by A. O'Connor
She looked at him incredulously. “Why not?”
“There’s been an outbreak of cholera in many workhouses. The doctors and everyone are getting it.”
“Oh no! Well, they will need the food more than ever. I’ll just leave it in and won’t stay long.”
She went to walk away, but he held on to her hand and pulled her close.
“Anna! No! You can’t go!”
“But the people need help!”
“And you can’t give any more. If you keep mixing with them you will get cholera. You’ll bring it back here and give it to Lawrence, me, the servants. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not! But I can’t abandon my work.”
“Anna, you have to. You’re wearing yourself down to nothing. Look at you!” He pulled her over to the mirror and made her look at herself.
She got a shock at seeing her reflection. She hadn’t had time to view herself for ages. Gone was the bright fresh young girl who worried about what ribbons to wear and who to invite to parties. She seemed to have aged overnight. She touched her own skin.
“You’re exhausted, Anna. You need to look after yourself now. There’s only so much anyone can do.”
“But you don’t understand, Edward. I have to go on. I can’t stop.”
He held her tightly. “But I do understand. And it’s now time to stop.”
38
Anna didn’t travel after that. She stayed at the house and the estate, minding Lawrence and Edward. Anyone who met her said the sparkle had gone from her. The bright carefree girl was replaced by a sad woman. They said it was all the awful things she had seen while doing all her renowned good works for the famine victims.
At night she would slip out of the house and run through the gardens down to the lakeshore where she stared out at the water whispering, “I’m sorry. Come home – please come home. We miss you. Lawrence and I miss you.”
Edward sat in the nursery late at night cradling Lawrence close to him as he looked out the window at Anna who was walking through the gardens on her own.
His mind drifted back to a few months ago on the evening he had returned from Dublin having attended a political rally to demand assistance from the government.
He had arrived back to the house in the late evening. Anna had been unwell and had gone to bed early. Edward looked in on her and then the baby and then came down to the library to work on letters to members of parliament. As he wrote at his desk, he heard the door open and he looked up to see Seán standing there.
“What the blazes are you doing here? And how did you get in?” demanded Edward.
Seán closed the door behind him. “I know this estate better than you – it wasn’t so hard for me to slip by Sinclair’s guards up to the house.”
Edward jumped to his feet “I thought it was made clear to you never to enter this estate, let alone the house again?”
“Oh, it was made clear all right. Crystal clear.”
“So you’ve come back to rob us again, have you?” Edward was confused by Seán’s behaviour. If it was a robbery Seán didn’t seem panicked to have been discovered.
“No, I haven’t come to rob you – I never robbed you in the first place.”
“I think the evidence of finding the locket in your cottage says otherwise.”
“I didn’t rob that locket, it was planted there.”
“And who would do such a thing, and why?”
“Your wife, Lord Edward.”
Edward stared at him in disbelief. “Have you gone mad, man? I have never encountered such insolence or madness from a tenant!”
“She planted the locket so as to get me off the estate. She wanted me gone because . . . because I threatened to tell the truth.”
“What are you talking about for heaven’s sakes? The truth about what?”
Seán looked him in the eye and said, “Lawrence is mine. Ask Anna. That is why she threw me off the estate. But I crept back here tonight to tell you the truth.”
Edward was in such shock he could not speak.
“She thought she could get rid of me just like that. Set me up over the locket and then have me thrown out like a pile of rubbish. I’ve lost everything over her – my home, my livelihood, my good name – everyone thinks I’m a thief. I’ve hardly any money left. Nothing left for me but to starve now. While she gets what she wanted, a child, my son, and carries on living here as if I never existed. That’s why I had to tell you the truth. To show you what kind of a bitch you’re married to.”
“Get out! I want you to leave my house immediately.”
“Are you not listening to me? She’s betrayed you, like she’s betrayed me! He’s my son!”
Edward stood stock still in shock, his head spinning as he heard Seán speak. The filthy lies spilling out of his mouth. Thoughts raced through his head – Anna’s sudden request that Seán be given the post of head groom, her insistence she no longer needed his services, the strange incident of the missing locket, Seán’s long record of honest service . . .
He looked into Seán’s face and saw the resemblance between him and Lawrence – and he knew he spoke the truth.
Seán’s voice was growing louder and louder.
“Are you so stupid you can’t see?” he was shouting now, trying to get a reaction from Edward, to make him understand. “Can’t you see he looks like me? He’s my son! Lawrence is my son!”
“Shut up! Somebody will hear! I command you to be quiet!”
But this only made Seán more agitated and his voice rose to a scream.
“Lawrence is my son!”
Suddenly Edward reached for the poker beside the fire, raised it high in the air and hit Seán hard across the head. Seán stood swaying as he looked at Edward in disbelief for a few moments while the blood spilled down his face. Then he collapsed to the floor.
Edward stood there for a while, holding the poker, staring down at Seán’s prostrate figure. There wasn’t a sound from him or a movement.
Edward dropped the poker and bent down beside him. But his body was lifeless.
Edward locked the library door and sat staring at Seán’s body for hours. It was only when it was well after midnight and he knew all the servants had gone to bed that he acted.
He fetched a blanket and wrapped Seán’s body in it, then quietly opened the library window and slid the body out. Closing the window, he made his way out of the house and around to the stables where he hitched a horse to the phaeton and led it around to the library window. His heart was hammering and the blood drumming in his ears as he knew the risk of being heard or seen was high. Lifting Seán’s body into the carriage, he set off at a gentle pace until he was out of sight and earshot of the house.
Then Edward drove like a madman into town. He knew what he must do. He had committed murder, but nature had given him the perfect opportunity to disguise it. There was a field at the back of the town where victims of the famine were being buried in a mass grave. He checked to see if anyone was looking but there was no one in sight. But even if he was seen, all he was doing was placing another victim of the famine in an unmarked mass grave. He tossed Seán’s body in with the others, drove home to the house, and cleared up any evidence.
As he cradled Lawrence now, he knew what he did was wrong. But he knew he did it for Lawrence. Anna was distraught, anguishing over the fate of Seán. She had been on a mission looking for him everywhere, overwhelmed with guilt that she had evicted him and that he might be a victim of famine. She did not know Edward knew the truth of her deception. She did not know Edward knew the fate of Lawrence’s true father. But as Edward looked out at her walking through the gardens under the dark sky, he had no doubts of her love for him – her every look and action spoke of it. He knew in his heart why she’d had intercourse with Seán. He knew their own love would survive even though it would never be the same. They had both acted for their own survival, and for their son Lawrence. And now Edward realised they must concentrate on him, that his life
will be worthy of their actions.
Book 2
1913-1922
39
It was said that Clara Charter had received twenty-one proposals of marriage from some of London’s most eligible men by her twenty-first birthday. When questioned if this was true, Clara would reply that that was nothing in comparison to the amount of less honourable propositions she had received from London’s less eligible men. Now, at twenty-four, Clara remained one of the great beauties and most sought-after young women in London society. Hardly a party guest-list was comprised without Clara’s name hovering near the top. She was used to this attention, she had received it all her life. Her father’s family was Charters’ Chocolates & Confectionery, a name whose very mention was as guilty in titillating the taste-buds as Cadbury or Charbonnel et Walker. Her father had gone on to carve out a highly successful career in banking in the city. Her mother was descended from a long line of mill-owners and merchants from the north. And so this generation of Charters had the right background, connections and manners to be correctly placed to take an important role in society. All this, matched with Clara’s beauty and fun-loving personality, made her the crème de la crème.
At the annual Charlemont ball, there had been a twelve-course dinner, and Clara had been seated in one of the prime positions. As she chatted amicably and enthusiastically to the people around her, every so often her light laughter would echo down the long tables, prompting other guests to look up and smile. Clara was aware when people looked at her. She could sense eyes watching her admiringly from afar, and she enjoyed it.
Afterwards, she made sure to dance with as many different men as possible around the giant ballroom.
“Will you come this weekend to stay at our country house?” asked a young aristocrat as he danced her around the floor.
“I’ve told you before I can’t. I’d love to but I can’t. Your country place is too far away and I’ve got too many things to do this weekend.”
“But you promised me you would come,” the young man insisted.
“I promised you I would come some time, just not this weekend,” she pointed out to him as the music stopped. Then she smiled at him and quickly walked off the dance floor before he could trap her further. She walked to her seat where a glass of champagne was handed to her by a young captain from the Yorkshire Regiment.
“Thank you, you’re a dear,” she said, smiling at him and sipping from the glass.
“Now remember, we’re going to the theatre on Tuesday night. Don’t forget,” said the captain.
“Darling, how could I forget, when you’ve reminded me umpteen times since I got here?” Clara said tolerantly.
She felt particularly restless that night. She wasn’t sure why, but as the people swarmed around her, she felt agitated. It was then that she saw him. He was standing at the other side of the ballroom. Impeccably dressed in a tuxedo and white bow tie, his brown hair slicked back, a cigarette perched on his lips. She didn’t know why he caught her eye. Maybe it was because he looked bored. Maybe it was because whenever she looked at somebody, she was used to finding them already looking at her. And he wasn’t, his eyes were gazing off somewhere, beyond the dancing couples that whirled past him.
“And perhaps before the theatre, we’ll go for something to eat,” suggested the captain.
“Yes, perhaps . . . who is that over there?” Clara discreetly indicated the man who had caught her attention.
The captain looked over and squinted as he studied the man. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him before.”
“Hmmm.” Clara turned to the man on the other side of her. “Tell me, who is that man standing by the pillar?”
“I don’t know. Do you want me to find out for you?”
“No, don’t bother!” She laughed lightly, picked up her champagne and drank it off. “This is divine. Did I tell you this story about the bridegroom and the champagne . . .” And as she continued to tell her story she spoke loudly, in a way calculated to attract the man’s attention. Her companions laughed loudly, but the man never looked over once.
Clara’s curiosity was burning brightly and she was delighted when she spotted the stranger talking to an acquaintance of hers, Edbert Bartley. She quickly made her excuses to her friends and walked with her usual confidence across the ballroom to the two men.
“Edbert!” she said loudly as she approached them.
“Oh hello, Clara,” said Edbert, looking happy to see her.
“I haven’t seen you in such a long time, where have you been hiding?” she mockingly scolded him.
“I’ve been in New York, Clara.”
She tutted loudly. “And not one postcard from you! You are a bad friend to me, Edbert. You’ll have to take me to lunch to make amends.”
“I’d like that, Clara,” said Edbert, looking chuffed with himself.
Clara waited for her moment and then turned to the man standing beside him and gave him a dazzling smile.
The man did not smile back, but his dark eyes glanced at her in a disinterested way.
Noticing Clara and the man were not greeting each other, Edbert said, “Do you two know each other?”
“No, I don’t think we do, do we?” Clara continued to smile at the man.
“Clara Charter, this is Pierce – Lord Pierce Armstrong.”
Clara held out her gloved hand and Pierce took it and said, “Nice to meet you.”
“And you.” She continued to smile at him.
“Pierce is from Ireland. He’s over here attending a few parties.”
“I see,” said Clara, realising this was why she hadn’t seen him before, or why her party hadn’t known him.
“And are you enjoying yourself, Lord Armstrong?” she asked.
He glanced at her. “Most of the time.”
Another admirer suddenly appeared by her side. “Clara, our dance, I believe.”
Clara felt like screaming at his interruption. She wanted to stay and talk to this man who was intriguing her.
“Of course,” she smiled at him and took his hand. She smiled at Edbert and Pierce. “Edbert, I’m looking forward to our lunch. Lord Armstrong, a pleasure to meet you.”
She was led off to the dance floor.
If she was restless before talking to Pierce, she was twice as restless afterwards. She struggled to find another opportunity to speak to him during the night, but one didn’t arise. So she had to be content to try to overhear parts of conversations he was having with other people.
“Heard anything of Robert Keane?” she heard Edbert ask him.
“Yes, he’s just back from Scotland. I’m meeting him Tuesday in Fortnum and Mason for lunch.”
That was the little bit of information Clara had been waiting for all night, and she could go home satisfied.
40
Clara’s paternal grandmother, Louisa Charter, was coming to have tea with Clara and her mother. Clara’s family lived in a Chelsea stucco white townhouse.
Clara had lived there all her life. She loved it there, and her memories were happy ones. She had two brothers, one older who was a doctor, and one younger still at Cambridge.
Clara realised she was running late as the cab left her off outside the house, and she got out and hurried up the steps to the front door. Her grandmother hated lateness, and Clara tried to think of a suitable excuse as she rang the doorbell and waited for the butler to open it – but as she looked down at her hatboxes after a morning of shopping, she realised they wouldn’t be providing one.
“Is my grandmother here?” asked Clara as the butler opened the door.
“This past half hour. She’s with your mother in the drawing room.”
Clara pulled a face, then removed her coat and hat and handed them and her shopping to the butler before making her way to the drawing room.
“Here you are! We were getting worried about you,” smiled her mother.
“The traffic was terrible from Knightsbridge,” explained Clara.
“
Isn’t it always?” said her grandmother. “At any time of day or night, if Clara is going anywhere from anywhere, the traffic is terrible, and that’s why she’s always late.” She looked knowingly at Clara as she offered her cheek to be kissed.
Clara sat down and looked at her mother who smiled sympathetically at her while she poured her a cup of tea and passed it over.
“None of us can fight our natures, Louisa, and it’s in Clara’s nature to veer towards the late side of things,” Clara’s mother, Milly, defended her.
“This is half your problem, young lady – parents who overindulge you and shoo away any slight to you. I put it down to your having no sisters. I had four sisters and growing up, well, you’re just brought up differently from an only girl. No room for indulgence.”
“Well, I will try to be on time in future, Grandmother,” said Clara.
“I think it might be too late to save your reputation at this stage. A society hostess, who shall remain nameless, confided in me that you have the worst reputation in London for showing up to parties late. She says you’ve often been known to try and fit in two or three parties on the same night, and act as if it’s your right to arrive at any time you like.”
