So, he could hold out and scrape the bottom of the accounts and hope for the best. He could watch the markets, like his father had done, praying for a gas or oil share to rise, hoping a fledgling company he’d invested in would hit gold and rocket. Or he could put plans in place to sell off the land to settle some of the bills and hope that he could save the house. And what would they live on then?
Henry picked up the papers and angrily put them into the leather case he’d brought them in.
‘Let me help you,’ said the assistant, reaching across to lift the paperwork.
‘You’ve done enough. I want every single paper, everything you have belonging to my estate boxed and sent to me today. Consider our account closed.’
In the carriage on the way home, Henry fumed, thinking over the meeting and the smug look on Faber’s face. He always knew there was something crooked about him. Seymour didn’t have the gumption to see it. Put too much trust in his old pals - exactly as he had done with Montgomery.
‘A letter for you,’ Mrs Johansson said when he came in the front door, pulling at his gloves and scarf, wearily.
He looked at the writing, a neat scrawl, not one he was familiar with.
‘I’ll be in my father’s study,’ he said, taking the letter with him. He still called it that. It would be a while before he would be able to call it ‘his’.
When he got there, he poured a large Scotch, taken from the same cabinet his father had kept his drink hidden in. He debated whether to call Mrs Johansson for ice, before taking a gulp and deciding he could live with room temperature.
The letter was short, to the point. Charity Eustace wished to express her condolences and her deep upset at the death of Seymour. She would be travelling to the area in March and could visit if he so wished.
I do not want to intrude however. I know this is a difficult time for you.
Despite its similarity to the correspondence he had been receiving almost daily from a string of well-wishers, the letter warmed Henry. Charity’s tone was genuine and she had been terribly upset at Seymour’s funeral.
He sat and looked into the fire, sipping on his Scotch. He rose to get a second drink, his last, he told himself, and as he passed by the books cabinet, he paused, pulled out a drawer and unearthed a piece of writing paper. He sat by the fire again and inked his pen. He thanked Charity for her kind letter and said that he would be delighted to welcome her in March.
He couldn’t help but smirk at the ladies lining up to present themselves to him. They thought his wealth came before him, that they stood to gain a great deal by marrying him. If they only knew, they’d run, scuttling to the door.
Wasn’t it funny too, he thought, that the situation he now found himself in was almost exactly the one he’d wished for. One, where he stood to be free, shaken from the shackles of this great house and the legacy of his ancestors before him.
But now… he was going to do everything in his power to hold on to it. To keep the lands and the estate that he had inherited, refusing to sell if he could help it.
It seemed his father had been right about one thing. Charity Eustace could, in fact, offer a great deal.
Of course, he would meet with her in March.
After all, he had everything to lose.
* * *
She had put on more weight, he thought. Her cheeks had filled out and it gave her a squirrel-like appearance. His heart sank when he saw her, standing in the great room, her hand aloft for him to kiss it.
‘Henry. You poor darling.’
Her hand was doughy and soft, the skin white as porcelain. She smelled of perfume, an aroma of expense.
‘So good to see you, Charity.’
‘I’m ever so upset for you, how are you holding up? It must be so difficult. He was a great man, you must be missing him terribly.’
‘Yes. I am’
Her words rang true - he was missing Seymour, something that surprised him. He missed being able to go to him, to talk, to consider things that were happening on the estate. He felt so alone, the responsibility bearing down on him, no one to share the burden of the decisions that had to be made. At least Charity would have a knowledge to talk things through. She had great experience from her own estate and was a confidante of her own father.
‘My father was devastated,’ she said. ‘So sudden. We are all so sorry.’
‘Yes.’ he was touched by her sincerity. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Only if you’re having one,’ she smiled.
He wasn’t planning on it, but now that she was stood here and he had the whole rest of the day to fill with entertaining her, a drink sounded like a good idea.
He poured her a brandy; she took it and licked her lips.
‘I do love a drink during the day. It feels so wicked!’
‘You should spend time with Arthur then. He’s perpetually wicked.’
She laughed. ‘How is he holding up?’
‘He’s not great, if I’m honest,’ he said. ‘He’s taken it very badly. He’s a softie really, is Arthur. He was very close to Father.’
‘You weren’t?’
Her words surprised him.
‘No, I was too,’ he said, even though he didn’t quite mean it. ‘I guess I’m just able to accept it better, if you understand.’
‘You’re a stronger fish. Poor Arthur. I always think of a little boy when I see him.’
It was funny she said that because he, too, thought the same. It was as though Arthur had never grown up - never lost his boyhood charm or senses.
‘Where is he anyway?’ she asked.
‘Oh, he’s away on a hunting trip. In Kerry.’
‘Kerry, my… he’ll be gone for weeks. So we have the place to ourselves?’
She took a step towards him, a smile on her face.
‘Indeed, we do,’ he said and with every force in his body, he took a step towards her so that they were close enough for him to take a look at her cheeks. She had definitely put on weight, definitely.
* * *
Mrs Johansson took a shine to Charity. Henry found them laughing and joking anytime he came into a room and they were together. ‘She’s a hoot,’ Mrs Johansson said.
He was starting to see a new side to Charity, one he’d not noticed before. It seems she had some fun in her after all, her own charm, in her own way.
They took their horses for long rides through the estate and beyond into the neighbouring ones. She was a good horsewoman and she didn’t shy from high hedges or fences they had to cross.
He could see why his father thought they would be a good match. They did have things in common and her background, though much wealthier, was not far removed from his.
In the evenings, they enjoyed hearty meals cooked by the chef and presented with great aplomb by Mrs Johansson. He’d ordered pheasant and duck and quail and on the last night, roast lamb. He wanted to ensure Charity enjoyed herself. He wanted her to be comfortable at Brabazon, to feel that she could fit in there, that she could, possibly, be at home there.
She delved into the food with gusto, cleaning the plate with bread, complimenting the chef and the wine cellar.
‘You must give me a bottle of this to take back to Daddy,’ she said, smacking her lips after a gulp of red wine. They were seated beside each other and she reached across and touched his hand.
‘Thank you for such a lovely few days.’
‘You’re most welcome. I must admit, you’ve been a very nice distraction.’
‘Have I?’ she said. Her mouth broke into a smile and he noticed the wine had turned her teeth black and placed a thin purple ridge around her lips.
‘Yes…you have.’
He lifted her hand and kissed it, and he felt her shudder under his grip.
‘Ticklish,’ she smiled. But he knew she wasn’t ticklish. He knew that she was in love with him, that she wanted nothing more than for him to lean over and kiss her.
He leaned across the table and was about to open his m
outh to speak when she lunged at him and placed her mouth on top of his.
He almost pulled back from the force of her, but stopped himself as she worked her tongue against his, her hand yanking his head towards hers. Her breath was sour with wine but he went with it, not wanting to offend her and knowing that the kiss had been coming, obvious in the shine in her eyes and her gaze that followed him, wherever he went.
‘I am so charmed by you, Henry Brabazon,’ she said when she pulled back and looked at him. He forced a smile to his face.
‘And I you,’ he said.
She looked down at her plate and scooped up a forkful of meat, popping it in her mouth before taking another gulp of wine.
He wanted to leave, to get up from his chair and go straight to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. But years of entertaining, of having guests for dinner and being forced to stay at the table as Seymour expected, helped him to sit, to carry on the conversation and remain charming to his guest. Tomorrow she would be leaving. If he wanted to do the deed, then the opportunity was now.
‘Would you like to walk in the woods before you leave tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’d like that. I’ll need to be on the road early though.’
‘We’ll go first thing.’
‘I wish I could stay,’ she said. ‘I love it here.’
He loved it too. It was why he was doing what he was doing, against all his moral function, against the ethics he’d stood by for years. Sometimes you had to do things you didn’t want to do for the greater good. At least that’s what he told himself as Charity chattered and drank glass after glass of wine.
‘Maybe you can,’ he said, hinting at what was to come.
She raised her eyebrows and laughed, then pursed her lips and said no more.
He knew what she was thinking - tomorrow could well be the happiest day of her life.
How sad that made him feel.
* * *
It was cold when they set off down the lane; he, in his overcoat, she, wrapped in a wool shawl over her dress. She took his hand as they walked and he pushed on in a hurry, keen to get to the woods, to the spot he had chosen. He’d slept badly last night, knowing what was ahead of him and now that they were here, he wanted to get on with it.
She was in a good mood, pointing out things to him as they walked. A robin that seemed to be following them down the lane. Frost in a puddle the shape of a snowflake. An unusual curly fern, tucked in on the bank.
He was silent, lost in his thoughts, almost irritable as they walked to the end of the lane and turned left through a path at the gatekeeper’s house, which led to a hilly nature walk. When they reached the top of the incline, a cliff face covered in trees, overhanging the River Boyne, they sat on the small wooden bench his father had installed soon after he married his mother. The view from the bench took in a sweeping bend in the river, looking out over beech and ash trees.
‘This is breathtaking,’ she said as she sat and clutched at his hand again.
They sat in silence for a few moments and his fingers touched the box he had in his jacket pocket, feeling the smooth shell of the walnut case. Taking a deep breath, he shunted from the bench on to one knee and turned to Charity.
‘This may come as a surprise, but I think we should get married. Charity, would you do me the honour?’
He’d thought about extending his words, talking to her about how suited they were, how pleased her father would be, how it was his own father’s wish. But in the end, he’d settled on spitting the words out and being done with it.
‘Oh Henry!’ Charity gasped and drew her hand to her mouth, tears filling her eyes. They spilled over and down her face as she repeated the word yes, over and over. ‘My love,’ she said. ‘You sweetheart, I’m shocked, of course I’ll marry you, Henry Brabazon!’
He held the walnut box open to her, an emerald ring that had belonged to his mother glinting in the dim spring light.
‘It was my mother’s,’ he said. ‘I trust you will take care of it.’
‘I will!’
He took it from the box and went to put it on her finger but it was too small to fit. She took it and placed it on her little finger, pushing it down past the knuckle, where it hung, square and awkward looking.
‘I know just the goldsmith who will fix it,’ she said.
It pained him to think of the ring being dismantled, of a jeweller taking the ring and melting it and adding more gold. It was perfect the way it was, it had been perfect on his mother. Still, it would be Charity who would be wearing it now and there was no point comparing her to a woman long gone from his life. This was his future now.
‘I always knew we would be married,’ she said as they walked the final distance around the trail, her hand tight in his, her smile radiant.
‘Did you?’ he said looking ahead.
‘You know I always had a fondness for you,’ she said.
‘Well yes,’ he said. ‘And I you.’
Fondness was easy. Love, was another matter.
She stopped and reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. She pulled him down to her mouth, invading his with her tongue. He resisted his urge to pull back, to push her away, to tell her to stop.
He had to learn to love her, to find, somewhere, a lust for her.
He promised himself that in the coming weeks, he would concentrate on small parts of her, areas that could be defined as attractive. He would start with her smile, with her happiness, with her good humour in what he had done for her. He would battle with his mind over his groin, willing himself to love, forcing an acceptance of the way things had to be.
This was his responsibility now. He would do anything to save the estate.
Chapter Twenty-One
MOLLY
The day I left the kip-house, a small holdall flung over my shoulder and Oliver in my arms, was the happiest day I could remember in my life. I felt as though I were walking to freedom, that my soul was being wiped clean, that the dirt stuck to my body from the hundreds of men I’d seen was dropping off, bit by bit.
It had all happened quickly - Mr Tubular was keen to get me out of there, to stop the clock on the men using my body now that he was going to use it for himself, alone. I didn’t realise this is what he’d been building up to, that he had a plan to take me out of there, to marry me, to stop paying for what he needed from me and get it for free.
When I looked back, I could see that he had been hinting at it for a while. All those chats, cuddled up to me on the bed. Always asking me about the future. About my son.
‘Molly, what would you say if I asked you marry me?’ he finally said one night, his voice quiet, my skin bristling as he ran his finger over my arm.
I laughed. The girls had talked about this before. Keen johns - lonely customers who wanted to buy a wife.
‘You don’t want to marry me,’ I say. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘I want to know you.’
I wanted to say back to him, but I don’t want to know you, Mr Tubular. I look at him, with his greying hair around his temples and behind his ears, bits of stubble all different lengths from different shaves. He’s got big eyes in his long face. But he’s no stature at all - he’s probably the same height as me.
‘I think you’re lovely,’ he says and now he’s stroking my cheek and my whole body is prickling up in disgust. ‘You’re different to the girls here. You’re innocent. You don’t belong here, I want to take you away. To give you a home. I’d take on the bairn. I’d be a good father.’
I didn’t like anyone knowing about Oliver. But Tubular was always questioning me, making out that he was interested in him. Now I knew why.
‘He doesn’t need a father,’ I say but the words were defensive and I knew they weren’t true.
‘Every young lad needs a father,’ he says. I look at him now in the face, placing him in a normal house where there were no half-dressed girls or silky sheets and curtains or the smell of sweat and drink and smoke. I see him sitt
ing at a table, eating an egg, paper in hand, a little boy kicking his legs under the table.
‘But how?’ I ask.
‘I’d buy you out. Whatever Madame Camille wants, I’d pay it.’
‘I have a big slate,’ I say. ‘I was here for months before I could work and then I was sick. She’s had to pay for me and the bairn too. I’ve never seen her a let a girl go.’
It’s true. Madame Camille hated to give anyone up. She invested, she didn’t sell. Our time could be bought. Not our freedom.
‘If I spoke to her, would that be alright? If I struck an agreement with her, would you come with me then?’ he says. He has the most earnest look on his face. I laugh.
‘You’re buying me,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t see it like that,’ he says. ‘I’d see it as taking you out of somewhere you shouldn’t be. Think about it, my love. And next time, if you say yes, I’ll talk to her.’
His words play on my mind. All that afternoon as I saw man after man, as I felt them rise up and collapse, enter and pull out, fondle and cradle, grab me and suffocate me, their arms around my mouth, my neck, my stomach, my legs, I thought about what he had said.
When I went home to Oliver, when I took his small body and held it against mine, as I let my breast into his mouth and saw him suckle and soothe, I thought, the eyes and hands and mouths that have been on my breasts today and they should only be for you.
I didn’t want to marry Mr Tubular. But I didn’t want to stay working in a kip-house either. I’ve no other choice, I thought. I have to say yes.
* * *
Madame Camille has a strange look on her face. A look of admiration I think, that I’ve done this, that I’ve managed to wrangle this situation for myself.
She’s seated, all prim in one of her armchairs. We’re in the room where I first met her. Georgian furniture is placed about the room, making it look homely. A decanter set sits on a table and a small fire flickers in the grate. The whole place smells of burning oils.
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