Page 9 of A Family Affair
Fanciful, yes. Clarissa knew this. Being compos mentis had its drawbacks and even she couldn’t deny there had been bad times. Drown out her mother’s tears; smother her father’s anger; and her uncle… well, she certainly didn’t want to think about him. Not today or ever.
Chamberlain Manor, Clarissa’s home for ninety-one years, had seen such happy times, yet, as with all families, they’d had their share of bad times, too. Things never spoken of, swept under the Persian rug in the dining room.
Thinking of which, she had landed, and now all she had to do was force her knees and spine to do her bidding and make it to breakfast. When did standing upright become such a chore? Clarissa pondered this often. And why did she insist on making the fifty-four steps to the dining room table that would be set for two? A tray on her knee in the drawing room would do.
She was hanging on, that’s why.
As if by magic, Jennifer appeared and her timely arrivals often reminded Clarissa of a cartoon, one she’d watched with Timmy, the old Cookie’s grandson. Now what was it called? Where a jolly chap went into a male outfitter, or was it a fancy dress shop and poof, the owner would appear and send the unsuspecting man off on a wonderful adventure.
‘And what, may I ask, is amusing you this morning? You look positively chipper. Have you been pulling faces at those portraits again?’ Jennifer held out her arm, and as always it was Clarissa’s decision to accept it, or not. Today was a not.
‘It’s nothing dear… it’ll come back to me, I expect. Now, breakfast. Do we have eggs as well as kippers? Or is Cookie Beattie being a meanie? I quite fancy an eggy soldier.’ All of their many cooks were referred to as Cookie with their name tagged on. It was a Chamberlain tradition.
‘You’re in luck; she’s in a good mood and we have both.’
‘Excellent. Now you scoot ahead and pour me some tea. I’m parched.’ Clarissa preferred not to have an escort as she shuffled along, but admitted it was comforting to know Jennifer was there, within reach day and night.
And it was the nights that were becoming the hardest. Interminable hours between saying goodnight to her loyal aide, and hearing the doorknob turn at 7am on the dot. They stretched endlessly.
‘Tea’s up.’ Jennifer’s cheery way made even a cup of Darjeeling seem like a treat, so after taking the last four steps, Clarissa lowered herself into her seat by the fire, and smiled.
Clarissa had many negative attributes, obstinacy being quite near the top of the list, but being churlish towards those who worked under her roof had never been one of them.
Those days were long gone, when the Chamberlains – her father and uncle in particular – looked down on others. An entitled class who meddled, and set standards and their own rules, wreaking havoc, causing great distress, all in a vain endeavour to uphold their name and – at all costs – avoid a scandal, making sure their dirty little secrets remained a family affair.
* * *
The day had crawled by as the clock struck two and soon the autumn evening would start to draw in. There was a chill in the air and before they knew it the vast rooms would become a challenge to heat. But Clarissa was used to it. Nothing a shawl and a few layers couldn’t solve.
Jennifer had settled Clarissa by the fire in the parlour while she’d headed into Chester to do some shopping. Wool and books: the lifeblood of her dear aide. And horses. Jennifer adored them as much as Clarissa did.
From where she sat in her armchair, she could see the fields that surrounded the house, bathed in early afternoon sunshine, white and bright with a hint of gold.
How she longed to go outside and hike across the Cheshire plain, or ride Spirit just one more time, taking hedgerows at a gallop, his hooves pounding the dark earth.
Spirit was long gone. Grazing in a field somewhere over the rainbow. Thoroughbreds didn’t live for ever, but for the time he had been part of her life, he’d been her soulmate. He’d taken the place of the human, listened to her woes as they hacked for miles in the rain and kept her head above water during the darkest of days. But it had been touch-and-go, almost losing her precious Spirit to the will of her father.
She had never been prone to tears or tantrums, yet on the day her father told her he was going to sell her beloved gelding, Clarissa thought her heart would break. But there was a deal to be done; the trade-off was one love for another. Shame versus living in the shadows, family loyalty, the unbearable tears of her mother, loving someone enough to let them go, being brave enough to do the right thing, making the hardest choice of all.
Never since had she felt panic and grief like it. Then relief, followed by hate tempered by anger. Both she wore like a badge of honour. Never letting go.
Not wanting to linger there, she had enough on her mind as it was, Clarissa rearranged the blanket over her knees and fidgeted until she was comfortable. On the footstool below, her feet were warming nicely, and the fact she could still feel them brought a hint of comfort, or was it irony.
Clarissa knew that time was running out. There was nothing she could do about it. She wasn’t getting any younger. It was just a pity that the doctor, when asked, hadn’t been able to give her a timescale, some indication of when she’d be checking out. Didn’t he know she had things to do? Decisions to make.
Loose ends. Clarissa hated them. In particular, the overwhelming responsibility of what to do about Chamberlain Manor. It had been in her family for 300 years and its future rested on her shoulders. Apart from some tenuously linked third cousin twice removed, or something like that, she was last in line. The female heir with an uninspiring legacy. A life utterly wasted, with no way to turn back the clock and put things right.
But worse than that, the thing keeping her awake at night, gnawing away like a mouse behind the skirting boards, were the unanswered questions. And those gave rise to a terrible sense of unease that something wasn’t right. Thoughts she’d buried for years, suffocating her instincts like her parents had suffocated the woman Clarissa wanted to be. Who she really was.
She dreaded the night. In the darkness of her room. The velvet drapes pulled close, the sounds of the countryside and life beyond the squares of glass kept at bay. Along with her breathing, a very comforting sound, there was something else.
Strains of a heated conversation, overheard by nine-year-old ears; questions batted away by her mother, just before she was unexpectedly batted away to school.
There, each time she played rounders, the thud of the ball against the bat seemed like another punch in the gut.Keep running Clarissa. One more time around the pitch, old girl, and you’ll soon forget.
Later, more cruel words that her adult ears would never forget and would understand completely. Hurled her way. Hitting home like a cricket ball to the face. Designed to cause deep shame, strengthened by the fear of the unknown and the threat of being cast out.
Keep running, Clarissa. Do as you’re told. Deny your heart and you’ll soon forget.
