Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  His mouth twitched with amusement. He glanced quickly at Zoe, and then back at the album. ‘Forget what I said about her smile, and ignore the hairstyle – who does she remind you of?’

  ‘I’m not sure – I think it’s Letitia…’

  ‘She’s like you. Oh, not feature for feature,’ he amended hastily, ‘I don’t mean that. But you do have a look of her – at least, I think you do...’

  For the first time, Zoe was lost for words. He seemed to regret that impulsive statement and was about to pass on to the next portrait, but she stayed his hand. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Louisa Elliott. My great-grandmother.’

  ‘And my great-grandmother,’ Zoe mused, trying to sound calm and reflective, to dispel the sudden tension that was between them. ‘Well, she was Letitia’s mother, and I was supposed to favour her in looks, so maybe that explains it.’ She smiled. ‘I can’t see it, myself, but as you say, resemblance isn’t always a matter of matching features.

  ‘But I’m surprised,’ Zoe added. ‘She looks as though she knew her own mind – she’s not a bit the simpering victim I imagined.’

  Amused by her use of the word, he said: ‘Why victim?’

  ‘Well, it was just my interpretation of the facts — or what seemed to be the facts. Although it seems I was wrong on both counts.’ Indicating the other portrait, that of a youngish, bearded man in a frock coat, she enquired who he was.

  ‘That’s Edward Elliott, Louisa’s husband. It seems he was also her cousin, and I’d say it was taken some years before they married. By my calculations she was thirty-two when they tied the knot, and he must have been forty-four.’

  ‘As old as that? But – ’

  ‘Yes I know. The reason you couldn’t find any record of their marriage, is that you didn’t look far enough. That’s the certificate I was telling you about earlier – they didn’t marry until 1899.’

  ‘But what about the children?’

  ‘Good question,’ he observed dryly. ‘Hang on to it for a minute, will you, and take a look at these.’

  Stephen produced two more photographs, ones he had found inserted, loose, between the pages. One was an informal group photograph, taken in a garden; the other, which he now laid before Zoe, was a seated portrait of a man in military dress uniform. By its style and insignia, he was an officer, possibly in his thirties. He was well-built, and long legs gave an impression of height; he had a moustache, crisp black hair and a strong-featured face. On the back of the stiff card mount, was the photographer’s name and Dublin address. Turning it over again, looking at that slightly arrogant smile, Zoe experienced an irrational feeling of disquiet.

  ‘And who, pray, is he?’

  Stephen pursed his lips. ‘Well, I can’t prove it, but I’m almost sure his name was Robert Duncannon.’

  Zoe bit her lip. ‘Witness at Letitia’s wedding.’

  ‘The writer of many letters.’

  ‘A rich, close relative?’ She looked to Stephen for the answer. ‘Or something else?’

  He raised a single, quizzical eyebrow. ‘You tell me.’

  Five

  Music was playing softly, and the dining table was covered with papers and photographs. Stephen leaned back and stretched, aware of tender amusement as he surveyed Zoe’s bent head, the intent expression on her face. Her skin made him think of Ireland and misty mornings, and it was impossible not to smile as he imagined its softness against his lips.

  They had been working together for hours, and he was beginning to wonder whether she would go on all night, following every little item like clues in a treasure hunt. The handful of letters they had looked at raised more questions than they answered, generating curiosity and enthusiasm, provoking reactions that had already revealed more of their true selves than weeks of normal acquaintance might have done.

  He liked her. Tremendously. No edge, no affectations, no artifice. Despite the perfect vowels and privileged background, she was no spoiled brat. And she was sharp and funny and oddly vulnerable, and – oh, be honest, Elliott, his practical self said, you want to go to bed with her, you know you do, you fancied her from the minute you first laid eyes on her...

  She looked up, clear grey eyes wide and questioning, as though his thoughts had somehow reached her, changed the atmosphere between them. As perhaps they had. He did not look away and nor did she; he saw her expression change with a quick rush of blood to her cheeks. Awareness crackled between them like a sustained electric charge.

  The letter she held trembled. She bowed her head and a fall of dark curls hid that sudden warmth, but did not obscure the sharp rise and fall of her breasts.

  Breathless, tense with desire, Stephen forced himself to his feet. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said, but could not resist touching her, very lightly, as he passed.

  Leaning forwards against the sink, he took a long, deep breath and released it very slowly. Within moments he was once more in control, although his blood was still running hot, eager, after months of enforced abstinence, to grab at this prime opportunity. Which would not only be a mistake, he told his reflection in the glass, but a breach of good manners. Calm down, he ordered silently, take her back to the hotel, give her time; even if she leaves York tomorrow, she’ll be back, you know she will...

  And anyway, he told himself as he returned with the coffee, it was always possible to suggest a meeting in London.

  Before she could remark on the time, he said easily: ‘It’s late, Zoe – and you must be tired. Why don’t we have this coffee and call it a day? I’ll walk you back to Gillygate, and we can begin again tomorrow.’

  She was instantly contrite. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve kept you – I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Not at all.’ With what he hoped was a disarming smile, Stephen took her hand and briefly squeezed it. ‘I’m a night owl — always have been. It’s you I’m thinking of – all that decorating you were telling me about. It’s a wonder you’re not on your knees.’

  There was gratitude in her response and something of understanding. With confidence restored, it was easier, a few minutes later, to fetch her coat and make arrangements for the following day.

  His hands lingered for a moment beneath her hair; then, as she turned to face him, traced the line of her jaw. She thought, for one breathtaking moment, that he was about to kiss her.

  But all he said was, ‘I’m so glad we’ve met,’ before opening the door.

  It was no more than a few steps to the place of that first, brief sighting. Through Bedern, beneath its dark archway, across Goodramgate, to the arch which led into Minster Yard. Sheltered from a searching night wind, they paused beneath the upper storey of a quaint half-house. Once, as Stephen said, it had been part of a long row, but since the demolition of its neighbours to one side, it stood somewhat redundant, with a new, wide access beside it.

  There was an old photograph of that part of Goodramgate, framed, on Stephen’s sitting-room wall; even so, Zoe found it hard to reconcile image and reality. She turned her eyes to the Minster, its floodlit tracery framed by the night and the trees and the long, low building of St William’s College. There was no mist, nothing was moving, and apart from the faint sounds of revelry coming from a nearby public house, all was silent.

  Sharing her memory of that night, he said again that he remembered seeing her as she hurried towards the mist; then she had halted, standing so still, so entranced, that he had been intrigued. ‘Then you turned suddenly, and came towards me. I didn’t want to be caught, like some sinister peeping Tom, so I moved out of the shadows here, and pretended to be waiting to cross the road.’

  She chuckled, squeezing his hand. ‘I didn’t see you...’

  ‘No, you didn’t. Your mind was on something else. Tell me,’ he added, searching her face intently, ‘what was it that unnerved you?’

  Startled by his perception, Zoe shook her head, looked away. ‘I’m not sure.’ For a moment she hesitated. ‘It’s hard to explain. Something – I don’t know what i
t was – in the mist. Like your children in Bedern, except I didn’t hear anything, it was more...’ Her voice tailed away. The more she sought for words to describe it, the more they eluded her. And although she wanted him to understand, she was afraid he would think her mad. ‘I can’t explain,’ she said finally, glancing up with mute appeal. ‘Perhaps I might try, when I know you a little better...’

  ‘I hope so,’ he whispered; and in that least expected moment, Stephen bent his head and kissed her. It was very tender, very brief, but in that moment she felt she needed his strength, his solidity. Involuntarily, she clung to him, burying her face against the lapels of his coat. For a little while he held her very close, sheltering her between himself and the old oak timbers of the little arch. When his lips met hers again they were warm and sensual, seeking her response but not demanding it, until the touch of his tongue set her senses aflame, obliterating everything in a dizzying surge of emotion. Passion flared then, and she was aware of his hunger and her own desire to satisfy it. It was like a physical shock when he detached himself, standing back to grip her hands with painful force.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘this won’t do, will it?’

  Still breathing raggedly, he cupped her face between trembling fingers and kissed her forehead. With grim determination he led her on through Minster Yard.

  She had difficulty keeping up with his long, rapid strides, but he swept on, regardless. In a state of shock, Zoe hardly knew what to make of him, still less so when he stopped before the south transept, and said tersely: ‘If you decide to stay another night, will you stay with me?’

  She faltered at his abruptness, and could not immediately reply. Images of the recent past – fleeting but clear – flashed through her mind. Philip and his inexperience, the innate prudery which had left her wondering, ultimately, whether he really liked or approved of women. By contrast, Stephen’s masculinity was reassuring. Almost without thinking, she nodded gravely. ‘Yes, Stephen, I will.’

  A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘Good,’ he murmured, slipping an arm around her shoulders. ‘On a promise like that, I might just get some sleep tonight...’

  But he did not sleep well. The stimulation of mind and body left him restless, his thoughts a jumble of Zoe the desirable woman, and Zoe his blood relation, descendant, as he was, of all those other Elliotts. Leaving her at the door of that house on Gillygate had given him the oddest feeling, as though he knew the place, and all this had happened before.

  Deja vu, of course, as common as it was inexplicable, yet disturbing enough to set his mind running over the evening’s facts and suppositions, and the mass of detail still contained in that little trunk. As much as Zoe, he wanted now to discover the truth behind those birth certificates.

  Waking early, with chores done and those old letters gathered together in their original order, he went to call for her just before ten. As Zoe paid her bill, he glanced into the guests’ sitting room with interest, an interest which prompted Mrs Bilton to ask whether he would like to look at the rest of the house, as his cousin had already done.

  Agreeing, Stephen found it an extraordinary experience. His own people had lived here for more than twenty years, and, climbing the stairs to those elegant rooms on the first floor, he felt as he had when opening those boxes for the very first time: that here the past was a little too close, touching strange emotions and responses. Having thought of himself as a modern man, shaped by circumstance and environment into solitary independence, it was hard to come to terms with this new awareness, this feeling that he might be no more than a link in a very long chain.

  And that chain had unexpectedly coiled back on itself, bringing him face to face with earlier Elliotts, people who shared the same name and the same genes, whose lives had been shaped in this house, this city; whose eyes had looked out on streets not immeasurably different from the ones he saw today. More personal, more immediate, was the awareness that at the crossing of the chain stood Zoe Clifford, a woman as much a part of the Elliotts as he was himself. The progression of that thought was daunting. So much so that he was glad to abandon it, sighing with relief as they said their goodbyes to Mrs Bilton and stepped out into the brisk morning.

  ‘What did you think?’ Zoe demanded as they rounded the corner into Lord Mayor’s Walk. All along the moat, beneath the high walls, daffodils were dancing in the stiff breeze, echoing her own lively spirits.

  ‘It was certainly interesting,’ he said cautiously. ‘Before you told me, I’d no idea they were in the hotel business.’

  ‘But how did you feel,’ she pressed, ‘being there?’

  On a short laugh, Stephen squeezed her hand. ‘Later,’ he said, ‘when I know you better.’

  Her eager smile turned into a grimace. ‘Oh, dear – bad as that?’

  ‘No, not bad, more – disturbing, I think. Difficult to explain.’

  With a sideways glance, Zoe sought to reassure him. ‘It’s all right – I understand.’

  Back at the flat, he was all practicality, setting bundles of letters on the table, together with notepads and pens. The albums were set out too, each with a sheet of paper inside the flyleaf, giving the approximate dates. Although the letters had been grouped by Louisa Elliott into years and correspondents, it was important, Stephen said, to be organized themselves, otherwise vital points could easily be overlooked. And surely, now that they had a fair idea of the family’s circumstances while they were living in Gillygate, it might be as well to turn to the earlier letters first, instead of reading haphazardly as bundles came to hand.

  Listening, agreeing with every word, it struck Zoe that for a man who only yesterday had confessed his reluctance to invade someone else’s past, Stephen Elliott was being very efficient. Aware of her limited time in York, did his desire to help conflict with other, more personal needs? Remembering last night, she thought it must, but he was making such a concerted effort to give her a firm base for further enquiry, she had not the heart to distract him.

  Nevertheless, with Stephen working in the other room, it was hard to concentrate. As it had last night, she found her mind going back over that intense moment of physical awareness. Warmth and liking had blossomed almost from the first, and had it been no more than that, Zoe would have been immensely grateful for this meeting with someone who shared not just her ancestry, but humour, outlook, and even certain reservations. He said he knew nothing about art, but he was interested in photography, so understood more than he claimed; and he was extremely well-read. What touched her most of all was his unprompted confession, that he too had always felt an odd one out.

  To his immediate family, Stephen’s boyhood passion for ships and the sea had seemed an aberration; and his desire to travel the world for a living was viewed with a mixture of indulgence and mild disapproval. ‘My sister,’ he had said, ‘still treats me like an elderly Jim Hawkins – as though she’s constantly wondering when I’m going to get a proper job and settle down.’ Although he seemed to be amused, Zoe had sensed an underlying resentment. She knew it well, having experienced much the same with regard to her own chosen career. And not just from Marian.

  But the sexual attraction had been something of a shock. She was glad the moment had not been pursued, that he had tried to give her time. Even so, recognizing his impatience, feeling its echo in herself, Zoe was still faintly aghast at her own reactions. In the past, such things had been very much a matter of time, and never, ever, had she fallen into bed with a man on the very first date; yet last night she had been more than willing. That kiss had shaken her, both physically and emotionally, exciting her in ways she could not recall since – well, since Kit. She had been in love with Kit, but never since. Fond of one or two, certainly – but not head over heels in love.

  It was a little daunting to feel that it was happening again. But it was too late to back out, and besides, she wanted him. With an effort, Zoe forced her mind away from Stephen, and back to Louisa Elliott’s letters.

  D
eciphering the idiosyncrasies of other people’s handwriting was slow work, but after an hour of establishing names and dates, Zoe had deduced that in the move from Gillygate in the late 1890s, Louisa must have destroyed much previous correspondence. It was frustrating, because by that time the children were already born, and there seemed to be no reference to their parentage. The earliest letters were postmarked Dublin in the spring of 1899, all from someone called Letty, who seemed to be a friend of some standing. From her correspondence, which was full of gardening advice, Zoe deduced that the two women had shared a common passion, and that Louisa was at that time setting up her kitchen garden. Letty had apparently visited them, with a child called Georgina, because later missives referred to Louisa’s cottage and its delightful setting by the riverside.

  Could that cottage have been the one in that group photograph? Zoe wondered. Needing Stephen’s opinion, she crossed the landing to the sunny room where he was sorting books from the larger trunk. Intent upon something, unaware of her presence, he was crouched with his back to her, sweater discarded, shirtsleeves rolled back over tanned and muscular forearms. Shadow made a deep indentation of his spine, a long, pleasing curve from shoulders to haunches, which the artist longed to record and the woman to touch. Something, perhaps the intensity of her gaze, made him turn.

  Poised there, regarding her steadily, for a long moment Stephen did not move. When he did it was slowly, in one smooth movement, the little book which had taken his attention still in his hand. She felt its cover cold against her neck as he kissed her, and the kiss was quick and hard with suppressed desire, his breath coming short as he crushed her against him.

  Lying in bed with him afterwards, warm with love and satisfaction, Zoe was beyond speech. They had come together so quickly, it made her heart race to think of it. Wanting to recapture something of that first touch, she ran a hand over his chest and the flatness of his stomach, seeing, through half-closed lids, the perfect lines of his body. After years spent working under a southern sun, he was lean and hard and bronzed, and beside him she felt soft and deliciously fragile.