The House (Armstrong House Series Book 1)

by A. O'Connor

  “You’re right. I’ve been so wrapped up in Pierce, I haven’t given a thought to my friends. It’s just when you’re here in Ireland, it sort of takes over. The war, France, seem a million miles away.”

  “It may as well be from where you are.”

  Clara chatted some more before saying her goodbyes and putting down the phone. She turned around to see Prudence standing there.

  “Just on the phone to my grandmother,” smiled Clara.

  “In London? I hope she called you – our phone bills have hit the roof since you landed in on us.”

  55

  Clara came down the stairs and went to one of the sideboards in the hall. She picked up the morning’s paper that was waiting there. She walked into the small drawing room and sat down to read about the digging of trenches by the troops for security, to block the German advance.

  Prudence walked in and saw Clara with her hand over her mouth, looking shocked as she read.

  “Did you see Fennell anywhere?”

  “No – Prudence, have you read today’s paper?”

  “No, but I read yesterday’s and the day before. I imagine it’s more of the same.”

  “But I never imagined it would be like this.”

  “What did you think it was going to be like then – a tea party?”

  “I’m desperately worried about Pierce. I haven’t heard anything from him.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “The mail mustn’t be coming through from the front.”

  “Oh it’s coming through all right. I’ve received post from Pierce.”

  “You have?” Clara was incredulous as she dropped the newspaper on the coffee table.

  “Yes, three letters.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Well, you didn’t ask. Besides, I didn’t know he wasn’t writing to you as well.”

  Clara stood up anxiously. “Well – how is he? What did he have to say? Is he all right?”

  “Quite all right . . . well, as all right as one can be when one is mired in trench warfare, I imagine.”

  “Can I read the letters?” Clara’s eyes lit with hope.

  “Certainly not! They are private letters between a sister and a brother, not for your eyes.”

  Clara, exasperated and fed up, went to march past her. “Well, thank you very much!”

  “I’ll ask him to write to you,” said Prudence after her.

  Clara stormed out and Prudence picked up the newspaper from the coffee table, frowning at the headline.

  Prudence was shown into their solicitor Rory Conway’s office in Castlewest.

  “Ah, Lady Prudence, a pleasure as always,” he greeted her. He was a man in his thirties who managed to look both boyish and bookish at the same time.

  “Isn’t it?” said Prudence as she took a seat in front of him.

  “Any news of Lord Armstrong from the front?”

  “Yes, he’s still warring away. In fact, that’s what I wanted to see you about, Conway.”

  “Really?”

  “This war seems to be bigger than they all predicted. Who knows what it may bring? I want to know what would happen in the event of my brother being killed?”

  Conway’s smile dropped. “Killed?”

  “Let’s be pragmatic, Conway, I always am. If the worst came to the worst where would that leave the estate and everything else?”

  It amused Conway that Prudence always still referred to it as an estate, even though it had been very much cut down to farm status by several government land acts.

  “Well – em,” Conway sat forward and put his fingers together, “Lord Armstrong hasn’t made a will.”

  “I know.”

  “Without a will, with the custom of primogeniture, the title and estate and money would pass to your nearest male relative among your Dublin or London cousins.”

  “My London cousins already have enough titles and my Dublin ones have enough money. If Pierce was killed, leave them to me, I can handle them, they wouldn’t dare cross me. But if my brother’s wife had a male child, everything would pass to her son?”

  “Of course. I’ve met Clara on a few occasions, and she’s a most charming woman.”

  “I’ve yet to meet a man who has thought otherwise. But what of me, Mr Conway, where would it leave me?”

  “Ah – to use that unfortunate term they use to describe the area between the German and Allied trenches – in no man’s land.”

  “As I imagined . . . Mr Conway, I would like you to draft divorce papers.”

  Conway’s face dropped. “Divorce papers! For whom exactly?”

  “For my brother and his wife.”

  Conway was taken aback. “But Lord Armstrong hasn’t given me any instructions about divorce.”

  “I am giving you instructions now.”

  “But why hasn’t he written to me directly?”

  “Perhaps the letter didn’t make it through from the front?” said Prudence, fixing him with a steely look.

  Conway dropped his gaze. He was not about to challenge Prudence Armstrong. “And . . . and is Lady Armstrong aware of her impending divorce?” he asked.

  “Not as yet, and of course we must keep it like that for now. I can rely on your absolute discretion, I’m sure. I don’t know why my brother married Clara – it’s plain to see it wasn’t out of love. But I think the sooner we get rid of her the better. The next thing that will happen is they’ll get this Dublin parliament and the first thing your lot will do is outlaw divorce, and then we’ll never get rid of her.”

  Conway shook his head in a bewildered fashion.

  “You just leave everything to me, Conway, and I’ll sort it out. Once we have Clara out of the way, I think it is important for Pierce draw up a will and name me as his beneficiary of the estate, as Mama and Papa would have intended.”

  He sat back. “I’ll await your instructions.”

  Prudence stood up and nodded. “Thank you and good day, Mr Conway.” She turned to walk out. She liked Conway. He always showed deference to the Armstrongs, aware of the privilege of having aristocracy as his clients, she mused.

  56

  Clara anxiously awaited the post every morning, sifting through it in a frenzy to see if there was a letter from Pierce for her. There never was. But there was a regular letter to Prudence. Clara would stand in the hall holding the letter and staring at his handwriting.

  “Is that for me?” Prudence would say, seizing her letter and fanning herself with it. “I’ll read it later.”

  She would replace the letter on the ornate side table, resting against the mirror. Often she would leave it there a couple of days, taunting Clara. Taking Pierce’s letters for granted.

  Clara took her grandmother’s advice and wrote to the families of all the service men at the front who were her friends, requesting contact details. They all answered promptly and she then wrote to all the men. She kept the letters light, jovial, good-humoured – asking how they were getting on, sending her regards, telling them she was thinking of them and hoping they would keep themselves safe. She hardly expected to hear back from any of them. They had a war to fight, and she Clara Charter was just a distant memory of a girl who used to flirt with them at parties. If Pierce could not find the time to write to her, then these men obviously wouldn’t. So she was astounded when she started getting responses from them.

  It started as a trickle when she received a couple of letters back. She took the letters from the side table and sauntered into the parlour. She preferred it to the grander room across the hall. It was cosy, more private. As the autumn of 1914 led into winter, the fire would be blazing there, filling the room with a sweet scent of wood and turf burning.

  She sat on the couch, carefully opened the letter and saw it was from Rupert Davenport.

  “Rupert!” She smiled delightedly as the good memories came flooding back.

  ‘Clara, I was so happy to hear from you. I thought when you married that
chap and went off to live the life of a country lady in Ireland that it would be the last I’d ever hear from you. It meant a lot to get your letter. It’s bleak here and reading your letter brought me back to happier times. Remember playing poker over at the Evertons’? You trashed us all! I teased you that you had missed your way, and should have been a professional card player . . .’

  She nestled back to read the two letters.

  The next day there were more replies from her letters, and the day after that even more. She immediately started writing back to them all. It made her feel as if she was doing something for the war effort. If she could make them feel the slightest bit happier, that was something, wasn’t it? It also made her feel closer to Pierce. It was having regular contact with the front, and that was the nearest thing to having regular contact with Pierce.

  Prudence was in her bedroom. She took an old envelope from Pierce, put in a blank sheet of paper and resealed it, smudging the post-date so it was illegible. She then went down to the hall and, seeing the post that Fennell had left on the sideboard, she quickly slipped the envelope in with the others. She had been doing this for a while, making out that Pierce was writing to her much more than he actually was.

  Prudence walked into the hall a few moments after she heard Clara coming down the stairs.

  “My, my! We are popular, aren’t we?” said Prudence, looking at the stack of letters Clara was sifting through. “Anything from Pierce though?”

  Clara shook her head.

  “Anything for me?”

  “Yes, here.” Clara handed over the envelope Prudence had earlier placed there.

  “I did tell him to write to you. Practically insisted he did,” said Prudence, sighing and taking the envelope. “It’s worrying why he isn’t writing to you, isn’t it?” She smiled. “But, I wouldn’t dwell on it.”

  Clara came into the library a few days later where Prudence sat at the table going through the accounts.

  “Yes?” asked Prudence, looking up from her paperwork.

  “I’ve received an invitation to a party at the Bramwells’.” Clara was surprised. Nobody seemed to be having parties since the war started.

  “Oh, how lovely for you. Major Bramwell must be back on leave from the front.”

  “Yes. Did you receive an invitation?”

  “No. They probably realised I wouldn’t be interested in going. But don’t mind me, you should go.”

  “Oh no, I don’t think so.” Clara shook her head and put the invitation down on the desk. “I don’t really know them, and I wouldn’t feel right going without Pierce.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t let that stop you. Let’s face it, I wouldn’t say he would mind one way or the other if you went.”

  Clara accepted this was the truth as she studied the invitation. “You don’t think it would be inappropriate?”

  “Of course not. The Bramwells are old friends of ours, and you should go and represent us.”

  “It would be nice to get out for an evening.”

  “Then off you go. They don’t live too close, mind you. About forty miles away. But you’re a dab hand with the car now, and Fennell can give you instructions so you don’t get lost.”

  Clara dressed in one of her most exquisite dresses and put on her diamonds and styled her pale blonde hair. It was good to be going to a party. She was looking forward to it.

  She walked down the stairs and into the drawing room where Prudence was sitting.

  “You look very glamorous, Clara,” Prudence complimented her.

  “Not too much?” Clara patted her hair self-consciously.

  “No, of course not. What time are you to be there?”

  “The invitation said ten.”

  “A little bit late, isn’t it? The Bramwells were always ‘early to bed, early to rise’ types. Nell Bramwell was renowned for it.”

  “Maybe the war has changed them. Anyway – goodnight.”

  “Enjoy!”

  Clara had received detailed instructions from Fennell and as she drove along the country roads towards the Bramwells’, she felt invigorated. She felt independent, driving herself to a party. Fennell’s instructions were perfect, she thought as she turned in to the entrance of Bramwells’ and up the drive. As she parked in front of the house there didn’t seem to be much evidence of a party. There were no cars there, and the house looked in relative darkness. She checked her watch and saw it was a little after ten. She imagined the party might be at the back of the house. The government was warning everyone about wastage, so maybe that was why there were no lights on. Her shoes crunched across the gravel driveway as she walked to the front door and pulled the giant doorbell that let out an enormous chime that she could hear echo around the house. There was no reply and so she pulled the bell again. A minute later she could hear several large locks being undone on the other side of the door.

  The door eventually opened and an elderly butler in his nightgown stood there, looking Clara up and down in horror as she pulled her furs close around her neck.

  “Ma’am?” asked the butler eventually.

  “I’m here for the party,” Clara said, realising all was not right from the deathly silence in the house.

  “Who’s that, John?” demanded a woman’s voice and Clara looked over his shoulder to see Nell Bramwell coming down the stairs, also dressed in a nightgown.

  “It’s a woman, Mrs Bramwell, enquiring about a party.”

  “A party?” asked an amazed Nell, squinting to see who it was. “Is that you, Lady Armstrong?”

  “Yes. I’m here for the party.”

  Mrs Bramwell stared at her. “But dear . . . there is no party. Major Bramwell is at the front, leaving me in no mood for parties, I can assure you.”

  “But I received your invitation . . .” Clara’s voice trailed off as realisation dawned.

  “Oh dear! You must be mistaken. I sent no invitation.”

  “But I assure you I got one.”

  “In that case, my dear, I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a practical joke.” Nell looked Clara, dressed in fur and diamonds and a silk dress, up and down.

  Clara was mortified. “I see – apologies, Mrs Bramwell.”

  “Well, won’t you come in for tea? You poor thing, you’ve come miles.”

  “No, I’ve disturbed you enough. I’m sorry.” Clara turned and rushed down the steps and over to the car, trying to escape the excruciating embarrassment and Nell Bramwell’s sympathy.

  Clara drove home at top speed over the bumpy roads, trying to keep the tears of embarrassment from flowing. She arrived home well after midnight. She parked outside the house, hurried up the front steps, opened the door with her key, and trudged exhausted upstairs to bed.

  “Nell Bramwell rang here this morning,” said Prudence the next day. “Wanting to check you got home all right.”

  Clara was sitting in the library, writing letters to her friends at the front.

  “I got home very well,” said Clara, hardly looking up from her writing.

  “She said you were the victim of an appalling practical joke.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “It’ll be the locals. They’ll do anything to try and wind us up. Very cruel, really. And Nell Bramwell has such a big mouth, the story will have gone far and wide by the end of the day. She went into avid detail of how you stood there at her door in your diamonds and furs, all dressed up and nowhere to go. It’s so bad! People love to laugh at other people’s stupidity, don’t they?”

  Clara didn’t look up but concentrated on her writing.

  57

  The constant muffled pounding vibrated through the air as Pierce made his way into the local headquarters. There was a freezing cold rain and he shook the water out of his hair as he entered the small chateau that was being used by the army as offices. He removed his raincoat, entering the officers’ den where his superiors were gathered around a table with maps.

  “Armstrong, we want you to look at
these maps to verify positions on the ground,” said Major Dorkley.

  “Yes, sir.” Pierce approached the board and began to answer their questions. He spent an hour there going over the maps.

  “Right, that’s about it for tonight,” Dorkley said. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning.”

  The officers started to leave the room.

  “Armstrong, hold back a minute, will you?” said Dorkley.

  Pierce waited and closed the door when the others had left.

  Dorkley went and sat behind his large desk, indicating that Pierce should sit down opposite. He opened a cigar box and took one for himself before offering Pierce one. Dorkley then lit both their cigars.