The Ashford home sits just outside Oxford — a large honey-stone Georgian house tucked behind iron gates and old climbing ivy, surrounded by gardens that look especially beautiful in the rain. It’s elegant in the quiet, inherited sort of way: tall windows, fireplaces in nearly every room, shelves overflowing with books, muddy wellington boots by the back door beside expensive coats nobody remembers to hang properly. Theodore has slowly turned it from a formal house into an actual home for Beatrice — softer lighting, fresh flowers constantly on the kitchen table, records playing on Sunday mornings, children’s drawings somehow ending up framed in hallways filled with old family portraits. The house feels warm even when it’s silent.