Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  He relaxed suddenly, a warm smile dispelling the rather forbidding look she had faced on entering the room. ‘Please don’t go. I — I’d appreciate some company.’ Running fingers through his hair, he added wryly: ‘Bad dreams – they tend to linger.’

  Touched by that appeal, Louisa felt her earlier resolve begin to weaken; sensing it, he pressed home his advantage.

  ‘You shouldn’t I know. It’s most improper at this hour, and of course, there’s your mother to care for.’ Again that smile. ‘Why not leave the door open? Then you may keep an eye on two invalids at once.’ Marking her continued hesitation, he added: ‘I know I was raving for a while, but I assure you, I’m normally quite sane. And one loud scream would bring the entire household running, would it not?’

  Unfolding a blanket which lay across the arm of a fireside chair, he wrapped it round his legs and sat down with a gratified sigh. ‘Oh, that’s good. Forgive my poor manners, Miss Elliott, but these weakened limbs wouldn’t hold me another minute. Come, do sit down where I can see you. And rest assured, had I a mind to chase you round the bedroom, I swear I’d make no more than a couple of yards!’

  Hearing her anxieties so accurately expressed, Louisa felt a little foolish.

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed, seating herself with grave dignity in the chair which faced his. ‘But I warn you, sir, having committed one impropriety, I intend to commit more with some very direct questions. In return for my company, you must tell me exactly who you are, and what brings you to this small establishment. We know its excellence, and so do our regular visitors, but I rather think you must be used to – shall we say something grander? Like Harker’s, or the Royal Station Hotel?’

  Her frankness amused him. He chuckled quietly, introducing himself with correct if overdone formality, even to the extent of a mocking little bow from his chair. He talked about his regiment, the Royals, giving some impressions of the city gleaned during a stay of almost six months. He went on to describe a day in the summer, riding out towards Strensall, when he had chanced to pass the house.

  In the heat and dust, he said, Gillygate had looked wilted and drab; but, with fresh green paint, a man had been putting finishing touches to the sign which hung between the first-and second-floor windows. Recalling it well, Louisa smiled; she told him she had been at home that week of the house-painting, suffering from the smell of it.

  Robert laughed at that; but with unashamed sentiment said: ‘There were flowers at the windows, and fresh white curtains. It looked clean and bright and very welcoming. I remember wondering who lived here.’

  ‘But you could have stayed in town,’ she insisted.

  ‘That’s true. But in the centre of town,’ he pointed out, ‘I might have chanced across any number of acquaintances. I didn’t want that. I wanted — oh, I don’t know – time to myself. Time to think, to make some sense of things.’ For a moment, seeing the concern in her eyes, Robert was sorely tempted to tell her everything. The low ebb of the night, the fall of coals in the grate, the intimacy of the bedroom, all conspired to bring the words to his tongue; but with a sad smile, he shook his head.

  Looking into the fire’s glowing heart, he said heavily: ‘I was feeling ill, but it was such a bad crossing from Kingstown, I thought it merely the after-effects. Had I known what it was, believe me, I’d not have come here. I’d probably have gone straight back to Fulford.’ After a moment’s pause, he added quietly: ‘And there, I imagine I would have died.’

  ‘Oh, surely not — you have doctors —’

  He shrugged. ‘Yes, if one had been called in time. What saved me, Miss Elliott, was not the little man who came to tend this – this wound of mine. He didn’t save my life. Your mother did, with her excellent nursing.’ He could have said more, but refrained. Why burden her, he thought, with his disturbed state of mind? She would not understand. Besides, with the sudden lifting of that morbid mood, he could barely understand himself.

  It was enough, now, to be alive; to be in the company of a young and very lovely woman, and to feel the blood coursing through his veins in response to her.

  With a smile, he said: ‘I have a lot to thank your mother for. It’s a debt I doubt I’ll ever be able to repay.’

  ‘When I saw her this evening, you were the first person she asked about. I’m sure the only debt you owe her is to get well.’

  ‘You know,’ he smiled, ‘you’re very like her.’

  ‘Indeed I’m not,’ Louisa protested with a little laugh. ‘We’re very unlike, as a matter of fact. If you knew us better…’

  ‘Oh, but you are,’ he insisted, charmed by the transformation of her smile and wondering if she laughed a lot. He could not remember Charlotte ever laughing like that; her amusement had been a rare thing, always with the hard edge of hysteria or cruelty. In the brightness of the fire’s flame, this girl’s eyes sparkled as she glanced at him; and the stray hairs of her close-cut curls were turned to gold, like an aureole. He had always loved the luxuriant length of women’s hair, but on Louisa Elliott the short, pert style seemed right and oddly attractive. It was fashionable amongst young and independent women, but it seemed to accentuate her individuality. There was something fresh and challenging about her, which intrigued him; but there was warmth and wholesomeness too, which appealed in a far more basic way.

  Disconcerted by that lingering appraisal, and overly aware of the charm which had held her for longer than was either necessary or proper, for a moment Louisa compressed her lips and looked away. ‘It’s very late,’ she said, rising to her feet, ‘and I must leave you to get some rest.’

  He rose and thanked her for her kindness. ‘It was selfish of me to want to detain you. But thank you for staying, for giving me your company. I feel so much better for it.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she murmured politely, while her heart beat hard and warmth burned in her cheeks. Beneath straight black brows, his eyes regarded her steadily.

  ‘I have to report to the Barracks tomorrow,’ he said at last, ‘so I shall be leaving quite early. Will I see you before I go?’

  ‘In the morning?’ Louisa asked, hardly crediting his words. ‘You’re thinking of leaving?’

  ‘I have to — no choice, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But surely —’ she began, shaking her head in frustration. ‘You can’t just walk out in the morning. It’s snowing – bitterly cold — you’ll catch pneumonia.’

  He shrugged. ‘So, I’ll get a cab, and recover in the army’s time. But as soon as I’m able,’ he promised, ‘I’ll call to see your mother. I want to thank her for dragging me back from the brink. Will you pass the message on for me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Conscious that he had taken her hand in his, Louisa was astonished when he raised her fingers to his lips. Light though it was, she felt the quick thrill of that kiss run through her like a shock.

  Breathlessly, she bade him goodnight. At the door, however, she paused, looking back. ‘Please be careful – don’t let my mother’s excellent nursing be for nothing.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he murmured, feeling the sting of her reproof. ‘I shall take care, I promise.’

  He sat staring into the fire for some time; and when he did return to his bed, Robert Duncannon slept fitfully and later than he intended.

  Three

  There was a lot of fuss the following morning. Edward called at half-past seven on his way to work, missing Louisa who had just gone up to bed, and upsetting Bessie’s usual quiet routine. At ten, Dr Mackenzie began his rounds with the Elliotts and, incensed by Robert’s stubborn determination, the Scotsman ranted alarmingly. He prognosticated relapse unless the younger man return to bed immediately; and as for walking out into the winter air, he could guarantee pneumonia at the very least. Finally, in the face of his erstwhile patient’s implacable resolution, he shrugged his shoulders in disgust, scribbled his fee on a scrap of paper, and demanded to see Mary Elliott.

  ‘And I sincerely hope she’s not stirred from her bed,’ he muttered threaten
ingly as he mounted the stairs.

  Cowering under the blast of words, Emily followed him, leaving Robert Duncannon alone in the small front parlour. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, his face was pale and his long legs trembled from the effort of appearing fit and nonchalant in front of the fierce little Scot. He sank heavily into a chair, a small pile of books beside him on the floor. After a while, he pulled himself together, and returned them to the shelf. He knew now who owned the name on most of the flyleaves: Louisa Elliott. The signature was large, confident, the occasional appended date signifying that most of these books were the reading matter of her youth. Her taste had ranged from the romantic adventures of the Waverley novels, through Jane Austen and the Brontes, to that inexorable fatalist, Hardy. To Robert’s mind, the beauty of Hardy’s prose concealed too thinly the bitter pill of his philosophy.

  With a small grimace, he pushed the Hardy back, next to a slender volume of verse by Edward Elliott. It was inscribed with fondest love from the author to his dear aunt. Aunt who? Robert wondered. Could that be Mary? And who was Edward? The Elliotts as a family developed a new dimension, defying his notions of the English lower classes. Although he would have resented being called a snob, he had to admit that the men under his command did little to elevate his ideas. Yet here, in this comparatively humble little boarding house, he had been treated... with deference, yes, but there had been no false fawning, no apologies, rather a pride in what the family had to offer. He was beginning to understand that pride, but he wondered why their talents had not extended to a larger hotel in a more fashionable quarter of the city. Custom would not have been lacking. And Louisa Elliott, so wholesomely desirable, like a delicious russet apple, waiting to be tasted. He wished, quite fervently, to see her, for her to come and say goodbye before he left.

  Robert’s eyes scanned the room, the heavy furniture rather too modern for a taste that had been educated by the faded eighteenth-century elegance of White Leigh. Even so, this house was possessed of a casual warmth, and a comfort which he would long remember.

  The door opened and, rising to his feet, he was disappointed to see that it was Emily who entered. As though uncertain how to address him, she hesitated, her dark eyes still full of suspicion.

  ‘How is Mrs Elliott?’ Robert asked, forestalling her need to decide upon a name.

  ‘Dr Mackenzie is quite pleased with her,’ Emily said. ‘She’s no worse, anyway, and that’s supposed to be a good sign.’

  ‘Good. I’m most relieved to hear that. I told your sister I would call in the next few days to ask after your mother’s health, but please pass on my best regards to her, and my thanks. Unfortunately,’ he added, ‘I have to leave very shortly. Do you think that you could make up my bill? And send someone to hire a cab for me? I doubt if I could or should walk very far today.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Emily offered. ‘Where will you be going, sir?’Apparently preoccupied by the depth of snow beyond the window, he answered casually: ‘The Cavalry Barracks.’

  Over a pot of tea in the kitchen after their midday meal, Emily reiterated her surprise. ‘So when he said “The Cavalry Barracks,” I nearly dropped with surprise. You didn’t tell me you knew already, Louisa. What is he, for goodness sake?’

  Her sister shrugged. ‘An officer. I think he said he was a Captain.’ But he never did explain about that arm of his, she thought.

  ‘You don’t sound very interested. He was certainly interested in you,’ Emily said. ‘Asked where you were, and when I told him you were sleeping, he said I must remember to pass on his thanks and his farewell to you. And,’ Emily added with great emphasis, ‘he not only paid his bill, he left an amount equal to his own doctor’s bill for Mamma. Said he felt responsible for her illness.’

  Louisa remarked that it was the least he could do, under the circumstances. But she was intrigued, nevertheless. ‘Still, I expect that’s the last we shall see of him. In my experience, gentlemen can have the most charming manners, but their memories are short. Inside a couple of days, he’ll have forgotten all about us.’

  ‘No,’ stated Emily, ‘we’ll see him again, of that I’m certain.’

  ‘You were certain he was trouble,’ Bessie reminded her from across the table. ‘Fair put the wind up me you did, Miss Emily. I wish you wouldn’t get your feelings about people — I’d as soon not know about ‘em.’

  Studying the leaves in the bottom of her tea-cup, Emily compressed her lips. ‘I can’t help it,’ she muttered defensively.

  ‘You can help telling me, miss,’ the older woman protested. ‘If I had a shilling for every time you’ve scared me, I’d be a rich woman by now. That poor young gentleman.’

  ‘Well,’ Emily insisted mulishly, ‘we haven’t seen the last of him. You mark my words – he’ll be back.’

  Abruptly, Louisa stood up. ‘Isn’t it time you went up to Mamma? I’m going to find Blanche.’

  In an old skirt and galoshes, Louisa paused to look up and down the street before setting off into town. Great swags of snow clung to every roof and ledge, transforming the everyday into something almost magical. Recalling the Captain’s words, Louisa looked up at their green-painted name-board, trying to imagine herself a stranger, trying to see it through his eyes. Elliott’s and its adjoining neighbours looked very smart and new, and with a surge of possessive pride, Louisa noticed that their paintwork did look clean and shiny still, while her mother’s lace curtains were as white as the snow itself.

  Gillygate was not as elegant as Bootham, nor as good an address as Blossom Street, where the Tempests lived within sight of the city’s main gate. Gillygate was busy and bustling, a main street of shops and hotels and inns; and on this side at least, they had the privacy of long yards and gardens at the back, and the city walls and ramparts to look out on. Which was more than the Tempests could lay claim to, Louisa thought happily as her eyes took in the picture-book aspect of the snow. Rusty pink brickwork was mortared in white, every pane of glass picked out by miniature drifts, recessed doorways of shops piled high, leaving the tips of boot-scrapers exposed here and there like black cherries on a frosted cake.

  It was a bright morning, bitterly cold in the narrow, shadowed reaches, but where the sun flooded forth down Bootham and across the open expanse of Exhibition Square the air had a suggestion of spring about it, an invigorating sparkle which dispelled Louisa’s weariness completely. Her eyes were suddenly attracted by a flash of scarlet by the De Grey Rooms, and looking across the road she saw two Dragoon officers leaving the Yorkshire Hussars’ Mess. As clear as though he stood before her, Robert Duncannon sprang to mind yet again. The strong features, easy elegance and imposing height; how magnificent he must look in uniform, she thought with a surge of pleasure. Immediately, she reproached herself. Pursued, such imaginings would leave her as addle-pated as Rachel Tempest, besotted by vainglorious imagery and totally out of touch with reality. Whatever his rank, Louisa reminded herself, Robert Duncannon was just a man, with the same thoughts, desires and indifferences as any other. If nothing else, five years with landed gentry had taught her that.

  If she needed a further guard to romantic inclinations, she had only to conjure pictures of her mother and Aunt Elizabeth, ‘fallen women’ the pair of them, no matter how well-buried the past.

  That awareness was something she lived with, as disabling in its way as a crooked spine or club foot. She was rarely relaxed or at ease with people outside the Elliott family, because it was impossible to be honest, impossible to share reminiscences about parents and childhood, the common experience which drew people together. In a strange way, however, that sense of ambiguity, of being set apart, had been an asset in her chosen career. Notoriously suspended in the gap between servants and employers, governesses and companions were too socially awkward to be welcome in either camp. The loneliness could be killing, and for most, having to earn their own living was a humiliating step down in the world. For Louisa, however, it was a step up from what might have been; more t
han that, she liked children, enjoyed teaching, and minded the solitude hardly at all. It was her protection, and she fitted her chosen niche well.

  With plans for Emily’s impending marriage upon them, Bessie often teased Louisa about her lack of suitors, but at twenty-five she had no hopes of marriage, nor any particular desire to relinquish the single state. She was pleased to see her sister engaged, but Louisa was not envious.

  Emily’s fiancé, John Chapman, was a carpenter, apprentice-trained under his father, and almost certain to follow on in the family business. He would no doubt do well, and Louisa knew her sister would make him a good wife. She just wished John’s mother could be kinder, less keen to stress Emily’s amazing good fortune; and having swallowed the unpalatable truth about the Elliotts, Louisa wished she would simply forget it. The only consolation was that the Chapmans were too concerned for their own snow-white respectability ever to admit the lack of it in Emily.

  From snippets of conversation her sister occasionally let drop, she knew the Chapmans thought her snobbish and superior. More hurtful still was their opinion that with her background, Louisa Elliott had no right to seem so. But while Louisa had received an education, and Blanche an apprenticeship, Emily’s training had cost their mother nothing more than patience. There were times, when she felt most injured, that she thought her sister’s portion of their father’s legacy was an added attraction to her domestic virtues.

  But that brief twinge of pain was easily suppressed. Louisa considered herself too proud to submit to people like the Chapmans, and, anyway, would rather have her freedom. Not for her the humiliation of having the past exposed and examined, the studied consideration of whether illegitimacy in the family could be borne; not for her the dashed hopes, the terrible disillusionment that had been Edward’s a few short years ago.

  Less than ten years, although it seemed a lifetime now. The end of that affair had crushed him, with his honesty flung back in his face, and permission to marry refused: and all because he lacked a father’s name. Two years later the girl, Maud, was dead of consumption. Only too well did she recall Edward’s grief at that time, his bitter vow to remain unmarried, and the gross injustice of it all.