by A. O'Connor
“Very good, my lady.”
Clara was visibly upset. “Then you may go.”
Clara marched into the library where Prudence was at work at the desk.
“Prudence, I’m very angry with Fennell. Phone messages and invitations have been coming here and I’ve not been given them.”
“What a shame.”
“Well, it’s more than a shame. It’s scandalous that the servants have been falling down with their duties.”
“Scandalous? Dear Clara – the war in the Flanders is scandalous. The Rape of Belgium is scandalous. Food shortages are scandalous. Indeed, the cost of living and the price of a loaf of bread are scandalous. But a few messages not being passed on hardly constitutes scandal. Pierce said you had a predisposition for exaggerating.”
Clara felt shocked to hear of Pierce using this description of her. Shocked to hear he had used any description of her. She was angered. “Regardless of my choice of adjectives, Prudence, I expect the servants to do their job, war or no war.”
Prudence sat back in her chair, a smug smile on her face. “Oh what a spoilt little thing you are! In case you hadn’t realised we are considerably down on servants as half of them have gone off to war. This has meant the workload of each servant has increased considerably. And I’m sure nobody has time to play at being your social secretary.”
“I understand that – but –”
“Good, then we’ll say no more about it.” Prudence took up her fountain pen and began to concentrate on the work in front of her again.
Clara was opening her letters in the parlour. She tore open one letter and saw the Chelsea address. As she read the letter she saw it was from the father of her friend Daniel Miller. He was writing to her to inform her that Daniel had been killed in action. He thanked her for the friendship she had shown Daniel over the years and wished her the best. She stared at the letter in disbelief as she remembered having lunch with him at his club at Christmas. She crumpled the letter in a ball and held it tightly, thinking of such a young life full of vitality wiped out in a second. As time wore on she became very agitated every day as she waited for the post. If she hadn’t heard from a soldier for a while she became anxious that something had happened to him. Then when she finally received a letter and there was a logical reason that there was delay in the post or he’d had his position moved she felt such relief. But with others she would receive a letter from his relative or a friend or her own family telling her the unfortunate man had been killed. It was as if reality was suspended as the roll call of her friends being killed kept coming.
62
Dear Clara,
I do hope you’re feeling better since Christmas, and you’re settling in back at the house. I still have to give you a wedding present and I’ve decided what it is. You talked about all the portraits hanging in the house of Pierce’s family. And I think it would be fitting for your portrait as the new Lady Armstrong to be hanging amongst them, pride of place. This should make you realise you have as much right to be there as any of them before you.
I’ve made enquiries and I’ve commissioned an up-and-coming local artist called Johnny Seymour who lives locally to you to do your portrait. I have it on excellent authority that he is magnificent. Your beauty deserves to be captured for eternity in art, and at the same time it will give you something to do until this dreadful war is over. I’ll be in contact with the details shortly.
Your loving grandmother,
Louisa
“Johnny Seymour!” Clara gasped loudly.
It was very appropriate of her grandmother to be arranging Clara’s position on a wall among the other Lady Armstrongs that came before her. Louisa knew Clara’s love of painting and that this would mean a great deal to her. Louisa was obviously trying to cheer her up. But to employ Johnny Seymour of all artists! She thought about the man and was nervous about him painting her and nervous to be in his company for any length of time. Yet the thought elated her as well. She had always wanted her portrait to be done, and Johnny seemed fascinating company.
“We may be having somebody spending some time at the house here,” Clara informed Prudence.
“May? Please be definite.”
“My grandmother has arranged for an artist to paint my portrait as a wedding present.”
Prudence stared at Clara with a disbelieving smirk. “A portrait! There’s many a thing this house needs, but one thing it doesn’t need is a painting of you!”
“Well, my grandmother begs to differ.”
“Your grandmother doesn’t have to live with the faulty heating system. Why not get her to give you a plumber for a wedding present rather than an artist? Far more practical.”
Clara smiled dreamily at Prudence. “Ah but, you see, it’s not ‘our’ wedding present, it’s mine. And I was never practical, not in the least.”
“The mind boggles, it really does!” Prudence shook her head, bewildered.
“The artist is . . .” Clara coughed lightly. “Johnny Seymour.”
“Johnny Seymour!” Prudence’s screech could be heard all the way down to the kitchen.
Fennell entered the drawing room.
“Em, Mr Johnny Seymour here to see you, my lady.”
“Oh!” Clara got a start. “Give me a minute, then show him in.”
Clara ran to the mirror over the fireplace and had just enough time to fix her hair and check her appearance before Johnny walked in.
“Hello there!” he said, smiling broadly.
“Mr Seymour,” she nodded and stretched out her hand for him to shake.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” said Johnny. “Unexpected money coming my way is always a pleasant surprise, so I was delighted to get the commission from your grandmother. I spoke to her on the phone – most charming woman.”
Clara wondered how much he was getting paid.
“I hear you’re very good,” she smiled.
“At many things! Pierce is at the front, I heard?”
“Yes, it’s just me and my sister-in-law here, and the servants of course – those who haven’t enlisted.”
“Of course!” There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. He went over and studied some portraits on the wall. “And it is here you are to hang, metaphorically speaking of course.” He went from portrait to portrait.
“Yes,” she smiled at him.
Prudence came into the drawing room.
“Afternoon, Johnny.” She looked him up and down. “Johnny, how old are you?”
“Old enough to know better, and young enough not to care.”
“But you’re a young man.”
Johnny made a sweeping bow. “So good of you to say.”
“But why aren’t you at the front?”
“The front of what?”
“The war front!”
“Oh, that front! Because I don’t want to be there, Prudence.”
“It’s Lady Prudence.”
“If you say so, then who am I to contradict?”
“Have you been to the front?”
“No.”
“And you have no intention of going to the front?”
Johnny looked at Clara. “She learns quickly, doesn’t she? I have no intention of being at the front, back or side of any war, dear lady.”
“Well, I think it’s scandalous, I really do. A man in his prime –”
“You’re too kind.”
“Ignoring his patriotic duty to – to paint pictures!”
“Guilty as charged, Patience.”
“It’s Prudence!”
“I’m so glad you insist on ridding me of the formalities of calling you ‘Lady’.”
Prudence gave them both a withering look and marched out.
Clara was trying not to laugh. “You shouldn’t have provoked her. She’ll make your life difficult.”
“Oh, what could she ever do to me?” he said, smirking at her.
Clara showed Johnny around the house to see what room he wanted to use to pain
t her in. He walked around the giant ballroom with the row of French windows that looked out on the gardens to the side of the house.
“This room is never really used any more. I believe there used to be great parties here. I had hoped when I married Pierce we could hold parties here again. But finances dictate otherwise, and of course the war came.” She looked sad.
“Well, I think this room would suit us just fine,” he declared.
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s a beautiful room, excellent light from the windows, and if it’s not used then we won’t be disturbed.”
He went to the side of the room where there were gilded chairs lined up, and selecting one he brought it over to the centre of the room.
“Come here, sit down,” he ordered.
Clara came over and did as he asked.
He stood back and looked at her and then, approaching her, he took her chin in his hand and started tilting her head at different angles.
“You’ve never sat for a portrait before?” he asked.
“No.”
He studied her posture. “It shows.”
His words made her self-conscious.
He studied her face before letting it go and walking around the room.
“I’ll be coming and going somewhat. I’m trying to organise an art exhibition of up-and-coming artists in Dublin so I’ll be returning to Dublin on business a bit.”
“I understand,” said Clara, thinking how exciting the exhibition would be and how she would love to hear all about it.
He stood and looked at her. “We’ll start work tomorrow. So, come on. Let’s get into that car of yours and go for a ride.”
“I’m afraid I can’t! I have to –” She stopped as she realised she couldn’t think of one thing she had to do.
Clara sped through the country roads around the lake.
“You drive nearly as badly as me!” he shouted.
“Do I? The chauffeur is fighting at the front unfortunately.”
“Unfortunate for him anyway.” Johnny lit up a cigarette and sat back. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? The scenery looks amazing. I can see why Jack Butler Yeats insists on painting it all the time.”
Clara glanced at him. “Have you met him?”
“Of course. His brother William as well.”
“I love both their work. They both grew up near here, I understand?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you know them all, in Dublin. The literati?”
He dragged on his cigarette and smiled at her. “Those worth knowing I do . . . I fancy a drink. Cassidy’s?”
“I shouldn’t!” She shook her head.
Clara parked the car in Castlewest and the two of them walked into Cassidy’s bar.
“Good evening, Lady Armstrong, and Mr Johnny,” welcomed the publican warmly.
“Hello, Mr Cassidy.” Clara walked through the pub to the large open fire and sat at a table beside it.
“The usual?” asked Cassidy.
“Times two!” she replied.
Johnny was bemused as he sat down opposite her.
“I take it you’re a regular here?” he asked.
“I often sneak in for a quick one,” she said, looking naughty.
“Whatever would Prudence say?”
“Oh, I think she knows and I don’t think she’s too impressed.” Clara paused as Cassidy placed two glasses of Guinness in front of them, then continued, “I get on with all the townspeople. They are very warm. I chat away to them all the time.”
“Another thing that doesn’t impress Prudence, I imagine?”
“No, she likes to set herself apart.”
“And what of Lord Armstrong? Does he disapprove of his wife mixing with the locals.”
Clara looked into the rich creamy top on top of the glass of stout. “He hasn’t said if it bothers him, so I guess it doesn’t.”
He observed her looking lost for a few seconds and then suddenly she was smiling at him.
“Please tell me all about your world in Dublin. I want to hear all about the writers, the poets, the artists. Everything!”
Three hours later Johnny was standing by the fire in the bar with all the customers gathered around him as he finished a song.
‘You’re pretty and charming and that’s all I know . . .
I’ve a wife and six children back in old Ballyroe!”
The customers erupted in laughter and clapping as Johnny winked at Clara.
63
“Good morning, Pittance!” said Johnny cheerily, as he passed Prudence in the hall the next morning.
“Prudence!” she snapped back.
“Yes, very wise to be so in war time,” said Johnny with a smirk.
In irritation Prudence stormed off.
Johnny started laughing.
“You shouldn’t tease her,” admonished Clara, coming down the stairs to greet him.
“Why? She needs teasing. I’d say she’s got away with everything all her life.”
“You’re being unfair. Prudence and my husband have known a lot of hardship in their lives, as children. If they are both the way they are, there are reasons for it.”
“Both?” asked Johnny curiously.
Clara looked away, realising she had said too much and revealed something about Pierce she wished she hadn’t.
“Is that the attire you have chosen for the portrait?” Johnny asked, looking her up, and down, clearly unimpressed by her plain dark-grey skirt and white blouse.
“Oh, no, no – I’ll go up and change now – I was waiting for you to arrive first.”
Johnny proceeded to the ballroom while Clara returned to her room to dress for the portrait.
She had spent much time deliberating what to wear and she had finally decided on a glamorous bejewelled gown with a train. Her predecessors in their portraits were dressed luxuriantly and she wanted to fit into the same mould. She put on the dress and was relieved to find it fit – her new diet was certainly having its effect. She walked down the stairs and into the ballroom where she found Johnny setting up a giant easel. He took one look at her and his mouth dropped open.
“Is this all right?” she asked, knowing she looked wonderful.
“No! You look terrible!”
“What?” she said disbelievingly as she looked down at her gown.
“Too much, Clara, it’s just too much!”
Her eyes widened in surprise. He marched towards her, grabbed her hand and led her quickly out into the hall and up the stairs.
At the top of the landing he said, “Which room is yours?”
“The one at the end.” She nodded down a corridor and he marched her down towards it and swung open the door and led her into her bedroom.
“Maybe I should call a maid,” suggested Clara quickly, uncomfortable about being alone in the bedroom with him.
“No need. I can dress you myself.” He stopped and smirked at her. “Don’t worry, I won’t ravish you. Where are your dresses kept?” He opened a door and seeing it was the bathroom closed it again. Opening another door he saw it was a dressing room and marched in and started riffling through her dresses.
“What are you doing?” snapped Clara as she walked into the room.
“Looking for something that makes you look human, less like a mannequin.”
He started taking the dresses and flinging them to the floor as he dismissed them.
“No – no – no – awful!” he declared as he threw dress after dress to the floor.
She watched him, getting agitated.
“You’re creating a lot of work for my maid to hang up all the dresses after you,” she said loudly.
“Here’s a thought, why don’t you hang them up. It will give you something to do!”
She continued to watch him and then her temper snapped and she marched up to him and shouted, “Will you stop, please! They might be just props for a portrait to you, but they are my clothes, expensive clothes –”
“Goes
without saying!”
“And you’re mishandling them.”
He suddenly stared at her and shouted, “Yes! There! That’s the look I want! The defiance in your eyes. The face flushed with life. I don’t want you sitting there like a porcelain doll in a perfect dress. I want you sitting there alive!”
She was breathing heavily as she stared at him.
He picked out a simple silver-grey silk dress and handed it to her. “Here, this will do. Put it on and come back down and we can start work. And don’t be long primping and preening! Five minutes!” He leaned forward and whispered, “And don’t lose that look on your face.”
He walked out, leaving her clutching the dress.
