Willow Grove Abbey
Read Willow Grove Abbey Online
Authors: Mary Christian Payne
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Metaphysical & Visionary, #Romance, #Historical, #20th Century, #Victorian, #Metaphysical, #Historical Romance
Willow Grove Abbey
A Historical World War II Ro
mance 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 i
magination 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
edication
To Ji
m, for Waiting Thirty Years, and for Unconditional Love
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.
Alt
ernately, 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- Hartcliffe,
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 ti
me 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 i
n 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.
