Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  As they climbed the hill towards the hospital, he discovered something of her thoughts, and they were at such a tangent to what might have been expected that Robert was taken aback.

  ‘You won’t go back to the cottage, will you?’

  ‘What? Tonight? No, of course not.’

  ‘Tonight, tomorrow, anytime,’ she said tersely. ‘Don’t go back, please.’

  Astonished by her temerity, Robert stopped. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘You know why. It’s not fair — to any of them. Not after all these years.’

  ‘Georgina,’ he said heavily, ‘it’s my business, not yours, and I’ll thank you not to interfere. You have no right…’

  ‘I have every right!’ she declared with force. ‘They mean as much to me as they do to you. Probably more, if truth be known. I was curling with embarrassment for Edward this afternoon – and while you may not have noticed, Liam was watching you like a hawk!’

  ‘Was he, by God? I didn’t realize...’

  ‘No,’ came the quick reply, ‘you were too taken up with Louisa. You might be free, Daddy, but she’s not!’

  Guilty colour flooded his face. Aware of it, Robert took refuge in anger. ‘Watch your tongue, miss!’

  Georgina shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. But if I don’t remind you, Daddy, who will?’

  That unexpected maturity startled him, as did the power of her observation. Momentarily humbled by it, he squeezed her hand. ‘Do I need such reminders?’

  ‘Not usually,’ she conceded, ‘but this time it’s important.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll try to remember it.’

  A porter opened the gate for them, and Robert walked with his daughter up the drive. It was a fine house, he thought, with a mellow, comfortable air to it, more like a gentleman’s country residence than a hospital. Surprising, since the place had been built specifically to house the mentally ill, and was less than half a mile from the edge of town. From the outside it was not unlike that other place in Ireland where Charlotte had been confined for the past fifteen years, but its interior was different. Here there were no nuns in rustling black robes, no coloured plaster saints, and the fine paintings which graced the Retreat’s walls would not have been out of place in Robert’s Dublin home. The staff were approachable too; pleasant, ordinary people, with no great air of piety.

  Robert’s chief difficulty was distinguishing one from another, for as Georgina explained, rank, both social and authoritative, went unstressed and unadvertised. Faced with an array of doors without name or number, it was a mystery to him how people found their way about. Used to the clear-cut structure of army life, he wondered also how order was kept so effectively. The principle of mutual respect, as explained by his daughter, sounded a fine aim, but in his experience human failings generally made mincemeat of such ideals.

  That it worked here, however, had been obvious to Robert that morning as the Superintendent showed him round. And in reading the words of its founder, that the Retreat should be a place in which the unhappy might obtain refuge, he was reminded of similar words spoken by the Mother Superior of that obscure little order of nursing nuns in Ireland. Only after remarking on that to his daughter, did Robert learn that the Irish doctor in charge had spent a considerable amount of time at the Quaker hospital. Influenced by its success, he had gone on to spread those principles elsewhere.

  How strange, he thought, as he saw Georgina to her door, that so many things came full circle, and that the line should so often begin and end with York. Leaving her, he stood for a moment outside, on the crest of the hill on which the hospital was built, gazing out over the darkening grounds. On one side he could see the Minster’s towers, catching the last residue of light from the west, while below him, beyond grounds and grassy strays, he could just make out the Barracks. A few lights were twinkling there, reminding him with sudden, but not unwelcome nostalgia, of his own tour of duty there.

  Savouring the memory and its banishment of the twenty years between, for a moment he was thirty again, impulsive and hot-blooded, and with Charlotte on his mind, just a little crazy, too. Living too hard, drinking too much, searching for a panacea which always eluded him. And then, unexpectedly, at that little hotel on Gillygate, he had met Louisa, and she had changed everything.

  Not materially, of course. That travesty of a marriage did not go away, nor did it cease to plague him, but Louisa had banished its morbid fascination. Once free of that, Robert’s life had regained its balance, become bearable, even enjoyable at times. He supposed, looking back, that it should have gone no further, yet even under the closest examination, he could not see where he had forced the issue. He had put his situation honestly before her, and she had rejected him; and taking the honourable path, he had stayed away.

  Fate, however, seemed to have had other plans in store. Never, if he lived to be ninety, would he forget that summer’s evening – so like this one! – when Louisa had made that unexpected visit to his lodgings at Fulford. That, for him, was where it had really begun, the point where honour and pain and loneliness assumed the aspect of unwanted baggage on life’s hard road. Having abandoned them, he had set out, quite deliberately, to take her.

  With all he knew now, and all that had happened between, Robert would not have changed those two years, even if he could. Like a many-faceted jewel, that time stood out, its dark depths and shafts of light still glowing in his memory. Nothing, since, had matched it.

  It was all very well, he thought, for Georgina to tell him what he must and must not do. She knew too little, and her perspective was different. Seeing Louisa again was a revelation for which he had been unprepared. After all these years, he had expected her to seem older, unattractive against the picture he held in his heart. He should have known better. The warmth of her smile did not change, nor the light in her eyes, and she had matured with grace. Yes, he thought, smiling into the darkness, Louisa Elliott was still a lovely woman, natural and artless as ever; but that had always been her attraction.

  Wanting to see her again, he knew he would return. Next time, however, he would not make the mistake of calling when the family were gathered. Next time, he would ensure that he saw her alone.

  Seven

  In the house there was nowhere to talk. Nowhere, that is, with sufficient privacy. Tisha was helping in the kitchen and would soon be going to bed. There, the upper walls were too thin to allow much more than a hushed whisper. By the window’s fading light Robin was writing a log of photographs taken that afternoon, and, slumped on the sofa with an oil-lamp already lit, Liam was absorbed by a book. He looked set to stay up all night. Irritated by that calm family scene and unable to find distraction, Edward waited with gnawing impatience for Louisa to finish clearing away.

  Able to stand his thoughts no longer, he went outside to pace the length of the garden until she should join him. Against a low band of pink, the trees seemed no more than black paper cut-outs, with a random pattern of holes here and there. A pretty illusion, he thought, life imitating art, masking its three-dimensional reality. He looked back at the cottage, all quaint angles and lack of symmetry, and knew it rested on insecure foundations; yet in the last rosy glow from the west, it presented a delightful picture of rural peace. He wondered whether the years of happiness beneath its roof had been a similar illusion, resting on equally insecure foundations, maintained with ease only while Robert Duncannon stayed away.

  It was a bitter thought, and an alarming one. Loving Louisa as he did, for him the years of their marriage had been the happiest of his life. Not usually given to jealousy, where Robert Duncannon was concerned, Edward found it difficult to be rational.

  She came at last, pausing to remove her apron and reaching up to hang it on a peg behind the door. He stood beneath the trees in the orchard, watching her maddeningly slow progress along the path, loving her beyond everything. The pauses she made, her comments on the vegetables and burgeoning raspberry canes – quite audible in the stillness – illustrated her relucta
nce to air the subject which tormented him.

  And she was aware of his torment. Brightly determined at first, her smile became uncertain as she discerned his face, then faded altogether. Choked by the sheer volume of words which begged for release, for a moment Edward could say nothing. In the silence she stiffened, turning her back before uttering the briefest apology.

  ‘And so you should be sorry,’ he muttered fiercely, taking her arm. ‘Come on – we can’t talk here – every word will carry back to the house.’

  Not until they were a good hundred yards down the towpath did he speak again, and in his anger and apprehension the words were staccato, his phrases short and disjointed. Not trusting Robert Duncannon, Edward’s accusations came out badly, making his wife the guilty party, the one to blame for that brazen flirtation in front of the children, the one who encouraged a man who stood to ruin them all. In her turn, Louisa was furious, accusing him of irrational and unreasonable jealousy.

  ‘It’s not every day we have visitors,’ she declared hotly. ‘Would you have me sit like a spectre at the feast, ignoring him?’

  It was an unfortunate analogy, one which prompted bitter sarcasm. Edward had been informed of Charlotte Duncannon’s death only as their guests were leaving.

  ‘Spectre at the feast,’ he repeated with a harsh laugh, ‘is a curiously apt phrase. The spectre should have been his wife, don’t you think? She’s the one so recently dead! Not that anyone would have suspected it — he was giving an impression of an extremely happy man!’

  ‘Given those circumstances, Edward,’ she retorted, ‘I should think he is. I doubt you’d be heartbroken, either!’

  ‘I’d at least try to observe the decencies!’

  Biting back a cutting reply, Louisa turned away, gazing through the purple shades of evening towards the river’s far bank. In the distance street-lights twinkled, and beyond the houses flanking Fulford Road stood the Barracks. Even after all these years the place drew her eyes like a magnet. And yet she had been happy with Edward, content and peaceful. Only in the last year or so had they argued at all, and that was mainly over Tisha. Usually Louisa was the one who was hurt and accusatory; it was painful to be on the receiving end of Edward’s resentment.

  Wanting to placate him, she said with forced calm: ‘Robert said nothing at all about Charlotte until after we’d eaten – and he explained then that he hadn’t wanted to spoil our day with news of her death.’

  But Edward’s anger was not to be diffused so easily. ‘How very thoughtful of him! A pity he didn’t consider how his visit might spoil the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Oh, Edward,’ she sighed, ‘don’t exaggerate.’

  On a deep breath he paused, taking his wife’s arm, making her turn to face him. With an effort he calmed his temper, put stays on the fear and jealousy which threatened more destruction than even Robert Duncannon could accomplish.

  ‘Louisa, I’m not exaggerating. He hasn’t been near us for years, and suddenly he turns up, out of the blue, all charm and good humour. And you welcomed him like the prodigal returned,’ he said, pausing to let the accusation sink in. ‘What worries me more, is the effect on the children.’

  ‘He’s Georgina’s father, for goodness’ sake. She visits us – why shouldn’t he?’

  Her attempt at a nonchalant shrug irritated Edward further. ‘And she’s another one!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, I know she’s a delightful girl, and you’re very fond of her – but in her own way, Louisa, she’s as dangerous as he is. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘See what?’

  ‘She’s young and beautiful and exceptionally charming – to all of us. We’re all very fond of her, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘But one of us is more than just fond of the girl. One of us is quite besotted by Robert’s daughter, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  Louisa’s breath caught in her throat. For several seconds she absorbed the grimness of her husband’s expression, the angry glitter of his eyes in the half-light. ‘Who?’

  With chilling abruptness he turned, seemed about to leave her standing there, but then he paused, and on a sharp release of breath shook his head. Suddenly, all that uncharacteristic fury was gone, and in its place was sadness and perplexity, and a deep, loving compassion which in that moment was as unwelcome as his jealousy.

  ‘So you haven’t noticed,’ he said softly, ‘I didn’t think you had. I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks, trying to find the right words.’

  ‘Which of them?’ But there was no real need to ask. With his wide range of interests and string of friends, Robin hardly had time to eat these days, much less to fall in love. Anyway, she thought, he was far too young. But so was Liam. Perhaps he did admire Georgina – she was, after all, an admirable young woman – but it was no more than that. Could not be more than that.

  ‘I suppose you mean Liam?’ she said derisively.

  ‘I do indeed.’ Before she could interrupt, he went on quickly, ‘Calf-love it may be, I don’t dispute that. I’m not suggesting Georgina’s encouraged him, but she is drawn to him, Louisa – and he’s flattered by that. What young man wouldn’t be? So, he imagines himself in love. Spends his time daydreaming about her, instead of getting on with his work. He never was the most diligent apprentice,’ Edward added with bitter humour, ‘but recently his concentration has been nonexistent.’

  A tight band seemed to be squeezing Louisa’s heart. Liam, in love at eighteen? The idea was ludicrous. And with Robert’s daughter? It was unthinkable. ‘What nonsense!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve never heard anything so silly in my life.’

  ‘There’s nothing silly about it. Tragic, yes – especially if he should try to show how he feels.’

  That was too much. ‘He wouldn’t!’

  ‘But he’s young, Louisa – he might.’

  ‘She wouldn’t – ’

  ‘No, I’m sure she wouldn’t. But,’ he added heavily, ‘the situation mustn’t be allowed to get that far.’

  In the gathering darkness Louisa paced up and down, six paces along the path, six paces back, arms folded and hugged into her body as though holding a grievous hurt. ‘You’re making something out of nothing,’ she accused, her voice harsh with pain, ‘finding reasons to stop Georgina from seeing us. Liam isn’t in love with her at all – he’s just unhappy in the business. He’s not cut out for that kind of work – have you considered that?’

  ‘He was happy enough in the beginning,’ Edward said defensively. ‘I gave him every opportunity to choose what he would do.’

  ‘He didn’t know what he wanted to do – you talked him into it.’

  Desperately hurt by that, Edward was nevertheless aware that she was steering him away from the heart of the problem. Having comfortably avoided the subject for years, now, when danger threatened, she was ill-prepared to face it. In many ways, Edward reflected, he was just as much to blame; but with Robert Duncannon apparently content to leave them be, it had been difficult to press Louisa into action. The time had never seemed right. Now, however, some kind of action was essential. And if she could not be persuaded that truth was the only armour, then he would have to defend his family with the only weapons at his disposal.

  ‘I think you must explain to Georgina that her frequent visits are not desirable. And you must tell her why. She knows the situation – she wouldn’t wish to hurt us further.’

  ‘Edward, I can’t!’

  ‘And as for her father,’ he stated grimly, ‘I’ll not have him over my doorstep. You’re my wife, Louisa, and the cottage is my home – I won’t countenance his presence again.’

  Burning beneath that implied mistrust, she asked scathingly: ‘After all these years, do you trust me so little?’

  Angrily, he turned on her. ‘I don’t trust him. But even if I did, I still wouldn’t want him in my house. Not now – not after all this time. His presence gives rise to too much speculation – and people have long memories. Do you want t
he gossip to start again?’

  She did not reply to that, but he could see resentment in her stance, in the outward thrust of her chin. She did not want to believe him, did not want to accept that what he said might be true. Searching for something to convince her, he recalled a painful moment from the turmoil of impressions which had attacked that afternoon. Watching young Robin with Robert Duncannon, their heads together over that borrowed camera, Edward had been stricken by a marked similarity of height and posture and colouring, and the almost mirror image of their profiles. Georgina, he was sure, had also noticed the resemblance. How long before someone else remarked on it?

  Louisa’s anger and frustration burned for most of the following day, taking her through a vicious attack on the kitchen range and an assault on weeds in the vegetable plot. By late afternoon her fury was spent, and although she wept a few tears over an old photograph kept with her private things, she was sensible enough to admit that Edward was right. Washed and changed into a clean cotton dress, she felt better, more able to think. Seeing the dangers clearly, it seemed sensible to point them out to Robert; and she must do it, not Edward. That was the easiest part. She had learned to live without Robert long ago, and despite the excitement of seeing him yesterday, she was well aware of the trouble another visit could cause.

  Having made that decision, and forgiven Edward for his jealousy, her doubts and heart-searchings were largely reserved for his other suspicions. She could not believe that Liam entertained anything more than a brotherly affection for Georgina; and until she was convinced of it, would do nothing to hurt the girl. That she would be hurt by such action as Edward proposed, Louisa had no doubt. In seeking to protect his own, Edward’s loyalties were clearly marked, while hers were often confused, particularly with regard to Robert and his family. Guilt came into it as well as love.