Genre Fiction
![Lauren Belfer - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_lauren_belfer.jpg)
Ashton Hall: A Novel
An American woman and her son stumble upon the dark history of a rambling English manor house in this "masterful, riveting, and atmospheric" (Alka Joshi, author of The Henna Artist) novel from New York Times bestselling author Lauren Belfer.
"With vibrant prose, Lauren Belfer shepherds us through a centuries-old mystery and into a modern-day introspection on motherhood, marriage, and love."-Georgia Hunter, New York Times bestselling author of We Were the Lucky Ones
When a close relative falls ill, Hannah Larson and her young son, Nicky, join him for the summer at Ashton Hall, a historic manor house outside Cambridge, England. A frustrated academic whose ambitions have been subsumed by the challenges of raising her beloved child, Hannah longs to escape her life in New York City, where her marriage has been upended by a recently discovered and devastating betrayal.
Soon after their arrival, ever-curious Nicky finds the skeletal remains of a woman walled into a forgotten part of the manor, and Hannah is pulled into an all-consuming quest for answers, Nicky close by her side. Working from clues in centuries-old ledgers showing what the woman's household spent on everything from music to medicine; lists of books checked out of the library; and the troubling personal papers of the long-departed family, Hannah begins to recreate the Ashton Hall of the Elizabethan era in all its color and conflict. As the multilayered secrets of her own life begin to unravel, Hannah comes to realize that Ashton Hall's women before her had lives not so different from her own, and she confronts what mothers throughout history have had to do to secure their independence and protect their children.
"Infused with the brooding, gothic atmosphere of Jane Eyre or Rebecca" (Melanie Benjamin, author of The Children's Blizzard) and rich with female passion, strength, and ferocity across the ages, Ashton Hall is a novel that reveals how the most profound hauntings are within ourselves.
"With vibrant prose, Lauren Belfer shepherds us through a centuries-old mystery and into a modern-day introspection on motherhood, marriage, and love."-Georgia Hunter, New York Times bestselling author of We Were the Lucky Ones
When a close relative falls ill, Hannah Larson and her young son, Nicky, join him for the summer at Ashton Hall, a historic manor house outside Cambridge, England. A frustrated academic whose ambitions have been subsumed by the challenges of raising her beloved child, Hannah longs to escape her life in New York City, where her marriage has been upended by a recently discovered and devastating betrayal.
Soon after their arrival, ever-curious Nicky finds the skeletal remains of a woman walled into a forgotten part of the manor, and Hannah is pulled into an all-consuming quest for answers, Nicky close by her side. Working from clues in centuries-old ledgers showing what the woman's household spent on everything from music to medicine; lists of books checked out of the library; and the troubling personal papers of the long-departed family, Hannah begins to recreate the Ashton Hall of the Elizabethan era in all its color and conflict. As the multilayered secrets of her own life begin to unravel, Hannah comes to realize that Ashton Hall's women before her had lives not so different from her own, and she confronts what mothers throughout history have had to do to secure their independence and protect their children.
"Infused with the brooding, gothic atmosphere of Jane Eyre or Rebecca" (Melanie Benjamin, author of The Children's Blizzard) and rich with female passion, strength, and ferocity across the ages, Ashton Hall is a novel that reveals how the most profound hauntings are within ourselves.
Editorial Reviews
"Lauren Belfer's Ashton Hall is masterful, riveting, and atmospheric historical fiction. It made me want to don a velvet cloak, brew a cup of tea, and settle in to watch Hannah and her ingenious son unravel the fascinating, dark, centuries-old secrets of a manor home."-Alka Joshi, New York Times bestselling author of The Henna Artist
"In Ashton Hall, Lauren Belfer has treated us to a novel infused with the brooding gothic atmosphere of Jane Eyre or Rebecca. And like those classics, this is at its heart a story about a woman's journey of self-discovery. How does a wife and mother reclaim her dreams when her world is turned upside down? In her quest to learn the identity of a skeleton entombed in the heart of a British manor house, Hannah Larson tries to piece together the puzzle that has become her own life. This is a novel that must be savored, one page at a time."-Melanie Benjamin, New York Times bestselling author of The Children's Blizzard
"Belfer's latest is a brilliant, immersive story about one woman searching for answers after a terrible discovery from centuries earlier. The captivating threads of the plot-an English manor house with secret rooms and a dark past, a mother struggling with her atypical son-are rounded out by a lively cast of locals who had me laughing out loud. The novel is rich with intrigue and historical detail, and a stunning achievement."-Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author of The Magnolia Palace
"[Ashton Hall's] strength comes from the archaeological details (did you know that the pigment that creates red hair is the slowest to break down?) as well as the grace and attention given to both Hannah and Isabella-two women separated by hundreds of years but bound by a common humanity. A touching story about the themes that resonate through centuries."-Kirkus Reviews
"In the well-crafted ...
"In Ashton Hall, Lauren Belfer has treated us to a novel infused with the brooding gothic atmosphere of Jane Eyre or Rebecca. And like those classics, this is at its heart a story about a woman's journey of self-discovery. How does a wife and mother reclaim her dreams when her world is turned upside down? In her quest to learn the identity of a skeleton entombed in the heart of a British manor house, Hannah Larson tries to piece together the puzzle that has become her own life. This is a novel that must be savored, one page at a time."-Melanie Benjamin, New York Times bestselling author of The Children's Blizzard
"Belfer's latest is a brilliant, immersive story about one woman searching for answers after a terrible discovery from centuries earlier. The captivating threads of the plot-an English manor house with secret rooms and a dark past, a mother struggling with her atypical son-are rounded out by a lively cast of locals who had me laughing out loud. The novel is rich with intrigue and historical detail, and a stunning achievement."-Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author of The Magnolia Palace
"[Ashton Hall's] strength comes from the archaeological details (did you know that the pigment that creates red hair is the slowest to break down?) as well as the grace and attention given to both Hannah and Isabella-two women separated by hundreds of years but bound by a common humanity. A touching story about the themes that resonate through centuries."-Kirkus Reviews
"In the well-crafted ...
Readers Top Reviews
Short Excerpt Teaser
CHAPTER 1
On a Sunday morning in late June, I waited with my son at the side entrance of a stately home near Cambridge, England. We stood on a stone bridge that spanned what was once a moat, the water drained, a grassy pathway beckoning at the bottom, the moat's walls overgrown with greenery.
"Seven fifty-four A.M.," Nicky said, reading from his phone. He was nine years old.
I rotated the lever that controlled the bell. The sound grated within. Metalwork vines covered the cracked wooden door. Above me, the panes of the broad mullioned windows were like multifaceted mirrors, reflecting fragments of gray-bottomed clouds and blue sky.
The house, dating from the early 1600s, was a red-brick extravaganza of turrets, chimneys, and Flemish gables. Cream-colored limestone outlined the windows and doorways. Statues of cows, pigs, and sheep, whimsical barnyard gargoyles, stared down at me from the gutters. Ever since the eleventh century, a home had stood here.
This was my third try with the doorbell. I now had reason to worry that Christopher wasn't going to answer. He was old, he was ill, he was dead. Fallen to the bottom of the stairs in a heap. Collapsed on the kitchen floor. Peacefully slipping away while asleep in his bed-the option I wished for him, for his sake and my own, because I loved him and didn't want him to suffer.
"Seven fifty-five A.M.," Nicky said.
What next?
I turned away from the door. The garden spread before us, sparkling in the morning sun, saturated with color, the rising terraces culminating in a tempietto, a round, open colonnade covered by a dome, at the top of a hillock. At the perimeter of the garden, thickly planted trees created a wash of green dotted by the darker copper beeches. The breeze was a moist caress upon my skin. The air carried a scent of lavender. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows-the line from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream came into my mind. A shower had passed through shortly before, and the paths were damp. The flowering fuchsia along the moat dripped with raindrops, glowing in the sunlight. Off to my left, behind the house and across the rain-drenched lawns, an incandescent mist rose from the ornamental lake.
"Seven fifty-six A.M."
Christopher had arranged for a car and driver to meet us at Heathrow after our flight from New York, to bring us here, and leave us here.
And here we remained, surrounded by luggage, on a bridge over a moat at the side entrance of a Jacobean mansion, with no one answering the door.
Nicky pressed his head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him close. He was growing so fast. How young and adorable he looked, at this moment of calm.
In front of the house, the estate's original farm buildings, also red brick with limestone trim and a series of Flemish gables, framed a ceremonial approach to the mansion's formal entrance. These accommodated a cafe, visitors' center, and secondhand bookshop. At ten o'clock, they would open to the public, along with the gardens. At noon, the mansion's historic rooms would open. Was that the aroma of fresh coffee, wafting on the air from the cafe? Of brownies baking? Definitely.
Go find help. I should have been striding to the visitors' center.
"Seven fifty-seven A.M."
I couldn't make myself move, jet lag triumphant.
"A dog is barking." Nicky disengaged himself from me. He frowned, listening.
Insects buzzed, birds sang, bringing the air to life. I didn't hear a dog.
Nicky studied the woods near the lake. I studied his hazel eyes, his dark brows, his straight brown hair, cut in a bowl style.
"It's coming closer. I bet it's Duncan." Duncan was Christopher's dog. "Do you hear him now?"
"I wish I did."
"What the f*** is wrong with you? Do you need f***ing hearing aids?"
His words stunned me, even though I'd heard such language often enough from him before. No one spoke to Nicky this way-not me, not his father, not his teachers. Yet this was the way he spoke to us. I was worn down from the effort of keeping myself prepared to respond to his outbursts. "Watch your tone! Watch your language."
"Sorry."
He sounded contrite. As usual, I couldn't judge whether he truly was contrite or had said what he needed to say to avoid punishment.
"Look!" he said.
Bounding from the woods near the ornamental...
On a Sunday morning in late June, I waited with my son at the side entrance of a stately home near Cambridge, England. We stood on a stone bridge that spanned what was once a moat, the water drained, a grassy pathway beckoning at the bottom, the moat's walls overgrown with greenery.
"Seven fifty-four A.M.," Nicky said, reading from his phone. He was nine years old.
I rotated the lever that controlled the bell. The sound grated within. Metalwork vines covered the cracked wooden door. Above me, the panes of the broad mullioned windows were like multifaceted mirrors, reflecting fragments of gray-bottomed clouds and blue sky.
The house, dating from the early 1600s, was a red-brick extravaganza of turrets, chimneys, and Flemish gables. Cream-colored limestone outlined the windows and doorways. Statues of cows, pigs, and sheep, whimsical barnyard gargoyles, stared down at me from the gutters. Ever since the eleventh century, a home had stood here.
This was my third try with the doorbell. I now had reason to worry that Christopher wasn't going to answer. He was old, he was ill, he was dead. Fallen to the bottom of the stairs in a heap. Collapsed on the kitchen floor. Peacefully slipping away while asleep in his bed-the option I wished for him, for his sake and my own, because I loved him and didn't want him to suffer.
"Seven fifty-five A.M.," Nicky said.
What next?
I turned away from the door. The garden spread before us, sparkling in the morning sun, saturated with color, the rising terraces culminating in a tempietto, a round, open colonnade covered by a dome, at the top of a hillock. At the perimeter of the garden, thickly planted trees created a wash of green dotted by the darker copper beeches. The breeze was a moist caress upon my skin. The air carried a scent of lavender. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows-the line from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream came into my mind. A shower had passed through shortly before, and the paths were damp. The flowering fuchsia along the moat dripped with raindrops, glowing in the sunlight. Off to my left, behind the house and across the rain-drenched lawns, an incandescent mist rose from the ornamental lake.
"Seven fifty-six A.M."
Christopher had arranged for a car and driver to meet us at Heathrow after our flight from New York, to bring us here, and leave us here.
And here we remained, surrounded by luggage, on a bridge over a moat at the side entrance of a Jacobean mansion, with no one answering the door.
Nicky pressed his head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him close. He was growing so fast. How young and adorable he looked, at this moment of calm.
In front of the house, the estate's original farm buildings, also red brick with limestone trim and a series of Flemish gables, framed a ceremonial approach to the mansion's formal entrance. These accommodated a cafe, visitors' center, and secondhand bookshop. At ten o'clock, they would open to the public, along with the gardens. At noon, the mansion's historic rooms would open. Was that the aroma of fresh coffee, wafting on the air from the cafe? Of brownies baking? Definitely.
Go find help. I should have been striding to the visitors' center.
"Seven fifty-seven A.M."
I couldn't make myself move, jet lag triumphant.
"A dog is barking." Nicky disengaged himself from me. He frowned, listening.
Insects buzzed, birds sang, bringing the air to life. I didn't hear a dog.
Nicky studied the woods near the lake. I studied his hazel eyes, his dark brows, his straight brown hair, cut in a bowl style.
"It's coming closer. I bet it's Duncan." Duncan was Christopher's dog. "Do you hear him now?"
"I wish I did."
"What the f*** is wrong with you? Do you need f***ing hearing aids?"
His words stunned me, even though I'd heard such language often enough from him before. No one spoke to Nicky this way-not me, not his father, not his teachers. Yet this was the way he spoke to us. I was worn down from the effort of keeping myself prepared to respond to his outbursts. "Watch your tone! Watch your language."
"Sorry."
He sounded contrite. As usual, I couldn't judge whether he truly was contrite or had said what he needed to say to avoid punishment.
"Look!" he said.
Bounding from the woods near the ornamental...
