Willow Grove Abbey
A Historical World War II Romance Novel
The First Book in the ‘Somerville Trilogy’
Mary Christian Payne
Copyright © 2013 by Mary Christian Payne. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recorded or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown, living or dead to the author, and all incidents, other than actual World War Two references are pure invention.
Published by TCK Publishing
Dedication
To Jim, for Waiting Thirty Years, and for Unconditional Love
Table Of Contents
Table Of Contents
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
May 26, 1935
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
About The Author
Prologue
1917-1935
Lady Sophia Somerville
When I shared a room at The Ashwick Park School with Edwina Phillips, she often referred to my years growing up at Willow Grove Abbey, my family’s ancestral home, as a Cotton Candy existence. At that time, it seemed senseless to compare my life to a sweet confection. Later, as I compared the milieu of my upbringing to other young women at Ashwick Park, I realized that I did, indeed, live a privileged life. However, that was valid only when viewed from afar, which was Edwina’s vantage point. She saw the Somerville family and its’ seemingly charmed circle exactly as my parents had so carefully planned. Outsiders were unaware of our family’s deeply held secrets. The tidy flowerbeds, expanses of manicured lawns, beautifully appointed rooms, and priceless objects d’art at Willow Grove Abbey disguised the tumult and discord that often reigned within those stone walls.
While persons who knew me casually envied what appeared to be my idyllic lifestyle, and spoke of my family in reverential tones, the truth was much less appealing. Because of my family’s diligent attention to appearances, there was no chance that anyone would have believed the truth. My father, Nigel, the Earl Somerville, considered the quintessential English Lord, was genteel and soft spoken, with a kindly word for everyone. More than one wife throughout the countryside wished that her husband could be like my handsome, revered father. People said that he did not have an enemy in the world, and that was undoubtedly true. He’d learned early in life that reputation was of prime importance. Armed with the esteem of his fellow man, and the power that comes from being extraordinarily wealthy, Nigel Somerville was free to follow his own devices, and to do so without a conscience.
Alternately, my mother, Pamela, Countess Somerville, thought to be an exemplary Lady, was a dual-sided puzzle. None of us understood her. She kept her strange personality traits well hidden from the public. Tall and slender, she carried herself with regal bearing and was the epitome of well-mannered decorum. On the other hand, she displayed periodic eruptions of abusive rage, which were ghastly scenes of carnage. Once ended, the family never spoke of them again. One moment, she would be in an expansive mood, seemingly happy and content. Then, in the blink of an eye, her mood deteriorated into explosive anger, followed by despair. During those times, she hurled vicious words at whomever happened to be in her path. Her words were like arrows, piercing hearts and leaving scars, just as real as if they‘d penetrated flesh. The wounds took a long while to heal. Many never healed at all. Words spoken during rages significantly altered the course of all of our lives. And words were not the only things she hurled. When in the midst of a rage, anything within her reach was fair game for what we children termed a ‘smash fest’. The term was spot on accurate. She threw and smashed everything within her grasp. Those wretched scenes never took place in any sort of public arena, at least not until much later in my life. To those outside of the family, Mummy was grace and charm personified. However, inside of the ‘charmed circle,’ she was often a guttersnipe.
From the time I was only fifteen years, Mummy began to harp about my finding a husband immediately upon turning eighteen. Whether I found a gentleman attractive, or even kind, had no relevance. She frequently taunted that I was no great beauty, and that I should never turn a man away because of his appearance. Supposedly, she did not believe in marrying for love. However, that was confusing because she consistently maintained that she’d adored Papa from the moment she set eyes upon him. The primary factors I was encouraged to consider in my search for a prospective husband were heaps of money and social status. There was no question that my future spouse was to be from a noble family. He would preferably be a Duke. I was often reminded that I did not resemble Mummy in any way, and that she had been a sensational beauty when my age. The truth is that I was really quite attractive... Some even said beautiful... but, I had a highly distorted image of myself. How could I not have?
Upon the death of his father, Papa learned, to his great dismay, that my Grandpapa had squandered nearly all of the family fortune. Papa enjoyed his bachelorhood well into his thirties, so he was close to forty years of age when his father died. It was then that he realized he would need to find a mate, and that she would have be someone who could provide a plentiful dowry. He did so rather quickly, as time was of the essence. That is when he discovered Mummy. She was Pamela Jane Wickes, and as the child of a commoner had no title until she married an Earl. She grew up in the small village of Awre-with Blakely, where her father was a prosperous landowner. Her aspirations were much loftier than her lineage. Mummy was arrestingly beautiful, with icy blue eyes, an English rose complexion, and a haughty air. She immediately bowled Papa over with her charms. As a result, he married her shortly after they met in 1910, before he saw her shadow side. In fact, she often boasted that he asked for her hand in marriage on their second assignation. He must have thought that she was the answer to his prayers, as she brought a substantial dowry and beauty as well. Similarly, she must have believed Papa was the Prince Charming she had awaited, for he offered entry into the nobility, which all of her father’s prosperity could not buy. She cared immensely for the title and trappings that marriage to nobility offered, and was never shy about making her status known. She was only eighteen years of age at her marriage, and Papa was twenty-two years her senior, which was not unusual in those early years of the twentieth century.
Willow Grove Abbey, my ancestral home, was considerably different from my school roommate’s Tudor cottage. The Abbey still stands in the Parish of Bedminster- with- Har
tcliffe, near Bristol, in the County of Somerset. Once a bustling hamlet, with many shops, time has reduced it to a few small cottages and a pub. Nevertheless, after nearly eight centuries, The Abbey, with its ancient stone gables, towers, mullioned windows, and slate roof survives. It dates to the thirteenth century. Once a Benedictine nunnery, at its dissolution Henry VIII granted it to John Somerville who turned it into a private home. There was an Italianate garden, with formal areas set on three levels, including parterres, balustrades, and a summerhouse. In addition, there was a small arboretum and a conservatory. It is no wonder that I adored such a Shangri-La, with its full staff of servants, exquisitely polished mahogany, and fresh flowers in each room. In 1931, it was the most beautiful place in the world to me. In many ways, it still is.
We Somervilles were not famous. At least, not renowned, in the manner of film and stage stars of the day. It is certainly true that within certain circles in Great Britain people knew who we were, if only because we were of the landed gentry. My father was brilliant in business matters, and might have achieved success in whichever endeavor he chose. Nevertheless, he did not earn his title, nor the riches that accompanied it. Rather, a King or Queen bestowed it upon a distant relative for service rendered to the Crown. It found its way to Nigel Somerville because he was an eldest and only son. Due to that act of fate, he inherited not only his father’s title, but of greater importance to me, our beloved home.
The Somerville family owned enormous woolen mills, renowned as far away as America, under a company umbrella known as Somerville, Ltd. Papa expanded the mills, profited greatly, and rebuilt the family fortune, with the assistance of Mummy’s dowry. He also held a seat in the House of Lords. As a result, the Victorian way of life was by no means dead at Willow Grove Abbey while I was growing up. Our family was one of the fortunate few who clung to the old lifestyle, maintaining a staff of servants that was, by some standards, quite excessive. There were a housekeeper, kitchen maid, upstairs maid, downstairs maid, Rose, chauffeur, valet, caretaker, footman and several garden laborers, as well as a nanny who looked after Blake, Andrew and me, when we were children.
I am the youngest in the family, five years behind Blake, my eldest brother. He was my hero, but I was nothing of the sort to him. An athletic, wiry child, he grew into a strikingly handsome adult. Moreover, he was a hellion. Papa used to say that if Blake ever managed to acquire an education there would be no end to what he might accomplish. However, nobody really believed that he would reach that milestone. Blake’s hair was very dark, as was Papa’s, but Blake inherited Mummy’s wintry blue eyes. He also inherited her disposition. Tall and well built, he exuded self-confidence and arrogance. There were infrequent times when he demonstrated the affection and attention that a younger sister craves, but his cruelty towards me was by far the rule. Mostly, I simply tried to avoid him when I was a young girl. He was sarcastic and critical, which brought about feelings of terrible inadequacy. Whether he inherited Papa’s lack of conscience, or learnt his behavior from watching performances of his mother, Blake often frightened and intimidated me. He frequently told me how unattractive I was, and because he was my hero, I believed his every word to be Gospel. My parents never contradicted or corrected him, which leant even more credence to his comments. I never stopped loving him, but most certainly did not always like him. He hurt me greatly and left lasting scars. Blake married while still at Oxford, and had two children by the time he was aged twenty-four, a son, also named Blake, and a darling little girl named Pippin. I adored both of them, and loved being an Aunt.
Drew, my second brother, four years my senior, was a charming youngster who grew into a fetching man, with chestnut brown hair, which perpetually fell onto his forehead. His hazel eyes and a sweet, crooked smile gave him a boyish appearance. Drew was always more comfortable in a pair of old corduroy trousers and a well-worn jumper, than a trimly cut, Seville-Row suit. I absolutely adored him, and still credit him for helping me mentally survive an often turbulent and miserable childhood. He was my only source of comfort, for many years. On more than one night, he sneaked into my bedchamber after bearing witness to sounds of muffled cries. He would stroke my hair and wipe away tears, saying that I was a most special, wonderful girl, and that he hoped one day to be fortunate enough to marry someone very like me. Those were the rare times that I heard words of kindness and compassion. Drew did marry as soon as he finished Oxford, and his wife, Annie was a lot like me …small, dark haired, and kind hearted. We became dear friends.
Like Blake, I favor my father in appearance. Our Mediterranean look, unusual in Great Britain, is the result of my Grandpapa having married an Italian Countess whose name was ‘Sophia Isabella Conforti’, hence my own name. For obvious reasons, my childhood years at Willow Grove Abbey were an anomaly. On the one hand, there were truly hideous experiences. Yet it was also a golden time, if only because of the love I felt for the pastoral setting of our home. I learnt, at an early age, to immerse myself in books, and by nature, I was a solitary youngster. Nothing pleased me more than a lengthy stroll over the grounds of Willow Grove, accompanied by one or more of my cherished terriers; or an afternoon spent sitting beneath the old, knurled tree in the ancient churchyard of the Chapel of St. Edward and St. Mary. There, among the ash, willow, and birch trees I spent countless hours, reading Charles Dickens and The Bronte sisters, or scribbling in my journal. The Chapel of St. Edward and St. Mary was attached to my ancestral home by a cloistered walkway. Because the dwelling had once been a Benedictine monastery, it made perfect sense that it would have its own private chapel. It was uniquely lovely, with hand carved wooden pews, and a very ornate alter. There were also exquisite stained glass windows at the front of the Apse, and on both sides.
By the time I emerged into the wider world, it was 1931. I’d survived over fourteen years being Lady Sophia Somerville, with accompanying privileges, secrets, sins, and peculiarities. It was in that year that my parents allowed me to attend The Ashwick Park School in Kent. My brothers had been at Eton, and then Oxford, but no Somerville female had ever attended public schooling. However, after women won the right to the vote in 1928, my parents began to discuss whether I should receive additional formal education. Papa felt that further learning was necessary to meet the demands of a changing world. Similarly, Mummy was much in favor of continued schooling, but her reasons centered upon meeting the proper people and finding a suitable mate. Thus, my parents reached the decision that I would attend Ashwick Park, well known for its education of females, including several Royals.
It was there that I met Edwina Phillips, by sheer happenstance, when the school matched us as roommates. From the first, we were both certain that our friendship was predestined. I was petite and dark haired; shy and introverted; conventional and lacking in self-confidence. Edwina was blonde, buxom, extroverted, unconventional, brimming with self-confidence, and unfazed by her stint at boarding school. Strangely, such a combination made us wonderfully compatible. Of course, neither of us had the slightest notion that our destinies would forever be entwined, nor that our simple meeting on a crisp, sunny, September afternoon would become an enormous watershed moment in both of our lives.
There was a clear vulnerability about me, and I was certainly aware of it. Although schooled in the art of social graces, with the best of manners and extensive knowledge of etiquette, I oft times felt like a fraud. Amusingly, I have been told many times through the years that my aura of bashfulness and timidity add immeasurably to my charm. If one but knew the entire story of my childhood, the latter would cease to be an oddity. But few persons were privy to such information. All the public knew was that I was Lady Sophia Somerville, the daughter of the Earl and Countess Somerville, highly esteemed members of the British aristocracy, said to be a delightful family.
There was no question that my lack of self-esteem was a direct result of my parents’ inability to meet any of their children’s emotional needs. Mummy was incapable of complimenting any of us, or showing
belief in our abilities. I have no recollection of her ever having said ‘I love you.’ In that regard, my parents matched perfectly, since my father possessed similar shortcomings. An aloof man, he was inexorably slow to praise. However, he did not exhibit the horrific anger that Mummy so frequently displayed. Thus, he became the more trusted parent. He was the one to whom we children gravitated, and we all adored him. He often smoothed the path between us and our mother. Still, the majority of the time, Papa seemed to be more child than husband, more sibling than father. However much he was the preferred parent, blessed with an even temperament, I realized quite early into adulthood that he was completely devoid of scruples. Nevertheless, in my very young years, I viewed him as a Savior. I believe that both of my brothers also suffered feelings of inferiority, but they kept that fact well hidden. Blake was a rebel, who stuffed anguish deeply inside, and gave the impression that he was incapable of being hurt, which of course was nonsense. Drew, on the other hand, was very sensitive toward others, and had strong moral values. But, oft times he seemed lost, with no one to give him direction. He grew up with a personality much like mine, and a strong bent toward being wary and distrustful of others.
Edwina Phillips was the quintessential free spirit. She definitely danced to the beat of a different drummer, and in no time, I grew to adore her. With her luminescent blonde hair and intense blue-green eyes, I considered her my ‘shining friend’.’ Her family lived at Bury St. Edmunds in Suffolk, and could not have been more different from mine. The Phillips lived in a modest home. Her father was retired from his job as a small business owner. He did not have a title and had never served in Parliament. The only commonality we shared was the more advanced ages of our fathers. George Phillips, Edwina’s father, was twenty-eight years older than Edwina’s Mum. Papa was twenty-two years older than Mummy. Edwina was the youngest of six children. Her siblings did not have the advantage of boarding school, although the family was not poor. Her opportunity to go away to Ashwick Park School had more to do with her father’s wish to avoid the chaotic teen years than a sincere desire to see his daughter well educated.
Willow Grove Abbey: A Historical World War II Romance Novel (The Somerville Trilogy) Page 1
