by A. O'Connor
“Charles?” she queried as he smilingly opened the doors into the dining room. Again, the inside had been transformed into an arena of opulence with thick pile carpet, a new Grecian marble fireplace and a gigantic oak table with ornate curved-back embroidered chairs.
“Well?” asked Charles proudly.
“But who organised all this?” she asked, concerned.
“I did, of course!”
“But do your parents know?”
“No.”
“But it’s their house, Charles!”
“And it’s going to be mine one day, so why not invest in it now when we have to live in it now?” he said as he led her out of the dining room and up the stairs to the first floor, which was mostly taken up with an L-shaped drawing room. Arabella walked in and marvelled at the polished walnut floor, the gold mirrors, the extravagant drapes at the two French windows that opened up onto the balcony at the front of the house, offering stunning views across Regent’s Park.
“It’s all from Paris,” declared Charles proudly. “I met with the interior designers before we left for the Continent and told them what I wanted.”
“But how much did all this cost?” asked Arabella, still in shock.
“Who cares? It’s only money and we can afford it.”
“Thanks to my dowry!” she said, crossing over to the French windows and inspecting the drapes.
“Don’t be so suburban Dublin, Arabella!” he chided. “We’re going to be part of London high society now and need a home to impress.”
“But I thought your parents said our move to London was to be temporary until all the fuss dies down and we return to Armstrong House?”
“Pah!” he said dismissively. “There will be plenty of time for me to return to Armstrong House when I’m Lord Armstrong. Until then I plan to live a little. And now we have the means to do so.”
“Well, I don’t know what your parents are going to say about it all,” said Arabella.
He smirked at her. “I shouldn’t worry too much what they think. I can guess already what they think of us both at this stage.”
“Don’t, Charles!” snapped Arabella, going red with embarrassment as she always did when she thought of Margaret.
Charles went over and tugged the bell pull and a minute later a young dark-haired woman entered in a nanny’s uniform.
“Arabella, this is Mademoiselle Isabelle.”
“Bonjour, madame, so pleased to meet you,” Isabelle said, doing a little curtsy.
Arabella nodded at her, confused.
“I think Prudence needs a sleep after all the travel, Mademoiselle. Take her to the nursery,” instructed Charles.
“Oui, monsieur,” said Isabelle as she went over to Arabella and reached out to take Prudence from her.
“I’m sorry, but who exactly are you?” asked Arabella as she refused to hand her child over.
Isabelle looked at Charles, concerned. “But I am the new baby’s nanny, naturellement!”
“The new baby’s nanny! But I never employed you!” said Arabella.
“Non – Monsieur Charlesinterviewed me,” the girl explained.
“Oh he did, did he?” said Arabella, glaring at Charles.
“Yes, before we left for the Continent . . . Arabella dear, hand the child to mademoiselle and let her take her to the nursery,” said Charles.
Arabella reluctantly handed over Prudence and Isabelle left the room.
“Charles, I wanted to interview the nanny.”
“Well, I saved you the bother.”
“I didn’t want a foreign nanny! I wanted an English or Irish one!”
“Trust me, my dear,” he said as he examined the fine whiskey in the decanters and poured himself a glass.
As she looked at him in exasperation, she felt she could never trust anyone less.
chapter 22
“Another letter from Gwyneth,” said Charles over breakfast in the dining room. “She wants to come and see her new niece.”
It had been a few weeks since they had arrived back in London and they still were lying low. They wanted some time to pass before people saw Prudence so nobody would spot she wasn’t a newborn.
“Oh Charles, put her off for another while,” said Arabella, dreading the thought of meeting her.
“I’m afraid she insists. She is coming down from Battington Hall next week to London.”
“Not to stay here?” Arabella was alarmed.
“No, the Duke has a villa nearby, don’t you know.”
“I don’t want to see her, Charles.”
“Why? I think it’s time we stopped shutting ourselves away.”
“What must Gwyneth think of me? One minute with Harrison and the next married to you,” Arabella said.
“I’m sure she’d think much worse of you if she knew the real truth!” chuckled Charles as he put the letter back in the envelope.
“And of you!” retorted Arabella.
“Anyway, we need to get on with life now . . . I’m getting bored.”
Charles threw his hand of cards down on the table.
“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Tom Hamley. “You win again!”
The other four men around the table shook their heads in resigned admiration.
“What can I say?” laughed Charles. “Lady Luck is being good to me! Another round?”
“No!” said Tom. “That’s me out for the count.”
They were in a panelled room in Tom Hamley’s house. Tom had been at university with Charles and was an old friend of his. All the men present were friends of Charles from his school and university days, and all were avid card players. The butler came over quickly and began to fill their balloon glasses with cognac.
“I think we’ll call it a night . . . same time next Friday?” asked Charles as he took a cigar from the wooden box being offered by a footman.
“To win more money from us?” asked Tom mockingly.
Charles sat back and lit his cigar. “I’m sure your luck will change.”
“Yours will have to change first!”
Charles looked around happily. He had missed this in Ireland. These friends, this scene.
“Tell me, Armstrong, when are we going to meet this wife of yours?” asked Michael Darnton, another friend.
“Well, you know, she’s been busy with the baby,” said Charles.
“I think my mother met her during the week in Regent’s Park,” said Tom. “They ended up talking by the boating lake. She was with your French nanny and the baby.”
“Yes, they go for a walk in the park every morning, weather permitting.”
“She said she was very beautiful and very nice,” said Tom.
“Oh, it was definitely her in that case!” laughed Charles.
They continued talking and drinking into the night.
“What we need is some new blood to join this card game. Somebody who’s not as good a player but has plenty of money to lose,” said Charles.
“What about your new brother-in-law, the Duke of Battington?” suggested Tom.
“Are you joking me? His Grace is far too sensible and stoic ever to get mixed up in gambling. He’s much too concerned with his prize heifers on his estate.”
“Well, he must have a large circle of wealthy friends whom you could plunder?” suggested Tom.
Charles dragged on his cigar. “Gwyneth is visiting me this week. I’ll keep a look out . . . Of course, we have to be careful . . . baccarat is illegal, gentlemen.”
Gwyneth marvelled at the décor of the house in Hanover Terrace as she was shown through the hallway and up the stairs by the butler.
“The Duchess of Battington,” announced the butler as he opened the door in the drawing room and she entered.
“Duchess!” declared Charles as he came over to her and gave her a hug.
“Charles – you’re looking well,” said Gwyneth. “The Riviera obviously suited you.”
“Oh, it did!” he said.
She saw Arabell
a sitting on the couch with the baby in a cot beside her.
“Hello, Gwyneth,” said Arabella, unable to keep her voice from sounding nervous.
Gwyneth walked over to her and then bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
“It’s good to see you again, Arabella.”
Arabella nodded and smiled at her.
“And this must be Prudence,” said Gwyneth, turning her attention to the cot. She reached in and picked up the baby.
Charles came and stood beside her.
“Well?” he asked.
“What a lovely baby!” said Gwyneth.
She was surprised. The baby looked like neither Charles nor Arabella. This baby was quite plain, Gwyneth thought, unlike her two good-looking parents.
Gwyneth sat down beside Arabella as she cradled Prudence.
“I was giving up hope of ever meeting my niece,” laughed Gwyneth. “I thought you were going to keep her all to yourselves.”
They spent some more time discussing the baby and then Isabelle came and took her away and the butler brought tea.
“I hardly recognised this place,” said Gwyneth, as she examined the ornate gold-framed couch she was sitting on, wondering where all the money was coming from. “I’m just back from a visit to Armstrong House. It was the first time I was home since I married His Grace.”
“And how is everybody there?” asked Charles.
“More or less the same. Papa still going on about the Land War, Mama still trying to train Emily, James still doing whatever James does.”
“I imagine the house is quieter now without you and Charles,” said Arabella, afraid to mention Harrison.
“Well, life goes on in Armstrong House much as it always has . . . though I daresay life is going to become even quieter there now.”
“Why?” asked Charles.
“Daphne has got engaged.”
“Really?” Charles was surprised. “To whom?”
“To Gilbert Hatton.”
“He’s a son of one of those Dublin brewery families, isn’t he?” asked Charles.
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Mama must be delighted,” said Charles.
“It’s certainly got their blessing,” said Gwyneth as she looked uncomfortably at Arabella.
“Unlike my marriage to Arabella,” said Charles with a knowing look.
Gwyneth cleared her throat. “I won’t deny we got a shock on hearing you two had married.”
The butler knocked, came in and said, “Your lordship, there’s a gentleman downstairs to see you – Mr Arbuthnott.”
“Ah, he’s come to give me my winnings from a card game I played with him last weekend – I’ll be back in a short while,” Charles said as he followed the butler out.
Arabella and Gwyneth sat awkwardly together.
“It’s all right,” said Arabella. “We don’t expect your approval.”
“I can’t speak for the rest of the Armstrongs, but I think you did a very brave thing in . . . in letting Harrison go.”
“You do?” Arabella was surprised.
“If you didn’t love Harrison, it would be far more cruel to have gone ahead and married him.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but I don’t think anyone else is thinking like that . . . We’re in a kind of exile here in London. Our parents thought it best for us to live here for a while because of the scandal.”
“I won’t pretend that your dumping Harrison and marrying Charles hasn’t been the talk of the drawing rooms of Dublin and the big houses around Ireland. But the thing is, did you do the right thing in marrying Charles? Are you in love with him?”
Arabella nodded and smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, then, does anything else matter? Besides, looking at Charles, he looks as if he is enjoying this exile immeasurably. Card games indeed! I don’t think he was ever cut out to be a country gentleman, much to my father’s chagrin.”
“And what about Harrison? Have you heard how he is? I understand he went to New York?”
“Yes, he’s still there, working in a bank. He has no plans to return.”
Charles came in, counting an amount of money.
Gwyneth stood up. “I’d better be getting back. We’re having a party at our house in London on Saturday. You’ll both be able to come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” said Charles gleefully.
Arabella came down the stairs on the Saturday evening dressed in an extravagant ball gown she had bought in Bond Street during the week. She felt nervous about the evening ahead at Gwyneth’s but as she walked into the drawing room Charles seemed overly excited at the prospect of the night.
“Will I do?” she asked self-consciously.
He looked her up and down and then took a drink of his cognac. “Very well indeed.”
He walked over to her and kissed her. She put her hand around the back of his neck and kissed him before pulling back and smiling. All the trauma was worth it for moments like this.
“The carriage awaits!” he said as he offered her his arm.
They made the short journey to the Duke’s London residence on Prince Albert Road. It was a four-storey detached villa up a short drive. As their carriage pulled up outside, Arabella could see the rooms inside full of elegantly dressed people.
“I think we’re a bit late,” said Charles as they climbed the steps to the front door.
“There’s a surprise!” said Arabella, who had become accustomed to Charles’ lateness.
A footman was waiting at the door and showed them in.
“Charles!” said Gwyneth as she spotted them and came over.
“A nice small gathering!” remarked Charles sarcastically as he took in the crowd.
Gwyneth kissed Arabella on the cheek. “Come, and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Charles and Arabella caused quite a stir that night. The young Irish aristocrat and his wife offered what most of them wanted to be associated with: youth, beauty, money, class, family connections and one of the finest addresses in the city. Arabella noticed Charles lapped it up as people flocked to them. She noticed he seemed to be almost on a mission to ingratiate himself with as many people as possible.
On the following Monday Arabella and Charles were in the dining room waiting for breakfast. There was a stack of envelopes in front of Charles which he was feverishly opening. Prudence was sitting in her high chair close to Arabella.
“And another invitation to a party next Saturday night!” said Charles with relish.
“You were obviously quite a hit at Gwyneth’s,” remarked Arabella.
“Yes,” he said absent-mindedly as he read another request for their company at a cocktail party. He looked up at her quickly. “We were a hit, my dear . . . I’ll have to study these invitations and see which ones we should attend.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” she said with a mixture of incredulity and bemusement.
“Of course, I’ll leave out the invitations I think we should attend and you just tell me if you have any objections.”
“Charles!” snapped Arabella. “You can leave out all the invitations and I will go through them myself in my own time!”
He smirked at her. “As you wish.”
The butler came in with a large tray which he deposited on the sideboard. Then he approached the table carrying two plates which he put in front of them, looking embarrassed.
Arabella looked down at the burned bacon and eggs.
“What is this?” she asked, surprised.
“I’m afraid the kitchen maid isn’t a very good cook,” he said.
“The kitchen maid! Why is she cooking breakfast? Where is Mrs Glover?”
The butler glanced down nervously at Charles. “I’m afraid Mrs Glover is no longer with us.”
“Well, where is she?” Arabella demanded.
The butler started coughing as he looked down at Charles.
“Charles?” said Arabella, looking for some kind of explanation.
“Marching orders! But why?”
“Because she could only cook plain fare.”
“Plain fare!” She looked down at her plate. “I think I would prefer plain fare to burned fare! Besides, Mrs Glover was an excellent cook.”
“Yes, if you like a continual diet of Brussels sprouts and boiled bacon!”
“And who is to do the cooking now, as it is obvious the kitchen maid is not up to the job?”
“Monsieur Huppert.”
“And who is Monsieur Huppert?” demanded Arabella, her disbelief increasing.
“Monsieur Huppert is one of the finest chefs in London. He worked in the Ritz.”
“The Ritz!” Arabella’s voiced rose further decibels. “You have employed a French chef to be our cook?”
Charles put his hand down on the stack of envelopes. “Well, we are going to be doing a lot of entertaining. We want our house to be associated with good food and not Brussels sprouts!”
Arabella turned to the butler. “Could you take away my plate, please. I’m no longer hungry.”
“Moi aussi!” said Charles as he pushed his plate away.
The butler quickly took the plates and left.
“Charles, you mustn’t do everything without consulting me!” Arabella said.
“Yes, dear!” said Charles as he got up from the table and sauntered out. Arabella stared at the closed door and then in a fit of temper took up her fork and threw it at the door. The clatter caused Prudence to start bawling.
“For goodness’ sake!” said Arabella as she took the child and started to soothe her. She went and tugged on the bell pull and called, “Mademoiselle!”
chapter 23
The weeks flew by into months and Charles and Arabella found they soon became one of the most sought-after couples on the London social scene. It wasn’t long before they started to host dinner parties and occasions at the house on Hanover Terrace, and an invitation there became a coveted prize. Charles would select the wittiest and most connected people to gather at their home as he had a clear ambition for their house to gain a reputation as one of the most talked-about houses in the capital.
