The Kent in the Kate
A/N: I decided I'd distract myself from missing our son by concocting some additional travel stories for the Booth-Brennan family.
Christine Booth was once more aboard an aircraft flying high above the Atlantic Ocean, but this time she was not a source of worry for her parents. Primarily because they sat across from her in the first class section of the plane. Her brother Hank was next to her, absorbed in the Game of Thrones battle unfolding on his Nintendo 3DS XL. Normally Booth and Brennan limited their son's video gaming, but a long flight was their rare exception.
"Wow, Mom, these seats are sooo much more roomy and comfortable than the ones in coach. I was so squished between Kennedy and Madison on our class trip to Greece."
Her father chuckled, "They ought to call it 'Sardine' class instead of 'Economy' or 'Coach' don't you think, Monkey?"
"This is definitely better! These seats lay all the way down, completely flat," Christine agreed, as she reclined her chair back.
Booth and Brennan had kept in touch with Inspector Kate Pritchard since Ian Wexler's untimely and violent demise. She had invited them to spend two weeks in Britain at her London flat and her parents' home in Margate on the Kent coast. The latter property had been in her family for generations, a tiny seaside cottage where she'd spent her childhood summer holidays.
Booth had another reason for the trip. He remembered learning his family history at Pops' kitchen table after a seventh grade lesson on the Civil War. Christine had reached this age, and he wanted to show his children more of their ancestry than just the Lincoln assassination. John Wilkes Booth's father Junius Brutus Booth had been born in St. Pancras, London, Great Britain, the son of a lawyer Richard Booth, who avidly supported the cause of American liberty.
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A few hours later the plane turned over Heathrow, made its final approach and taxied to a stop perfectly aligned with the air bridge. The family gathered their belongings and deplaned. Approaching the baggage dispersal carousels, Booth spotted Cate standing with Liam.
"Pritch!" he called to their long-time friend who waved a hand in greeting and hurried toward them. Looking at the Inspector's son, Brennan caught her breath. Liam's uncanny resemblance to his father Ian Wexler was as striking as Parker's to Booth. He was already a head taller than his petite darker-haired mother. He greeted their American visitors politely, shaking Booth's hand and smiling shyly at Brennan. After lunch at Cate's favorite pub, the group piled into her rented minibus and headed west into the city of London. Their drive to Cate's cottage in Margate took them through the St Pancras district near Kings Cross Station where Booth's forebears had lived. Here they paused to view the Hardy Tree in the graveyard surrounding St. Pancras Old Church. The young author Thomas Hardy had worked here as an architect while writing on the side. One of his projects while studying under Arthur Blomfield was relocating old graves in St. Pancras Churchyard to clear land for a railroad. The occupants were reburied elsewhere, but their tombstones remained. In an effort to handle their abandoned tombstones respectfully, Hardy placed them in concentric rings around an ash sapling in a remote corner of the property. The tree's growth has completely engulfed some of these unvisited gravestones, creating a curious memorial to the long-deceased Londoners who once rested beneath them. Booth considered the unique Hardy Tree a fitting place to tell Christine and Hank the story that Pops had once shared with him at Gram's kitchen table. Liam Pritchard-Wexler and his astounded mother listened as intently as Booth's children.
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"Crikey, Mum, what a story this will make back at school next term!" Liam exclaimed as the group clambered back into Cate's vehicle.
"Liam, that's not polite!" his mother chided.
"Nonsense, Cate, the oddity of the story will remind all his British classmates who John Wilkes Booth is and what he did for the rest of their lives," Booth countered.
Christine and Hank were silent for the first half hour of their continuing trip to the coast.
"Dad, when did you find out that Lincoln's 'ass-ass-i-nin' is part of your family?" Hank asked.
"It's pronounced 'assassin', dorkface," Christine corrected him scornfully. She hadn't decided how she felt about her father's revelation of their family history.
"Christine! Apologize to your brother," Brennan scolded.
"Bones, let it go. It's a lot to digest. Not the most uplifting fact you can learn about your ancestors. It bummed me out for weeks when Pops told me. I nearly punched one of my classmates who teased me about my possible connection to John Wilkes Booth. It never occurred to me it was true. When Pops told me, I was devastated at first. Then he reminded me that what was important was how I lived my life, not how some guy 150 years ago acted. That's why I've tried to defend our country and raise all my children to do the same. That's the best way I know to counter the unsavory legacy JW left behind."
Brennan squeezed her husband's hand. "Pops was right, but Chrissy still shouldn't taunt Hank."
"I'm sorry, Hank," Christine said quietly. "I think I'll be sick the day we study Ford's Theater and Lincoln's assassination."
The two families had afternoon tea at Walpole Bay Hotel in Cliftonside, and then settled into the compact windswept seafront Pritchard family cottage. The waves of Westbrook Bay washing up on the sand were steps away from its front stoop.
"We can't thank you enough for inviting us here, Cate," Brennan thanked their hostess as they ate breakfast there the following morning. "A quiet break like this isn't something Booth and I get very often."
"Well, Temperance, nothing will ever be too good for Sir Seeley and you, after the support you've given me since Ian died. Friends like you are few and far between; I can never do enough to repay you. It's a pleasure to have you here. It's been far too long since we've seen one another." Cate responded warmly.