by A. O'Connor
“Well, I thought that showed good manners! Rather than declining invitations I make an effort to go to all of them!”
“I do wish people wouldn’t talk about my daughter as they do,” said Milly, taking a sip of tea.
“I believe a young lady shouldn’t come across as always in a rush . . . which is how you come across, Clara. A rush to everywhere . . . except down the aisle, of course. Perhaps your tendency to be late is making you late for your own wedding as well?”
Milly gave Clara another sympathetic look.
“Weddings are not about timing, they are about being with the right person,” said Clara.
“Well, that is where you are wrong, young lady,” said Louisa. “Weddings are all about timing and your timing is decidedly off to me. It’s five years since you came out as a debutante. Five years! Most debutantes are married within months – their partner met and married by the time the season is over. That is the point of it all! But you, Clara! You’ve enjoyed five seasons and not a whiff of an engagement!”
“I just haven’t met the right person,” Clara shrugged and drank her tea.
“Met the right person! You’ve met everybody who there is to meet. If you haven’t met the right person after that, then you never will!”
“I haven’t met the right person who I can love.”
“Oh dear,” Louisa sighed loudly. “Let me give you some advice, Clara. Do not marry the man you love – but the man who loves you. Life will be far easier for you that way.”
“Well, she’s certainly met plenty who have loved her,” said Milly.
“I would like it to be mutual,” said Clara. “Mutual love.”
“You see, this is what you get when you have a girl who has been given everything – she thinks she can have everything. Well, you can’t, Clara. You can’t have everything in life. You’ve been blessed with looks and charm and you think you can have this love too. But love isn’t a given. And you’re in danger of ruining your life in the meantime.”
“Ruin my life? I’m only twenty-four.”
“Only, she says! Only twenty-four . . . I was on my second child by your age. They say you don’t want to get married. They say you enjoy the whole party circuit far too much ever to settle down. They say you enjoy the season more for the parties than what it is designed for – to find a husband. They say –”
“They say too much!” interrupted Milly.
“But looks fade, Clara, and charm sours alongside it. And you might not always be in such demand. You are in a prime position to elevate yourself to wherever you want, and position this family accordingly. Don’t let your time pass and miss your opportunity, Clara.”
“I’m sure Clara knows exactly what she is doing, don’t you, Clara?” said her mother, smiling over at her.
“Indeed I do,” said Clara, taking a sip from her tea.
The door opened and Clara’s father walked in.
“Ah, Terence, you’re home early,” smiled Milly, hoping her husband’s entry would put a stop to her mother-in-law’s tirade.
“Hello, everyone,” he smiled as he kissed each of the women.
“You’ll be staying for dinner, Mother?” he asked.
“If you insist,” answered Louisa.
Clara waited until they were halfway through the pork dinner before making the enquiries she knew her grandmother would have ready answers to.
“I met a new face at the Charlemont ball last night,” she said.
“A new face or a young one?” asked Louisa.
“Well, both, I suppose,” answered Clara. “A Pierce Armstrong. Lord Armstrong. Do you know him?”
Clara watched her grandmother’s face as the mind behind it flicked through the catalogue of names she stored there.
“Yes, the Armstrongs. Anglo-Irish. I knew his grandfather Lord Lawrence. Absolutely charming man, married a lovely girl from Kildare, and they went on to have six children.”
“Yes?” asked Clara, anxious to know more but not wanting to reveal her interest to her family.
“That’s right. The family did extremely well in the last decades of the nineteenth century, during Ireland’s boom. They had a house in London and Dublin as well as their main country house on a vast estate in the west of Ireland, which was their base. All the children went on to do very well. One of Lawrence’s daughters married the Duke of Batington. A son married into one of those senselessly rich American families with rather Dutch-sounding names who made their money in things like steel.”
“Vanderbilt?” enquired Milly.
“I can’t recall,” Louisa paused as she thought. “The title and the estate passed through to Lawrence’s eldest son Charles. And that’s when it all got a bit murky.” Louisa reached for her crystal glass and drank some wine.
“Murky?” pushed Clara.
“Lawrence’s son Charles inherited his father’s estate but none of his charm. He was known for being unpleasant and ruthless. He married someone like himself, an Anglo-Irish titled lady with not much charm either by all accounts. And they got caught up in that awful land war they had in Ireland in the 1880s. You see, this is the problem with Ireland. You can’t just go and live there and work and hunt like one would in Wiltshire or Yorkshire. You get embroiled in their turmoil and politics.”
“What happened?” pushed Clara, trying to head off the beginning of one of her grandmother’s political rants.
“They evicted one tenant too many, made too many enemies, and poor Charles was shot one day for his troubles.”
“Goodness, how terrible!” commented Milly.
“Dead?” enquired Clara.
“No, he survived. But he wasn’t the same afterwards. And he died a few years later having never fully recovered. The title then passed through to his son.”
“Which would be Pierce?” asked Clara.
“Well, I presume this young man Pierce you met must be his son, yes.”
“How intriguing,” said Clara.
Louisa looked alarmed at her granddaughter’s interest. “It’s not really that intriguing at all, Clara. The Armstrongs might have been a force thirty or forty years ago. Now their house in London is gone, their house Dublin is gone and most of their vast estate is gone as well from what I know. They are a family on the way down, while we are a family on the way up.”
41
Clara entered the tea rooms at Fortnum and Mason, but she wasn’t looking for the person she was having lunch with whom she had spotted immediately. She was surveying the room for Pierce Armstrong who should be having lunch there with Robert Keane. She saw them drinking tea at a table and, steadying herself, sauntered over.
“Hello, there!” She stopped at their table and smiled brightly at them.
Pierce looked at her as if he hadn’t a clue who she was. Luckily she was saved from embarrassment by the fact she was acquainted with Robert Keane.
“My dear Clara, how are you?” said Robert, standing and smiling, kissing her cheek.
“I’m very well, Robert. And good to see you.”
Robert turned to Pierce. “Pierce, this is Miss Clara Charter.”
Pierce stood up and shook her hand.
“I think we’ve already met,” said Clara, smiling at him, before prompting, “At the Charlemont ball.”
“Oh yes, nice to meet you again,” he said and sat down, leaving Robert and Clara to chat lightly.
Clara felt herself becoming annoyed that Pierce had opted out of the conversation. She couldn’t help but glance at him as she talked to Robert, only to find he had picked up a newspaper and was reading through it.
“Well, anyway, I’d better join my friend,” Clara said eventually. “It’s been nice to see you again, Robert, and eh – Lord Armstrong.”
He looked up momentarily at her from his newspaper. “Yes.”
She smiled and turned and walked across the tearoom to a man who was waiting anxiously for her to join him.
Pierce folded away the newspaper as Robert sat down opposit
e him.
“You met Clara at the Charlemont ball?” asked Robert, sitting back in his chair.
“Yes, very briefly. I thought her a rather vacuous creature, flirting around the place like a giddy goat. Who is she anyway?”
“Clara Charter . . . as in Charters’ Chocolates and Confectionery.”
“She’s an heiress?” asked Pierce, glancing over at her.
“Not directly. Just part of a wealthy family.” Robert looked over at her. “And just like one of their chocolates, she’s quite delicious, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Pierce took up a chocolate resting on the saucer of his teacup and studied it. “But the problem with chocolates is, no matter how delectable they look you never know what you’re getting – until you bite into it.”
Pierce bit into the chocolate he was holding and chewed. He then tossed the rest of the chocolate back on the saucer, making a displeased face.
Clara hardly listened to a word her male companion was saying over lunch, as she kept one eye on Pierce.
“Clara? Clara – did you hear what I asked?” demanded her companion in irritation.
Clara was jolted out of her dream-like trance. “Yes! Of course I heard you.”
“Then you will then?”
“Then I will what?” Clara looked at the man, confused.
“Come shooting with me at the weekend?”
“Oh no, I can’t possibly. I’ve already committed to too many engagements. Besides I can’t abide shoots.”
“But Clara! You said you would!” he continued to plead, and Clara drifted off again.
Seeing Pierce and Robert Keane get up to leave and then walk towards her to exit, Clara suddenly started laughing and pretended to be enjoying the company of the man with her. As the two men passed her table, Robert nodded and said goodbye. Pierce walked ahead, ignoring her.
Clare cancelled all her appointments for the rest of the day and went home where she sat in silence, thinking about this man and the effect he was having on her. She had never felt like this before. By the end of the day she knew she had met the right man for her. All she had to do was catch him.
42
Clara relentlessly pursued Pierce for the next few weeks. She started checking the guest-lists to all the parties and functions she was invited to and if Pierce wasn’t on it, she wouldn’t go. Quickly realising he was not to the forefront of London society, she discreetly organised for him to be invited to parties which she could attend and meet him at. She cultivated his friends. She vaguely knew his English cousin Gwen, daughter of the Duke of Batington, and began regularly to call on her for tea.
“I met your cousin, Pierce, at a couple of parties,” said Clara nonchalantly.
“Yes, he’s over for a while, I believe,” said Gwen, a very self-assured girl with a strong streak of arrogance. “He’s strikingly handsome, isn’t he?”
“I guess he is . . . Are you two close?”
“No, not really. I don’t think anyone is particularly close to Pierce. I’m not that friendly with his sister Prudence either.”
“Did you not visit your mother’s home in Ireland much growing up?”
“Only when my grandfather was still alive. Bless him, he was a sweetheart. But then when Uncle Charles took over, we didn’t bother any more. Charles could be . . . difficult. And the house – well, it’s cold and draughty. And it always seemed to be raining when we were there. Awful place, Ireland!”
It didn’t seem like that to Clara at all. She had nearly become an expert on Ireland since she had met Pierce, reading every single thing she could get her hands on.
Clara cleared her throat and put down her cup of tea. “I should think it would be very nice of you to invite your cousin to your garden party on Sunday.”
“Would it?” Gwen looked unconvinced. “Pierce and I have really nothing in common.”
“Hmmm, regardless . . . perhaps in the spirit of Anglo-Irish relations?”
Pierce was invited to the garden party, did attend, and ignored Clara for the day.
Clara spent her afternoon reading up on Ireland. She found herself becoming fascinated with Irish history and she wasn’t sure if it was just her fascination with Pierce Armstrong that was causing that. She spent hours going through the books in her father’s study, discovering all there was to be discovered.
“Oh hello!” said her father, coming in and being surprised to find her there, head stuck in a book.
“Sorry, I’ve been using your room to do a bit of research. Hope you don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t.” He bent down and kissed her forehead, then looked at the book she was holding. “Ireland in the Nineteenth Century,” he read out, looking at her curiously.
“Just brushing up on my knowledge for dinner parties. It’s quite important, the Irish Question, isn’t it?”
He went and sat at his desk, smiling. “I suppose it is.”
“Ireland is about to be given Home Rule, is it not? Its own parliament with limited powers? So they will remain part of the United Kingdom but will have control of their domestic affairs.”
“Well, yes, it is on the cards, yes. If the Protestants in the north allow it.”
“Well, they can’t stop it, can they? I mean if everyone else wants it, how can they stop it? It’s like if everyone in a family wants to hold a party, except for one, why should everyone else be dictated to?”
He laughed lightly. “I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that, Clara. But it’s nice you’re taking an interest in current affairs.”
“Isn’t it?” She smiled at him as she pretended to continue to read. “I think I’ll join the Suffragette movement next.”
“Clara!” said her father as he sat straight up in shock.
“I’m joking, Father!” She started to laugh. “Imagine what Grandmother would say if I did though? Imagine what being chained to a railing would do to my marriage prospects!”
“You shouldn’t wind your grandmother up, Clara. She only wants what’s best for you.”
“I know,” sighed Clara. “Everyone only wants what’s best for me.”
At the library Clara spent hours going through books about the great houses of Ireland. She needed to see a painting or a photo of Armstrong House in Ireland. She trawled through the books until she found what she was looking for. As soon as she saw the photo she knew it was the house, even before reading the caption below it confirming it. The photo was taken from a boat out on the lake, and showed a series of steps and terraces that led up the hill to the house. She studied the majestic building and it was exactly as she had imagined it. It was almost as if the house was calling to her.
Not only had Clara made sure Pierce had been invited to the Bullingdon dinner before she accepted her own invitation, but she then did some manoeuvring behind the scenes to ensure she was seated next to him. Surely this would be the turning point, she thought. He would be a captive audience all evening. Completely out of character, she arrived at the Bullingdons’ early. It was a large dinner party and she knew most of the people there and circulated amongst them, chatting amicably, one eye on the door for Pierce to arrive. By the time dinner was served and they were all seated, there was still no sign of Pierce. She unhappily viewed the empty chair beside her. It was only after the starters were finished and they were halfway through the main course than Pierce arrived. He came in discreetly and had a few words with the host and hostess before being escorted down to his seat.
“I’m sorry. I was travelling up from Surrey and was delayed,” he said to the guests around him as he sat down. He looked surprised but unimpressed to see he was seated beside Clara.
“I always find the trains so bothersome when travelling from Surrey. It is as if they are constantly programmed to run late,” said Clara, smiling broadly.
“I was driving myself, so can’t use the railways as an excuse,” said Pierce coolly.
“Can you drive? How wonderful not to be relying on a chauffeur,” Clara said, cont
inuing to smile at him.
“In Ireland, everyone drives,” Pierce said dismissively.
Clara nodded. “I do like Surrey. Were you down there long?”
“No.”
“And what took you down to Surrey?”
“Private business,” said Pierce, and he began to eat his dinner and communicate with the other guests around him.
Clara did her best to engage Pierce in conversation throughout dinner, but all she received was monosyllabic responses. Although it was obvious from the hum of conversation around the dinner table that Pierce was not one of the world’s great conversationalists, he seemed to be reserving his unfriendliness for Clara.
“And when do you return to Ireland, Lord Armstrong?” asked a major who was seated opposite them as the staff cleared away the dessert dishes and people began to move away from the table.
“I’m due to return soon,” said Pierce.
This news panicked Clara.
