The House (Armstrong House Series Book 1)

by A. O'Connor

  “That’s enough, Prudence!” snapped Clara.

  “Damn you!” shouted Prudence. “I never liked you, I don’t mind telling you. I sent him to London to snare a fortune, and he came back with you. Useless, beyond compare. And now you want to exile me to Hunter’s Farm!”

  “It will do you good.” Pierce lit up his cigarette. “You need to realise you are not the mistress of this house, and you need to start a new life outside that role. Perhaps you should consider Gregory Hamilton’s wedding proposal. It’s been hovering for long enough.”

  “That old fool! Damned if I will!”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “When am I to go?” Prudence looked down at the floor.

  “Before I leave for the front again,” said Pierce.

  “So soon?” Prudence smiled though her eyes were welling with tears. She stood up and began to walk to the door. She turned and said, “I’ve never asked for anything in my life –”

  “Then please don’t start now,” Pierce cut in.

  Prudence closed the door after her and Clara ran to Pierce and put her arms around him.

  “I knew you would back me. I just knew it,” she kissed him.

  “Isn’t it a husband’s place to back his wife?”

  “Of course, but, I knew you would anyway. Because you love me.”

  He looked at her curiously.

  Prudence came into the library where Pierce sat at the desk. She had her coat and gloves on.

  “Well, I’m off to my exile. I’ve packed my bags. Fennell has kindly agreed to drive me down. Just to make sure I’m gone, I suppose.”

  “Very well.” Pierce sat back and looked at her. “You’ll still run the farm and draw a salary. I’ve set it up with Conway. You’ll have all the use of the estate and food from the kitchen.”

  “You’re making a terrible mistake, Pierce. Leaving her in charge.”

  “If it is a terrible mistake, it’s my terrible mistake. I think you’ve controlled here for long enough.”

  “I always loved you. I did everything for you,” she said.

  “I wonder.”

  “Right, I’ll be gone. Look after yourself over there . . . war breaks most people, but with some it makes them. It’s made you, Pierce, altered you and it’s bringing you somewhere you would never have gone otherwise. Time will see if that’s a good thing.”

  Clara was sitting in the parlour when Prudence walked in and looked at her coldly.

  “I’m off,” said Prudence.

  “I believe Fennell is helping you move?”

  “I think Fennell has done quite enough, don’t you? Don’t think you’ve got rid of me, Clara. I’m still running the estate and I’ll be just down the road. Keeping a close eye on you for when you fail and I will personally throw you out of this house.”

  Prudence turned and marched away.

  That night Clara was in bed and she stirred and reached out for Pierce but the bed was empty. She sat up and saw him standing staring into the fire burning in the hearth.

  “Darling, come back to bed,” she said.

  He turned and looked at her. “Tell me – what makes you so sure I love you?”

  She smiled at him. “Because you married me.”

  “People can marry for many reasons, love not always being one of them.”

  “But it was in this case.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Well, what other reason was there?” She pulled her knees up and hugged them as she smiled at him. “I heard you speak to Prudence when I arrived here one day. She was asking how much money I was worth and you told her nothing. I know you went to London to marry a wealthy woman to secure all your futures. And I’m sure you could have married a wealthy woman. But you didn’t . . . you married me.”

  “Maybe I just fancied you. Couldn’t quench my lust for you.”

  She smiled at him. “I heard you tell Prudence you had your reasons for marrying me. What other reason could you possibly have but you loved me?”

  “I see!” Pierce nodded to himself as if everything had fallen into place. He walked slowly to the bed and sat on the edge of it and took her hand.

  “You see, Clara, I could let you continue to believe that, but it really wouldn’t be fair. I married you really because everyone else wanted to marry you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were this Clara Charter that everyone was talking about. You brushed everyone off and yet here you were . . . falling at my feet. Ready to do anything I wanted. I just had to marry you, to get on everyone else’s nerves.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Pierce.”

  “I’m not.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And then when everyone said you were to be married to Cosmo Wellesley, well, that was the icing on the cake. Cosmo who I despised from school. Cosmo who took everything I loved in school away from me. My position, my friends, my place. And here was I in a position to take what he loved away. Without even a fight.” He lifted up her hand and kissed it.

  She pulled back her hand.

  He went over to his dressing room and emerged a minute later holding a bundle of letters and threw them on the bed at her.

  She picked them up and saw her own handwriting on the envelopes and, as she looked through them, she saw they were all her letters to Pierce at the front. They were all unopened, and she realised he hadn’t even bothered to open and read them.

  “Do you need any more evidence?” he asked.

  Clara drove Pierce to the station in silence, staring ahead. She pulled up in front of the station and he got out and took his bag from the back.

  A group of soldiers marched to the train singing, ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag . . .’

  She made no move to leave the car.

  “Aren’t you going to come on to the platform to prolong the goodbye?” he asked.

  “No.” She turned to look at him. “I’ll say goodbye here.”

  “Cheerio then,” he said.

  “Will you be back for Christmas?”

  He looked at her condescendingly. “It’s not boarding school, Clara.”

  He turned and walked to the train.

  When Clara got back to the house she sat staring at her unopened letters to Pierce for ages. Then she took them and went down to the guest bedroom and took up the floorboard that she had put her other letters under. She threw her letters to Pierce down with the rest of them and fixed the floorboard, covering it with a rug. She had thought about burning them, but decided she needed them in case she ever needed reminding of her feelings about Pierce.

  72

  The snowfall was coming to an end, leaving a thick coat across the entire countryside. Clara was stretched out on the couch in the parlour, a thick blanket over her, the fire roaring in the fireplace. She lay gazing out the window at the snow falling onto the white countryside and the lake. She reached forward for her sherry glass and finished the drink.

  The doorbell rang and a minute later Fennell came in.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, Johnny Seymour is here,” he said, looking a little concerned.

  “Johnny Seymour!” She was shocked.

  “Hello there!” said Johnny, walking into the room past Fennell. “Thank you, Fennell. We’ll let you know when we want tea.” He ushered the manservant out of the room and closed the door.

  She sat up quickly. “Johnny! How did you get here? I didn’t hear any car.”

  “I’m afraid I have another driving ban. This very nice fellow gave me a ride. He had converted his carriage into a sleigh. Very innovative. Hmmm, sherry, just what I need on a day like today.” He went over to the decanter on the round table beside her and poured himself a large glass.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’ve come to do work on that damned portrait I’m commissioned for. I’ve left lots of messages for you and you haven’t got back once.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”r />
  He stood studying her. “I can see that. You look awful!”

  “Thanks! You know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”

  “Well, I’m just saying. We don’t want to capture you for posterity looking like shit, do we?”

  “It’s all about that bloody painting with you, isn’t it?” She was annoyed.

  He sat down on the armchair opposite her and crossed his legs, looking at her as she lay there, half covered by the blanket. “Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  He looked concerned. “Not bad news from the front?”

  “No,” she sighed. “No news from the front at all! As per usual.”

  “Good then! We can get to work this afternoon.”

  “No, I don’t want to, Johnny. I don’t want to continue with the portrait. You’ll get your commission of course.”

  “Not continue with the portrait! Out of the question.”

  “And I don’t want to argue about it. I’ve too much on my mind.”

  “Has Prudence been a bitch to you?”

  “No . . . We sent her to live at Hunter’s Farm for bad behaviour.”

  Johnny roared with the laughter. “Best place for her.”

  “So we can’t continue with the portrait as we’d be unchaperoned in the house.”

  “We won’t be unchaperoned. You’ve a household of servants here.”

  “Half a household. The other half is off getting killed in France.” She leaned forward and filled her glass with sherry from the decanter.

  “Looks like you’ve been drinking a lot of that.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Sherry – ‘Mother’s Ruin’, as we used to say.”

  “Whatever would London society say? Clara Charter, of the Charter Chocolate family, belle of the ball 1910, 1911, 1912 and 1913!”

  She viewed him suspiciously. “You forgot 1909, I was a debutante for five years in total. Longest ever, or so I’ve been told. You’ve been doing your homework on me.”

  “Just made a few enquiries, that’s all.”

  She sighed and gulped down her drink. “Charter Chocolates! Anyway, liqueurs were always my favourite chocolate. And London society has a lot more to concern itself about now than my marital status. I’m just a distant memory there.” She gazed into her drink “The only person concerned about my marital status now is – me!”

  He leaned forward with a smile on his face. “Trouble in paradise?”

  She put down her glass and sighed. “I’ll get Mrs Fennell to fix you something to eat, and Fennell can drop you back to your house or the station if you want to head back to Dublin.”

  “Pah! Dublin! It’ll take a long time to rebuild. You know, I couldn’t find one city-centre venue still standing for my exhibition after the Easter Rising.”

  “Is that all you care about?” She was suddenly crying.

  He got up quickly and sat beside her. “What’s wrong?” he said, taking her hand. “Tell me!”

  “I can’t tell you, I can’t tell anybody!” She pulled back her hand, threw off the blanket, got up quickly and went to stand beside the fireplace.

  “I’m a good listener, and it looks like you can’t confide in anyone else.”

  “I don’t even know you, not really.”

  “Yes, you do. We’re old friends, well, in my dictionary definition we are.”

  She started pacing quickly up and down. “I think I’ve made the most terrible mistake with my life . . . I now realise I should never have married Pierce . . . I loved him so much I didn’t care how he felt about me. Or I deceived myself he loved me. That he just wasn’t very demonstrative. But now I know he has no feelings for me. None at all. I’m not even a nuisance to him. He just doesn’t care.” She stopped pacing and put her hands to her face. “And now I’m trapped.” Her voice cracked. “Utterly trapped. I can’t leave the marriage or this house. I’d be ruined. Utterly ruined and it would destroy my family. I have to put up with it. And then this terrible war and so many of my friends being killed. I can hardly believe it. All the people we used to party with and have friendships with suddenly disappearing, not even a funeral to give them. I remember an acquaintance of my father was once killed by an automobile. We were all shocked by it, talked about it for months. And now friends are being picked off like that children’s song ‘Ten Green Bottles’. What has happened to the world? To me?”

  She started to cry. He got up quickly and came to her and put his arms around her, holding her tightly. He swayed her slightly as he soothed her. “It’s all right. Let it go. Have a good cry, you need one.”

  She dissolved into his embrace and started to heave with sobs, the comfort of a caring person letting her emotions flood out.

  Eventually her sobs dissipated as she rested her head against him. She gently pulled back.

  He smiled at her, took out his handkerchief and wiped her face. “Don’t worry – it’s a clean one,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I hope the servants haven’t heard me.”

  He laughed. “Who cares if they have?”

  “I do!” She pulled away from him. “I apologise. I’ve just been a bit emotional, as you can imagine.”

  “Indeed I can. Where did you spend Christmas?”

  “Here on my own. Pierce, of course, didn’t get back. And I was too miserable to travel to London. I didn’t even have Prudence – she went off to cousins in Dublin.”

  “So you stayed here feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “There certainly wasn’t much to celebrate.” She sat down.

  “Well, there might be now.” He smiled and sat beside her. “I showed your work to several art critics in Dublin.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I nabbed some of your paintings from the library and showed them to a few people. They were very impressed, as I was. So much so, we decided to include you in my exhibition.”

  She glared at him. “Johnny, you had no right to show those to anybody. Or take them! It’s stealing!”

  “Borrowing, I would prefer to say.”

  “Well, you can tell your gallery I won’t be included in your damned exhibition or anything else.”

  “Clara.” He grabbed her hand. “Do you know what this means? There’s so many artists would kill for this opportunity. And you’re being handed it.”

  “Well, give it to them then!” She stood up and began to pace again. “Exhibition indeed! That’s my private work for my own enjoyment, not to be gawped at by strangers.”

  He sat back, looking bored. “You’re fooling nobody with this act incidentally. Pretending you don’t want it.”

  “Of course I don’t want it! Even if I did, I couldn’t. Lady Armstrong in an art exhibition while her husband fights the Germans! I’d be the talk of the place.”

  She turned around, went to the window and looked out at the snow.

  He got up and stood behind her very close.

  “This same husband who doesn’t love you?”

  “That’s irrelevant. I still have my position and reputation to consider.”

  “It would mean you being up in Dublin a whole week.”

  “Unthinkable.”

  “You’d get to go to the theatre every night.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “And eat out in fancy restaurants, well, the ones that weren’t blown up in the Rising.”

  “In times of war! Such bad taste.”

  “And of course meet all the literati.”

  “I’m overseeing a series of sale works for the war effort in the town hall, I couldn’t spare the time.”

  “It’s only a week . . . Oh and the exhibition will probably be attended by people like WB Yeats.”

  There was a silence.

  “When did you say the exhibition was due?”

  Johnny was such a force that he took over, and marched Clara back to posing for the portrait. She sat there while he painted her, trying not to laugh when he made jokes, trying not to cry when she thought of Pierce. He
was continually going back up to Dublin to organise the exhibition and she began to dread those absences when he was away, as she slipped back into her unhappy life.

  “Everything’s ready,” beamed Johnny in the early summer. “Are you?”

  And then she found herself on a train, going with him to Dublin.

  “I’ll never understand how you talked me into this,” she said, looking at him accusingly.

  He smirked at her. “With surprising ease.”

  73