowly, but her eyes were fixed on the old country house, and Old Martin knew from experience that the time for confidences had passed. He straightened his spine and stiffened his stride, then stood still as a statue with the books balanced carefully in his hands as Miss Emily stepped in at the open gate. She turned to take her books back but paused a moment, swallowing hard as she lifted her gaze to his eyes.
“Thank you, Brewster.”
“Of course, Miss Emily.” None of the emotion swelling in the old man’s chest showed itself in his features as the girl dragged her feet up the walk and in at the vine-shaded door. He waited a moment to be sure she wouldn’t march immediately out again with a sneering cluster of children in her wake, but the house remained still, and Old Martin turned slowly away before making his way down the lane and in at the door of a humble cottage nearby.
The small kitchen swam with activity, heat, and the syrupy scent of peaches, and a middle-aged woman leaned over the table, savagely pitting and slicing the basket of fruit he’d collected only a few hours since. Old Martin bent to inspect a simmering pot, and the woman rounded on him, gesturing fiercely with the knife.
“Don’t you meddle in my kitchen, Dad—and you in your funeral suit! It’ll serve you right one of these days if you fall and tear out both the knees, or stain it past washing. And for what? A child that doesn’t know who she is or where she belongs? A past that’s long dead and buried, if you would just let it be? Why must you continue to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“I’ll go change now, Alice.” The old man’s tone remained quiet and submissive, and he crossed the cramped kitchen and climbed the narrow stairs with a halting step.
Once in his own small room, Old Martin changed out of his suit and brushed it carefully before hanging it back on its peg and returning to his earth-crusted shirt-sleeves and worn suspenders. Sitting down on his bed, he considered for a moment before reaching into the drawer of the bedside table and pulling out a shrunken, yellowed glove. As he smoothed it gently in his hand, his mind traced back over the years to the day when another Miss Emily—the last member of the old family to hold Ashford House—had made her way down the walk to the waiting carriage, tears shining in her eyes despite the defiant tilt to her chin. Martin had been only a boy at the time—unpaid help working with his grandfather in the garden—a face hovering so far on the periphery of the house that the young lady might never have even known he belonged to it.
But he had been near enough to see the glove that fell from her reticule, and near enough to lift it reverently and attempt to return it to her. Miss Emily had reached a hand to accept it, then hesitated and pulled back, shaking her head.
“Keep it.” She had looked once more toward the house, blinking hard. “Keep it until I come back someday.”
Martin had folded the keepsake away safely in his pocket and watched the carriage out of sight before returning to his weeding as carefully as if the young lady had been only gone to have tea and was likely to see for herself the result of the day’s labor. He had guarded it through all the long years—through the leasing of Ashford House, the parceling out of the remaining tracts of land, and finally the sale of the great house itself. Though he knew that the time for Miss Emily Ashford to reclaim the family fortune and regain her ancestral home had long since passed, he had never once considered breaking the trust. The Ashfords would not be returning, but he would be here, faithfully waiting until the end.
The figure of the older Miss Emily blurred in his mind and swam into a little girl in a red coat, eyes bright with tears and chin tilted defiantly as she faced a crowd of taunting children at the gate.
“It is so my house! My granny told me so! You’re all just jealous, is all!”
They’d assured him later that the child was an evacuee just come up from London with the rest of the orphans’ home she’d belonged to since she was five. That she’d been alone in the world but for an impoverished grandmother, with no hint left behind of wealth in her family. That her name had been given in the parish register as Emily Hart, with no connection to an Ashford in her past as far as anyone could trace. And yet, in the wheat-colored hair, the tear-filled blue eyes that never once overflowed, and the proud lift of the small chin, he’d seen his own Miss Emily, and his heart had responded in a way that baffled the onlookers.
Approaching the gate with his firmest stride and taking full advantage of the suit he’d donned that morning for an old friend’s funeral, Old Martin, the gardener’s grandson, had transformed in a single moment into Brewster, the butler—presumably of Ashford House—and protector of a little lost girl who’d chanced to take refuge there. Whether the troubles she’d borne in her short life had lightly affected her mind, or whether she’d consciously retreated into an absorbing fantasy, the overworked village doctor hadn’t been able to say, but if the pretense was a comfort to her, he couldn’t see it doing harm. And so it had come about that the old man who had never crossed the threshold of Ashford House and the little girl who, whatever her bloodline, certainly did not now own it, walked to and from the school every day as butler and mistress, content in each other and in their own private dreams.
Old Martin shook himself from his reflections and carefully returned the glove to its place, then made his way back down the stairs and watched for a moment as his daughter continued to chop fruit with brisk, angry strokes that yet held a bit of a tremor.
“No word from Danny-boy yet, Alice?”
The motion stopped, and a slight quiver ran up Alice’s back. Old Martin stepped forward and wrapped his daughter in his arms, and a few hot tears stained his shoulder.
“It’ll come, girl. It’ll come. The mails’ll be overrun with soldiers writing to their mothers and sweethearts. It’s only a delay; that’s all.”
“I know.” Alice drew back and attempted to wipe her eyes on her sleeve, but Old Martin pulled her close long enough to offer a fervent prayer for his only living grandson before letting her go again. Alice sniffed and straightened her spine, giving her father an apologetic smile that still wobbled a bit at the edges.
“Dad—”
“There’s no need, Alice girl. There’s a bit more work to be done in the garden, so I’ll hop to it and be out of your way.”
“And if you do that, I think I can promise you peach preserves tomorrow.” Alice made a shooing motion with her towel, then paused for a moment, her stern face softening just enough for one who had known and loved her all her life to see it. “Maybe enough to share—with Miss Emily.”
Copyright May 2026 by Angie Thompson
Photo by Tony Woodhouse, licensed through DepositPhotos