by A. O'Connor
She went and stood by the window, staring out at the lake.
He watched her for a long time.
He put his hands up in the air. “In that case – I won’t go. I’ll stay and hold your hand and mop your brow and do everything else –”
“That a good husband should do!” she spat.
He walked towards the door.
“Where are you going now?” she asked.
“Downstairs for a glass of claret. If I’m allowed to do that?” He walked out and slammed the door behind him.
Margaret and Lawrence were sitting up in bed, listening intently. Arabella’s screaming had awoken them.
“He’s gone downstairs,” said Lawrence hearing Charles trot down the steps outside.
“Maybe I should go down and see if he’s all right?” said Margaret, getting out of the bed.
“No, you don’t!” said Lawrence, grabbing her and pulling her back. “Stay out of it.”
“How can I stay out of it when they nearly took the roof off with their screaming? And all the wedding guests here to hear!”
“It’s none of our business. Charles and Arabella have both said they don’t want our interference.”
“Well, there’s something wrong with that marriage, I can tell you that!” said Margaret as she lay back on her pillows. “And why wouldn’t there be when it was built on the shakiest foundations known to man. And I know the problem is her!”
chapter 30
Arabella and Charles kept a cool distance from each other after their row.
She took the doctor’s advice and rested a lot, only joining the family for dinner in the evenings if she felt able for it. It was obvious from the embarrassed looks some people gave her the next day that they had heard their argument. She was angry with Charles that he would have abandoned her without a second thought. Angry but not surprised. Because she knew her husband. She never kidded herself that he was really in love with her. Oh, he was proud of her and enjoyed her and did love her in his own way. But she feared Charles could never really love anybody, except perhaps himself and the good life. He was very good at convincing others that they were the centre of his world, and maybe in that passing moment when he was being entertained by them, they were. But when push came to shove, Charles suited himself, he always had and he always would.
After a month at Armstrong House Arabella, went into labour and in the early hours gave birth to their son.
Charles looked delighted as he held him.
“Well, it’s good to see you with a smile on your face at last,” said Arabella cynically.
“I’m getting to choose the name this time. I’m calling him Pierce. Lord Pierce Armstrong, it has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” said Charles.
She nodded and smiled. “Yes, it does.”
He bent down and kissed her.
The family gathered around later on in the day.
“It’s fitting that my future heir was born in Armstrong House,” said Lawrence, delighted that the succession was secured.
“He is the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen,” said Margaret, amazed as she had half expected the child to be as plain as Prudence. But this child had a combination of the best of both his parents’ looks.
chapter 31
When they arrived back to London, Charles was confronted with an army of disgruntled French staff and even a sour-looking Burchill.
“It is not right to disappear off to Ireland and leave us with no funds to run the house or pay wages,” objected an irate Monsieur Huppert in the study where Charles was going through a pile of letters, all of which were complaining about cheques that had bounced.
“Well, I couldn’t help it if my wife took ill,” said Charles, only half listening as he opened another demand letter.
“I’ve worked in the best hotels in Europe and never have I been left in such awkward circumstances as these past few weeks.”
Charles suddenly looked up and glared at him. “You’re forgetting your place, Huppert.”
“But –”
“I don’t want to hear another word – get out of my sight!” Charles glared angrily.
Huppert was stunned at the outburst from the usually cheerful Charles.
“I’m sorry if I have offended,” said the chef as he exited quickly.
Charles took all the correspondence and locked it in his desk and then headed to the bank as quickly as possible to hand in the forged mortgage documents.
“Congratulations – I believe you had a son,” smiled Mr Jones.
“Yes, never mind all that. These are the mortgage documents signed and my father wants the money transferred into my account as soon as possible, as you can see from his letter.”
Charles never was so relieved as when the money was transferred and managed to start breathing again normally. He quickly reissued cheques for debts that were outstanding and letters of apology saying it was unavoidable due to being stranded because of his wife’s illness.
Now all he had to do was face his friends. He had given cheques to a considerable number of his card-playing friends and those cheques had bounced as well. He was more concerned about this than the other bills. Firstly, they were friends he could not afford to be ostracised from and, secondly, if word got around that he wasn’t good for his money he would never again be allowed at a gambling table in London.
He arrived, trying to hide his nerves, at Tom Hamley’s house for a scheduled game of cards. He had left for Ireland without settling substantial money he owed to his card circle. He knew only too well the etiquette with gambling debts and that they needed to be paid immediately. Now, with having been delayed for over a month in Ireland, he could only imagine how irate and angry his card-playing comrades would be. He was shown in to Tom Hamley’s parlour and braced himself.
“Armstrong!” shouted somebody straight away, giving him a fright. “Congratulations! The best of wishes to your son and heir!”
“Yes! I offer my warmest congratulations as well,” said Tom Hamley, coming to him and shaking his hand warmly. He turned to his butler. “Get the best bottle of champagne to wet the baby’s head!”
As Charles accepted the good wishes from everybody, he was confused. Surely these men could not be so happy and forgiving over such a long-overdue debt?
“What are you going to call him?” asked Tom as he chinked his glass against Charles’.
“Pierce,” informed Charles.
“Lord Pierce Armstrong – a fine name,” acknowledged Tom, nodding approvingly.
Charles lowered his voice. “Eh – Tom, about the debts I owe. Sorry for leaving you all in the lurch for so long.”
Tom looked at him, confused. “But Hugh Fitzroy covered all your debts with everyone here.”
“Fitzroy?” Charles was mystified.
“When you didn’t show for a couple of weeks, he said you had arranged the payments with him and he paid everyone.”
Charles smiled broadly. “Of course he did! I just want to check nothing is still owed to anyone?”
“All paid up to date,” confirmed Tom. “And how is Arabella?”
As Tom spoke on, Charles tuned out as he tried to figure out why Fitzroy had done as he did. His eyes scanned the room looking for Fitzroy and spotted him in the corner, looking over at him as he spoke to some others. Charles nodded over to him and Fitzroy nodded back.
At the end of the card game, when everyone was going home, Fitzroy came up to Charles.
“My carriage is outside,” he said. “If I could offer you a lift home?”
“You really are too kind,” said Charles, looking at him cautiously as the butler helped him on with his cape.
The two men chatted inconsequentially as they left Tom’s house and walked through the swirling fog to the carriage.
“Regent’s Park,” instructed Hugh to the driver as they got in.
As the carriage made its way through the densely thick fog Charles waited for Hugh to bring up the subject of the money. But h
e didn’t broach it.
Finally Charles said pleasantly, “I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“Ah yes. They were all getting a little concerned when you didn’t return from Ireland so I covered it for you, to save any embarrassment.”
“I can only thank you. My wife became ill and we were stranded at Armstrong House.”
“I thought it would be something like that.”
“I will immediately forward you a cheque to cover the full amount.”
“In your own time, there’s no rush,” Hugh assured him.
Charles stared at him, trying to fathom him out. Why would he do such a thing for a relative stranger, with no guarantee Charles would return to London let alone with the money?
The carriage pulled up outside Hanover Terrace and Charles got out. He turned and spoke through the window.
“If you can give me your address – for the cheque?”
“Just send it to Claridge’s.”
Charles nodded. “If you are free next Saturday, my wife and I are having a dinner party here.”
Hugh stared at him.
“Only if you’re free, of course,” added Charles.
Hugh nodded quickly and shouted, “Drive on!”
Charles watched as the carriage drove away and was swallowed up by the fog.
“Hugh Fitzroy?” Arabella studied the guest list curiously. “Isn’t that the man who sent the hamper?”
“The very one,” confirmed Charles.
They were in the drawing room during the week. Charles was reading the paper as Arabella went through the details of the forthcoming dinner party. Prudence played on the floor beside her while Pierce slept in a cot close by.
Arabella remembered the man with the staring eyes. “I didn’t realise you knew him that well?”
“He seems like a nice fellow. Filthy rich.”
“So you said before . . . hmmm,” said Arabella, studying her table plan. “I’ll put him beside Lady Hollander.”
Charles looked up, alarmed. “Not a good idea. She’s far too pernickety. And he doesn’t seem to be a great conversationalist.”
“Well, where will I put him then?”
“Beside you.”
“Me!”
“Yes, why not?”
“But why are you inviting him if he’s not a good conversationalist?” she asked. “I thought you wanted this house to be filled with witty and entertaining company. I’ve never heard of this Hugh Fitzroy socially.”
“Maybe not – but I’ve a feeling you might in the future.” Charles looked at her smugly and sat back to read the newspaper. He looked up again. “Speaking of entertaining and witty company, any luck in getting Oscar Wilde to accept our invitation yet?”
Arabella raised her eyes and concentrated on her table plan.
chapter 32
By the time Hugh arrived on the Saturday night the other guests were already in the drawing room having sherry.
“Mr Hugh Fitzroy,” said Burchill as he showed him in.
“Hugh!” said Charles, shaking his hand and leading him into the room. “Let me introduce you to my wife. Arabella, this is Hugh Fitzroy.”
“I’m so glad you could make it tonight,” smiled Arabella, shaking his hand.
“Thanks for inviting me,” said Hugh.
Arabella was slightly unnerved by his staring eyes, which she imagined observed everything very quickly. She noticed his clothes were of the finest quality but nevertheless he immediately stood out from the others in the room. He was very ill at ease and uncomfortable as she brought him around and introduced him to everybody. He seemed relieved when she deposited him back with Charles, who quickly engaged him in conversation.
When dinner was served Arabella took Hugh’s arm and led the other guests out of the room and down the stairs to the dining room.
“You’re seated next to me, Mr Fitzroy,” she said.
She led him through the dining room and sat at the end of the table. She gestured to the chair beside her and Hugh awkwardly sat down. Charles took his seat at the top of the table.
As everyone took their places they viewed Hugh suspiciously. Arabella tried to engage Hugh in light-hearted conversation as the appetiser and then soup courses were served. She found him hopelessly out of his depth even talking about the most mundane things.
“Fitzroy?” questioned Lady Hollander from down the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever met your family socially before, have I? Are you anything to do with the Fitzroys in Halifax – they are mill-owners – wool?”
“Eh, no, I don’t think so.” Hugh shook his head.
“Perhaps distant relations?” suggested Arabella as the footmen entered and put large white bowls of lobster bisque in front of everyone.
Arabella saw Hugh look down at the array of cutlery in front of him and saw the confused horror on his face. She grimaced as he took up his dessertspoon and started eating the lobster bisque with it.
As the table chatted away about the theatre, Arabella tried to involve Hugh in the conversation, but he seemed to have nothing to contribute.
As the empty bowls were taken away Lady Hollander said, “You looked like you enjoyed that, Mr Fitzroy?”
“Yes,” said Hugh. “I like tomato soup.”
“Tomato soup!” Lady Hollander laughed like a neighing horse. “Dear man! It was lobster bisque!”
Hugh went bright red as a wave of embarrassment went around the table.
“Actually,” said Arabella sternly, “you are quite wrong, Lady Hollander. Mr Fitzroy is not fond of lobster and so I had chef prepare tomato soup for him.”
“Oh, I see,” said Lady Hollander quickly as she turned to talk to the guest beside her.
Arabella smiled at Hugh who nodded back his thanks.
As the main course of roasted beef was served, Hugh looked at the array of forks and knives, exasperated. He finally picked up the pastry fork.
Arabella caught his eye and shook her head and then discreetly pointed to the correct fork to be used. He nodded his thanks again. As the night progressed and the conversation switched from art to politics to opera, both Arabella and Hugh realised he was hopelessly struggling in the company. She tried to smooth the conversation over for him, but it was next to impossible. As Hugh spilled the gravy from the beef down his shirt, she looked down irritated at Charles who seemed oblivious to the situation as he was his normal jovial self.
“I do find gravy most tiresome,” sympathised Arabella as a footman assisted Hugh in cleaning up the mess.
At the end of the dinner, as the women were standing to go upstairs to the drawing room, Hugh took the opportunity to make his excuses and said he must leave.
“Thank you for a very enjoyable night,” he said to Arabella, almost heaving with shame.
“It was very nice to meet you. Charles speaks very highly of you,” said Arabella, glad he had elected to go early.
“Are you sure you won’t join us for a cigar and port?” said Charles, lounging back in his chair at the head of the table.
“No, I have to go,” he said and quickly left.
Arabella joined the women upstairs and watched from the balcony as Hugh’s elaborate carriage drove off. She felt relieved he was gone.
That night in their bedroom, Arabella was annoyed as she put on her face cream at her dressing table.
“Honestly, Charles! Whatever were you thinking of inviting Hugh Fitzroy tonight? You shouldn’t have!”
“Whyever not?” he said, getting into bed.
She turned around and faced him. “The poor man was humiliated. He hadn’t a clue how to behave or act or talk. And as for his table manners – it’s lucky your mother wasn’t there to witness it – she’d have fainted on the spot! And that accent!”
“Nonsense! He was perfectly fine.”
“As ever, you are showing the social sensitivity of a bull!”
“The other chaps at cards think he’s all right.”
“The other chaps a
re probably too greedy swindling him out of his money to care! He’s from a different world, and it’s unfair to try and bring him into ours.”
“He’s probably richer than anyone at that table tonight.”
“And where did he make all this money?”
“Don’t know.”
“Very dubious.”
“Well, I think he’s a find.”
“Not so much a find as a lost cause! I think we should leave him off the guest list in future, for his own sake, if no other reason.”
“I think he’s an important contact, and could be very useful.”
“I don’t care how useful he is! Besides, there’s something about him that’s slightly scary. Those eyes! We don’t know anything about him, where he’s from or how he got his money. He might be all right for your card games, but not for my dining table.”
chapter 33
Burchill came into the drawing room one evening during the following week.
“A delivery for Mrs Armstrong,” he said, handing over a beautifully wrapped box from Asprey of Bond Street.
“Have you got me a surprise?” Arabella called to Charles who was smoking out on the balcony.
He came in as Burchill left. “Certainly not. It’s not your birthday, is it?”
She raised her eyes to heaven. “No – do you even know when my birthday is?”
“December?”
She shook her head in resigned despair as she untied the ribbons on the box. “June, for the record. Harrison always remembered my birthday. In fact, he used to shower me with gifts whether it was my birthday or not.”
He grinned at her. “Perhaps this is from him then!”
Arabella gave him a dirty look and opened the velvet box inside the wrapping. She stared in amazement at the beautiful diamond earrings inside.
“Whoever could have –?” She quickly took the card and read it. “They are from Hugh Fitzroy! Thanking me for the Saturday dinner party.”
“Now that is what I call a thank-you!” said Charles, taking the earrings and examining them closely.
