Pretentious Hearts Read online

  Pretentious Hearts

  By

  M.J. Schlotter

  For my wonderful husband Steven and my family who have always believed in me, especially my sister Evie who read and reread this book numerous times, and Judy Shepherd who inspired me to write

  Chapter 1

  London England, November, 1918

  ​The sound of cheers erupted as Robert and his fellow shipmates disembarked. He scanned the crowd of onlookers. People were smiling...waving...cheering...through faces streaked by tears of sadness and joy as loved ones disembarked and others did not return. It was through the tears of his countrymen, that Robert saw a flash of emotion that caused his skin to crawl. Hope. Hope for a better future was undeniably present upon the faces of the masses. How could anyone be hopeful? If they had seen the things he had seen, watched as good men died in agony and there was nothing that could be done to save them...No! It was some cruel joke! There should be no reason for anyone to be celebrating. Yes, it was true The Treaty of Versailles had been signed, but there were no winners in war. Everyone lost. Everyone was defeated and scarred in ways that could never heal, he knew bitterly.

  “Commander Clifton!” A newspaper reporter yelled, shoving his way to Robert’s side. “Do you think being a decorated war hero in her majesty’s Royal Navy will aid in your political career? Before the war there was much speculation that you’d be running for Prime Minister, is that still true?” The bulldog faced man inquired.

  Robert glowered. “I am finished with bloody politics. You can quote me on that!” He barked roughly as he brushed past the man.

  “But Commander,” the reporter persisted, “As Lord Clifton, and now a recipient of The Victory Medal, you’d have great support in Parliament. Doesn’t your country deserve to have your experience and expertise?”

  Irritated, Robert rounded. “Hasn’t my country had enough of me? Hasn’t it taken an entire generation and squandered its youth, its dreams, its abilities? Can you deny that?”

  Without waiting for a response, he left the reporter gaping open mouthed and sought the train that would take him back to Norfolk and the estate he no longer desired.

  As the train raced onwards, Robert sat silent in the compartment. The steady hum of the engine and swaying motion soon had him nodding off. He heard the whistle as the train continued speeding past a platform, and then his eyes fluttered and he was asleep.

  “Tommy! Tommy!” He slapped the face of the young lad who had been helping him man the gun turrets, as another blast of artillery caused him to duck then fire several rounds.

  ​He quickly turned back to Tommy. Blood was oozing out of the boy’s mouth. Robert saw the wounds to his chest, and watched helplessly as Tommy’s lips quivered and began turning pale.

  “Stay with me! You hear me, stay with me!” He yelled.

  Tommy’s eyes fluttered and closed, and Robert shook him. “Come on lad, stay with me!”

  Holding his young compatriot in his arms, Robert felt him breathe his last. So young, he had been so young. Robert was thrown forward, his head smashing into the side of the ship. He tasted iron, the metallic bitterness gagging him as blood pooled in his mouth. He knew they had been torpedoed even before he heard the explosion. Wiping the blood from his head and lips, he crawled back to his post and began firing his gun. He saw the German steamship, but he could not see the U-boat! Flames and smoke were erupting in every direction. The screams of men on fire as they leapt over the rails plunging into the sea, sent chills up his spine.

  “Abandon ship! Abandon ship! We’re taking on water!”

  Another torpedo impacted the vessel. Flames, screams, blood... ​

  Robert’s eyes snapped open, cold sweat drenching his shirt. The first ship he had served on had been sunk, but he had survived. His mind, however, could not escape the images he had seen and what he had experienced. He felt cold...numb...hollow...broken. Turning his gaze out the window, he tried to clear his mind as he watched the countryside rolling past. Despite the fact that he was gazing at the beautiful landscape of his home, his spirits did not improve. This was no longer his home he realized, for this was the home of the living and he was now merely a spectator no longer belonging.

  ◆◆◆

  Carlingford Ireland July 1, 1919

  ​Katie O’Connor had lived at Kerney Hall her entire life. Although The Great War had officially ended in November of 1918, there was still a war being waged, a war almost unknown since the world had sworn they just fought a war to end all wars. Yet despite this swearing, bloodshed was being spilled upon the emerald hills of Ireland. How could people still desire more bloodshed? Hadn’t the world been scarred enough these past few years? She thought sadly. It had been earlier this year, January 21st, 1919; she recalled somberly that had marked the Irish fight for independence. And now in the early beginnings of July, despite the countryside looking peaceful and its burgeoning hues unchanged, she knew that in reality the greenery covering the Irish soil was beginning to turn a scarlet shade of red; a shade like that emitted from the deep and penetrating cut of an open wound.

  Wearing a long white nightgown, she wrapped her arms around her chest and shivered as she stared out her bedroom window. Just how many more nights would she be able to gaze out from her beloved home she did not know. Scattered around her, piles of papers glinted wickedly in the moonlight. Overdue payment...final notice.... foreclosure eminent...eviction process underway…the unpaid bills and expropriation notices were no longer something her father could ignore. Pushing her long red curls from her face, she remained sitting at the window seat, her mind filled with worry. Why had her father not yet returned? Had something happened to him? Why had he gotten himself involved with the Irish Republican Army and the ideas of Michael Collins? Despite her wish to not know the answer to her last query, with a sharp twinge of her heart, Katie knew her father’s reason. He no longer cared if he lived, he had made a point of that, for he could not stand the sight of her. It was with great sadness that she had arrived at this resolution.

  ​It was nearly two in the morning when Katie, resting her cheek upon the palm of her hand and almost asleep, caught sight of a figure staggering in the moonlight. Her father, Patrick O’Connor, though clearly intoxicated, was alive and not in jail. Hastily getting to her feet, her muscles aching from sitting so long, she pulled her robe about her and grabbing a stack of bills left her room. Various emotions twisted knots within her. Her father was alive, she should be thankful, but he had squandered more money, money he knew they did not have.

  Katie reached the top of the stairs just as she heard the front door slam open. She could return to her room, pretend she had not noticed his return. No, this behavior had to end! Her father was not the only one whose heart was aching from the loss of her mother, and drinking away his sorrows at the local pub would not bring her back. Not only was he wasting away, Katie knew, but with him the liquidation of her family’s estate.

  “Pour me a glass now one, no two…whiskey me man for I’ve noth’in ta do. This round’s on me, next rounds on ya, let’s drink and drink let’s raise a pint...”

  Katie heard her father’s voice slurring the lyrics of the song which had become his favorite tune to belt as of late. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her nerves then descended down the steps.

  “La da la da la da la, I’ll drink me self right to the grave and die a happy man…” Mr. O’Connor continued to bellow as he teetered in the foyer removing his jacket.

  It was now or never Katie decided, she had to confront him.“Da!” She exclaimed.

  “La da la da la…” Mr. O’Connor’s singing faltered as he looked up. Then trying to focus his eyes upon her, Katie saw his mouth fall open in shock.

  “Br
ighid?” He slurred staggering a step backwards.

  Hearing herself called her mother’s name caused the hole in Katie’s heart to ache. Every time her father looked at her, she knew he could not escape the haunting image of his late wife’s reflection in her face. The bright emerald eyes, the long red curls, even her smile she knew was similar to that of her mother’s. Her father, she sadly understood, would never forgive her for looking so much like the woman he had loved.

  “No. Da it’s me, Katie.” She took a step towards him as he regained his balance.

  “Oh, it’s ya,” Mr. O’Connor mumbled his voice losing its expression. “What are ya do’in up? Get back to your room.” He moved to side step her, but Katie barred his way, she was not going to back down, not this time.

  “So, ya have been at the pub again I see. I can smell it all over ya.” She stated summoning all the inner strength she could muster.

  Mr. O’Connor grunted and refused to meet her gaze. “Me business is me business and none of your concern.” He spat.

  “Your business is my concern,” Katie rounded “When ya wander off to the local pub every night only to return the next morn’in completely drunk, and then try to stagger up to bed to sleep it off.”

  Katie saw the anger boiling on her father’s face. To have his faults exposed by anyone, let alone his own flesh and blood, contorted his features until he was a man she hardly recognized.

  “If I want to go to the pub and have a few drinks with me friends, I’m entitled to that and don’t have to answer to the likes of ya!” He bellowed, his eyes glinting wickedly.

  “When ya leave Kerney Hall deep in debt and in the process of foreclosure, it is my concern!” Katie spoke, thrusting a stack of bills into her father’s hands and fighting to keep her words level.

  Her father had always drank socially, but now seeking to numb his pain, he was bent upon destroying the one place that for him had held so many treasured memories; he was drinking to excess in order to squander what wealth Kerney Hall had once contained.

  “Ian McAllen warned ya would be a fiery harpy,” Mr. O’Connor gruffed, pulling a bottle of whiskey from the pocket of his hanging coat and taking a swig. “He said I should invite ya to come to the pub tomorrow so ya can hear the right course of action we should all be take’in and stop your harp’in.”

  ​It was at the pub, Katie, knew where her father had become acquainted with the Irish Republican Army, or I.R.A., and Cork native Michael Collin’s ideas. As a teen, she had endured the hardships of war and seen many of the young men from her town take up arms only to never return. But seeing her father getting involved with the I.R.A., and through his drunken lifestyle continue to die every day, was more than she could take.

  ​“I will not go with ya to listen to any more of Ian McAllen’s foolish talk, and ya shan't be go’in tomorrow either.” Katie spoke defiantly, her face as rigid as her words. She watched as her father’s red and puffy eyes bulged.

  “No daughter of mine is go’in to speak to me like that, and ya can’t stop me!” He roared, taking another swig from his bottle before smashing it on the floor. Staggering where he stood his eyes rounded on Katie, “Now look what ya made me do! Perfectly good liquor wasted!”

  As he spat each word, Katie felt like ice was piercing her skin. Shaken from her father’s outburst, she forced herself to stand her ground and regain her composure. “We are in debt! Da, you cannot ignore that any longer. Ya cannot keep drink’in the money away. What are we go’in to do? We are be’in forced out of our home. It’s in the process of foreclosure, and we will be evicted soon!” She spoke in desperation.

  “No bank is go’in to take this old dump!” Mr. O’Connor grunted. “And I’d like to see them try.” He added, a strange glint in his eye. “Now, outta me way,” he blurted sidestepping his daughter before she could stop him.

  Katie watched as her father staggered off to his room resuming his singing. As his husky voice grew distant, she unclenched her hands. Feeling her anger melt to sadness, she mounted the steps to return back to her own room. Why did her mother have to die? If she were still alive, her father would not be the man he had now become, and Kerney Hall would not be in the process of foreclosure. Even though there had been the war, life had been happier when her mother was alive. Her mother had been a strong and caring woman. She had taken in wounded British and Irish soldiers, and put their care before her own. Brighid O’Connor had seemed so invincible, yet not even she was spared from the ragings of Spanish Influenza, Katie recalled bitterly. She had nursed her mother up until her final moments, and when she passed, she had cried herself to sleep for months.

  Now, reaching her bedroom door, Katie’s shoulders slumped. Her mother, her father, and Kerney Hall were all lost, and she was forever unable to return to those past days which had been filled with such splendor and happiness. Turning the knob, she shut the door behind her. At twenty-one years of age, she never thought she would see the day that everything she had ever loved would become only a passing memory slowly fading in the distance like the faint drumming of a heartbeat echoing its last throb.

  Katie’s body was tired, but her mind was still restless, still awake. Crossing the floor back to the window seat, she sat down and once again gazed out from the casement. The charcoal night parted just a bit to allow the silver slip of a moon to shine through the clouds upon the open fields surrounding Kerney Hall. Allowing her mind to wander, the memories continued to flood her thoughts. Her mother’s face and eyes so full of life flashed before her. And as Katie felt the warm swelling of tears, her mother’s light girlish voice repeated in her mind the words she had heard her say many a times. “Katie, your eyes are as green as the hills surround’in Kerney Hall! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was part of your soul,” her mother had doted. Why did she have to think about her mother again? Why would she always have to be reminded of Kerney Hall and her mother each time she gazed into the mirror? Katie’s heart ached, and she surrendered to the tears she had been fighting back.

  She sat at the window for at least another hour before exhaustion swept over her and she was forced into bed. As she laid her head upon her pillow, she thought about her father. It seemed to her that he was ready to do anything that would help him die. It was with this final somber revelation, that she finally drifted off into a fitful slumber wishing she were somewhere else and hoping, as impossible as it seemed, that her father might love her once again.

  Chapter 2

  England, 1918 and 1919

  When his train reached Norfolk, Robert saw that his chauffeur was waiting. Getting into the car, he nodded as inclination for the driver to commence. He did not feel like conversing with anyone as of yet, and he hoped the motorist would pick up on his cue. As they drew closer to his estate, Robert’s heart felt heavy. He had grown up at Evanshire. It had been his sanctuary from London politics when he needed a respite, and had held for him so many pleasant memories. Now, however, it was only a sorrowful reminder of who he had been before the war, the man he had been before his country and the world had murdered him. He was nothing more than a shell, for death had been unkind turning its nose up and rejecting him, and instead sentencing him to this hollow existence.

  It was as they turned on to the long winding drive lined with large oaks, that Robert saw the first glimpse of Evanshire since the start of the war. Surrounded by forests and pastures, Evanshire’s ivy wrapped stone walls and turrets, and its luscious rose gardens, made it appear a castle dreamed up from a fairytale. But like the now cold and lifeless November trapped grounds, it was a fairytale cursed with no happy ending Robert somberly observed.

  “Lord Clifton, welcome home.” His butler Mr. Dearing remarked as he opened the car door.

  “Thank you, Dearing.” Robert replied stepping out of the automobile. He noticed Dearing’s brown eyes quickly scan him checking for injuries. Robert knew he would find none, for only he felt the internal damage inflicted upon his heart and soul.

 
“Whatever you require sir, Mrs. Sparrow and I are here to serve as always.” The butler declared.

  Robert nodded, “Again, thank you.” He replied following Mr. Dearing inside.

  Mrs. Sparrow, his housekeeper, was waiting in the foyer. When she saw Lord Clifton, it was as if he were a walking ghost. His dark brown eyes were vacant and lifeless, not the eyes of her employer whom she so dearly cared for and respected as if he were her own kin.

  She had started working at Evanshire in 1911 when Lord Clifton had been a mere lad of twenty-two just finishing at Oxford. He had been lively, smart, caring and was not without a good sense of humor, Mrs. Sparrow recalled fondly. It was two years later, however, when Lord Clifton’s parents had been killed in an automobile accident, that he was forced to grow up as he assumed his father’s title and duties. When the war broke out a year later, Lord Clifton had not batted an eye, it was his honor and duty to serve the nation he one day hoped to lead. But he had returned five years later disillusioned and aged beyond his years. It was with sadness filling her usually lively blue eyes, that Mrs. Sparrow stepped forward to take Lord Clifton’s coat and hat while trying to conceal her tears.

  The months since his return passed by, and Robert found he did not know the date or day and nor did he care. He had found that after the war, time moved at a different pace trapping him in a perpetual feeling of slow motion so he was forced to relive every second of his personal hell.

  Robert was sitting in his study brooding and idly swirling a glass of brandy, when Mr. Dearing’s voice broke the silence.

  “A Captain Wesley is here to see you sir. Shall I show him in?”

  “Captain Wesley? Oh...yes, show him in.” Robert replied, the ghost of a slight smile passing across his face.

  A sandy haired gentleman wearing a naval dress uniform and broad grin entered a few moments later.