by A. O'Connor
“Welcome, dear brother,” she said.
He smiled and nodded at her.
The corporal put the bag into the back of the car. “Is that everything, Colonel?”
“Yes, you can go. Enjoy your leave.”
The corporal nodded and dashed off to his family.
“Colonel?” said Clara, amazed. “You’ve been promoted?”
They got into the back of the car. “Yes, last in a long line of promotions.”
Clara sat holding his hand tightly in the back of the car, gazing into his face.
Pierce was lying in a hot bath filled to the top of the tub, his eyes closed. Clara walked in, holding some fresh towels.
“You’re in luck. The plumbing is actually working today and there’s hot water,” she smiled down at him.
He opened his eyes.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“No, I have everything I need,” he said, reaching for the tumbler of whiskey resting on the edge of the bath and downing it in one.
“I’ll leave these for you,” she said, putting the towels on the chair and retreating into their bedroom. “We’ve organised a gathering for you on Saturday night,” she called from there. “Just some close friends and neighbours. All desperate to see you.” She sat down on the couch in the room.
A minute later Pierce came out with a towel around his waist, and proceeded to dry his hair with another towel in front of the fire.
“We didn’t know what to do for best. Whether you wanted to see people or just wanted to relax,” said Clara.
“Whatever you think.”
“Well, it’s your leave, your decision,” she smiled. “Perhaps if you had written and said what you would like to do.”
“It wasn’t really high on my list of priorities.”
“I can imagine.” She thought hard before speaking but decided to blurt it out. “I mean, perhaps if you had written at all while you were away. Not one letter, a postcard even. Just to let me know that you were all right, thinking of me. Alive even.”
“I did write. I wrote you a card at Christmas.”
She looked at him, surprised. “I never received it.”
“Pity.”
“But even that, one card, Pierce, to your wife!”
“I had a war to fight, in case you had forgotten.”
“You still managed to write to Prudence all the time!”
He turned around and faced her. “I didn’t write to her that much. From time to time, maybe. Besides, I had to deal with business with Prudence.”
Clara looked down at the floor before looking up at him. “But Pierce! I’m your wife! I wrote to you non-stop. Did you get my letters?”
“All of them.”
“Well, why in God’s name didn’t you write back?” she demanded angrily.
He walked over to her. “Can you even imagine what’s it’s like over there? The flooded trenches, the vermin, the stench of dead bodies, the disease?”
She drew back. “I’m sorry – I know it hasn’t been easy for you. But if you’d only written to me, shared your experiences with me. I could have –”
Pierce went over to his dressing room. “Let’s dress for dinner.”
70
It wasn’t as if Clara saw much of Pierce over the next few days. He went off riding on his own, or went walking for miles along the lakeshore. He would stand on the shingled beach at the lake, looking out at the still water, not a sound for miles except a bird and it seemed impossible to imagine the trenches being on the same planet.
Clara realised he needed time to recuperate and tried to understand what he had been going through. She was careful not to push him too far.
On the Saturday night he dressed in his uniform and he and Clara descended the stairs together to greet the guests as they arrived for the dinner party. She held his arm tightly. Many of the guests were already waiting in the parlour and they rushed to Pierce when he arrived in the room.
“Welcome home!” they cried.
The girls and women kissed him while the men grabbed his arm to shake hands or clapped him on the back.
Watching, Clara realised he was acutely uncomfortable.
“Come on, everybody, give him some space,” she said loudly with a big smile.
“But he actually escaped from the Germans!” said Mrs Foxe. “They had taken him prisoner and he got away somehow. How did you do it, Pierce?”
Clara looked at Pierce in amazement. Why was this the first she had heard of it? Why hadn’t he told her? She felt panicked at the thought of him being captured and held his arm tightly.
“It was nothing. Really it wasn’t.” Pierce’s obvious discomfort indicated it was no false modesty on his part.
“That’s not what my husband said,” said Nell Bramwell. “He said your escape was the talk of the ranks.”
“Shall we all go to dinner?” coaxed Clara. “Mrs Fennell has done a marvellous spread for us, and all made with the war effort in mind, so no waste!” She linked her arm through Pierce’s and they turned and headed towards the dining room.
“I meant to tell you, the Cantwells send their apologies, but they can’t make it. Their nephew was killed in France. Shot dead,” said Prudence in a matter-of-fact voice as they ate dinner.
“That’s young Timothy Cantwell, isn’t it?” said Mrs Foxe.
Clara saw she had gone ashen-faced.
“I’m afraid so,” said Prudence. “Excellent shot himself as I remember. I’d been on many a hunt with him.”
Everyone became subdued.
“I wish it would just all stop!” said Emily Foxe, grasping her husband’s hand. “They said it would only last a few weeks.”
“It’s bound to be stopped soon,” said Clara encouragingly. “That’s what all my friends at the front say. And this war, the Great War, will be the last war. No more wars ever again. Imagine!”
Pierce gave a dismissive laugh. “It’s not nearly over. And it won’t be the last war. It’s only the start of wars the likes of which we’ve never seen before.”
“Pierce, you’re upsetting Mrs Foxe,” said Clara quietly.
“I’m not upsetting her. The war is,” said Pierce.
There was silence for a while, broken by Clara smiling and talking cheerily. “Has anyone seen these moving pictures from America? Movies? I can’t wait to see one. Seemingly it’s like watching a play on a screen. Isn’t that exciting?”
News of young Timothy Cantwell’s death dampened the spirits for the rest of the night. They gathered in the drawing room for drinks after dinner. Clara saw Mrs Foxe go over to Pierce and talk quietly to him. She strained to listen in.
“Pierce, could I ask a huge favour?”
“You can certainly ask.”
“I’m so worried about Felix out there. He’s not like you, Pierce, he isn’t built from the same material. He could never be a war hero like you. I just wonder could you look out for him?”
“He’s not in the same regiment as me.”
“I know, but you’re a high-ranking officer now and maybe you could – I don’t know – just seek him out and talk to him. See if he needs anything.”
“Everyone has to fight his own war, I’m sorry,” Pierce said and moved away from her.
Clara tried hard to concentrate on the conversation she was involved in but couldn’t take her eyes off Mrs Foxe’s upset face.
Finally, the last of the guests left. Prudence had gone to bed early. Clara waved goodbye at the door, then walked back into the drawing room where Pierce was sitting staring into the fire with a glass of port.
She closed the door and went and sat on the couch.
“Pierce, I overheard your conversation with Mrs Foxe. Did you have to be so cold to her?”
“I wasn’t being cold. I was just stating the facts.”
“The woman’s son is off fighting the war and she’s worried sick. She didn’t want facts, she wanted some comforting words.”
“Well, she c
ame to the wrong place to find them.”
“Isn’t that a bloody fact!” she said angrily, causing him to look up at her. She bit her lower lip before continuing. “I just think you could have said you’ll do your best for him.”
“But it would be a lie. I don’t have the time to do my best for him.”
“Then lie to her! Damn it, lie to her!”
“Where did you learn such language?”
“From your sister!”
Pierce looked into the fire. “So if I lied to her, when Felix Foxe is killed and buried forever out there, she will think I didn’t do my best for him and hold me somehow responsible. No – best to be straight up and honest.”
“Pierce! Don’t say such things about poor Felix.”
“Why? It’s the truth. It’s a wonder ‘poor Felix’ has got to this stage without being obliterated. The lifespan of junior officers is very short – most get mown down first. All that excellent breeding snuffed out in a second.”
“Well, you didn’t!”
“I’m different.”
She stared at him, then stood up. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
“I’ll be up after I’ve finished this.” He nodded at his glass.
71
Rory Conway took back the legal documents Pierce had been called into his office to sign.
“And that completes all the estates affairs and puts it in running order,” said Conway with a smile. “Thank you, Lord Armstrong.”
Pierce nodded.
“So when are you due back to France?”
“In a couple of days.”
“I don’t envy you. Ah, but sure you’ll be home again in no time.”
“Doubtful.”
Rory Conway thought about Prudence’s visit to him and her instructions to draft divorce papers for Pierce and Clara. He had delayed doing so as he wanted to be sure it was Pierce’s wish. He decided now was as good a time as any to find out Pierce’s intentions for the future regarding his wife, his sister, his house and his estate.
Pierce reached into the pocket of his uniform and, taking out a silver cigarette case, took a cigarette out and lit it. He offered one to Conway who declined.
“I’ve given up – bad for the health,” smiled Conway, before his face went serious. “As is this war, by all accounts . . .” He paused, seemed to hesitate. “I wonder, Lord Armstrong, if I could raise a delicate matter with you? Have you given any thought while you’re home on leave to put your own affairs in order?”
“I thought that’s what we’ve just been doing.”
“That’s just the day-to-day running of the estate. I’m talking specifically about you. I mean in the unlikely and tragic circumstances of you being killed.”
Pierce’s eyes widened in surprise.
Seeing his reaction, Conway sat forward quickly. “I mean, I’m sure you would want your wishes carried out and your loved ones taken care of.”
Pierce said nothing but continued to stare and say nothing. Pierce Armstrong always had a strange almost hypnotic way of looking at you that Conway found very unnerving.
By way of an explanation Conway continued quickly, “I mean, I know your sister is very concerned about what would happen to the house and farm – eh, estate, in the aftermath of your untimely and tragic death.”
Pierce blinked and sat forward slowly. “My sister? How do you know? She has been in to see you about my untimely – and tragic – death?”
Conway gulped, realising the situation he had put himself in.
Fennell closed the door as he came into the drawing room.
“Lady Armstrong, if I could have a word?”
“Yes, Fennell?” She looked up and saw he looked upset and his eyes were teary.
“We received some bad news today. Joe, you might remember the chauffeur, was killed in action at the front.”
“Oh, Fennell!” Her hands shot up to cover her mouth. “The poor boy! His poor family . . . He taught me to drive . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered his pleasant disposition.
“I know. Also, myself and Mrs Fennell are tendering our notices as of today.”
“What? But why? You can’t just leave us in the lurch like this. Where are you going to? Mrs Fennell has lived on the estate all her life!”
“I’m afraid there is a situation in the house that has made our position untenable.”
“Which is?” Clara was perplexed.
“Lady Prudence.”
Clara walked into the drawing room where Prudence and Pierce were in conversation.
“I’ve something important to discuss with both of you,” said Clara, steadying her nerves.
Prudence viewed her warily. “Good, I hate discussing mundane matters.”
Clara looked at her husband. “Pierce, I will not live under the same roof as Prudence any longer.”
“In that case, when do you pack?” questioned Prudence.
“I’m not joking here. We have to make alternative arrangements for Prudence. Otherwise . . .” She faltered for a second. “Otherwise, I return to London.”
Pierce said nothing as he stared at Clara.
“A woman should test her husband’s love only if she is sure of her husband’s love, Clara.” Prudence sat back in her gilded chair and crossed her legs.
“I am sure of Pierce’s love. And I know he will back me in my decision that you must leave, Prudence.”
“I can have Fennell arrange a Dublin train ticket for you – just in case,” said Prudence.
“It will not be needed.”
“You hope. And why – pray tell – do you want me to leave my own home?”
“Because you have been mounting a campaign against me since I arrived. You have done everything from keeping a Christmas card from Pierce from me, to bad-mouthing me in town. And I simply won’t stand for it any more.”
“They say the war is having a terrible effect on wives being left at home. Here is a case in point. Clara, you are out of your pea-sized mind. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
Clara marched over to the bell pull and yanked it hard. A minute later Fennell arrived.
“Hardly a time to be ordering tea, whilst you are attempting to evict me,” said Prudence in her normal assured fashion.
“Fennell will back me up. Pierce, he will tell you everything she has done. Everything from emptying the car of petrol, leaving me stranded at night, to taking in my dresses to make me lose weight. To serving chicken all the time, which I detest. To pretending the hot-water system wasn’t working when I wanted to have a bath . . . It’s been a campaign of mental cruelty. Hasn’t it, Fennell?”
“Lady Armstrong speaks the truth,” said Fennell.
Prudence viewed Fennell coolly. “I always say you can’t get the staff any more.”
“That will be all, Fennell,” said Pierce.
Fennell turned and left.
Pierce turned and looked at Prudence. “Well?”
“Well, what can I say?” She spoke in a cheery non-concerned voice. “Snared like a rabbit in a trap. Never rely on the discretion of servants or underestimate a woman, that’s my advice to you.”
“Pity for you that you didn’t advise yourself the same,” said Clara.
“You’re such a snitch, Clara. I hate telling tales out of school. But then I didn’t go to school, I was taught by a series of governesses here at the house.”
“I pity them with you as a charge.”
“Mama used to complain I went through them with alarming speed, in fairness. I was smarter than most of them. Anyway, my tricks are in the past, and I promise to behave in the future, scout’s honour!” She put her hand on her heart.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Prudence,” said Pierce.
“Too late for what exactly?”
“I can’t go back to the war front and leave you two at war here. I think it’s time you moved on.”
“Moved on? To where exactly?” Prudence’s face creased with ho
rror.
“You can move to Hunter’s Farm for now. Still run the estate if you care to.”
“Hunter’s Farm! I will not leave my home. I was born and bred here and I’m not going down to that bloody farmhouse.”
“You have no choice,” said Clara, feeling elated.
“This house is every bit as much mine as it is yours, Pierce.”
“That’s not what the deeds say.”
“I don’t give a damn what the deeds say! I was the one who stayed here while you were off at school. I nursed Papa back after the shooting, and minded Mother when she became desolate and her nerves gave way. I oversaw this place as the estate was dismantled under government act after government act. You were too young, or away in that posh school, or had your head filled with air!”