Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  As she stormed out of the dining room, her father waved his younger daughter away from the table. With the closing of the door, his shoulders slumped and he was silent.

  ‘I think she means it,’ he said at last. ‘In fact I’m sure she does. What am I going to do with her, Louisa?’

  The use of her Christian name was instantly sobering. He had never called her that before, and yet, in an unguarded moment, it had tripped off his tongue with alarming ease.

  ‘It really isn’t for me to say, Mr Tempest,’ she quietly replied.

  His quick brown eyes rested on hers for a moment before dropping away with a sudden flash of annoyance. ‘No. No, of course not,’ he muttered, worrying at a small stain on the white damask with his thumbnail. He glanced up again. ‘All right, Miss Elliott, you may go.’

  The schoolroom, Louisa’s room, and Victoria’s, opened into each other, the former being of a decent size and warmed by a fire. But the latter rooms, having been carved from a larger one, were rather narrow. On particularly cold nights, Louisa would leave the schoolroom door open while she worked, so that the warmth could permeate her spartan cell.

  It had an iron bedstead, a large chest of drawers, a washstand and a walk-in closet where she hung her few clothes. On the polished floorboards beside the bed was a hand-made clipped rug, the product of last winter’s long evenings; it was the brightest thing in the room. The walls were papered in a faded Regency stripe, and even the patchwork bedspread was old enough to have paled to an almost uniform beige. But it was a room of her own, and as she closed the door behind her at nine o’clock, Louisa breathed a sigh compounded of relief and exhaustion.

  She dropped her shawl onto the bed and poured hot water, brought up by Moira, into the flowered pottery basin. Holding the steaming flannel over her face and eyes, she felt some of her weariness seep away; it had been a tiring day, and she had not slept well the night before.

  Albert Tempest’s unexpected familiarity had unnerved her, and she found herself wondering what went on behind those quick, speculative glances. The thought that he might entertain any kind of fancy for her was too repulsive to contemplate, and she thrust the idea away, seeking refuge in an image of Robert Duncannon.

  His visit the day before had been less a surprise than a shock, severely denting her conviction that Gillygate was unlikely to see him again. It left her doubting both his motives and her judgement. His interest, unlike Albert Tempest’s, was flattering, but in its way just as unwelcome.

  Robert Duncannon’s life was as far removed from her own as a Hottentot’s. Perhaps not quite, she conceded, for by and large they spoke a similar language. But she knew she had far more in common with her employer, in spite of the dislike he inspired, than with the well-born cavalry officer. The evening’s news item concerning Prince Francis of Teck merely heightened that awareness. The Prince also served with the Royals, and she wondered how well the Captain knew the man who was to have been brother-in-law to a King.

  Eight

  After her father’s departure next morning, Rachel dashed up the stairs to the schoolroom. Lessons were not quite underway but Louisa’s rules regarding interruptions before noon were quite specific.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I had to come and tell you – I would have said over breakfast, but Father took so long over it this morning, and I had to wait until he’d gone.’

  ‘What is it, Miss Rachel? I want to begin your sister’s lesson.’

  ‘He’s given me permission to go!’

  ‘Go where?’

  Rachel gave an exasperated sigh. ‘To Sophie’s party, of course.’

  ‘Good, I’m delighted for you. But can we talk about it later, please?’

  Rachel stamped out of the room, but by lunchtime had quite recovered her spirits. The words tumbled out in her excitement. ‘But there’s a condition attached. Isn’t my father just famous for his conditions?’ she laughed. ‘He says I must take a chaperone with me.’

  ‘I see. And who is that to be?’ Louisa imagined it would be the wife of one of her father’s friends.

  Rachel’s eyes sparkled with what she believed to be marvellous news. ‘Guess,’ she said, her whole body quivering with a desire to delay the amazing surprise.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ her companion replied, but the truth was beginning to dawn. ‘Oh, Miss Rachel! Not me? You can’t possibly mean me. How can I be your chaperone? I’m in mourning — I can’t go to a party.’

  The pleasure fell from Rachel’s face like a slippery veil. A tantrum hovered threateningly. ‘But you must! We have no relatives in York, my father’s friends are all too stuffy to even ask, and I cannot go without a chaperone. Father has put his foot down quite firmly over that. He doesn’t want me to go at all, but I created the most terrible scene last night after you came upstairs – he had to relent.’

  Louisa nodded. Rachel’s scenes were infamous, and she could sense the next one closing in. ‘Calm down,’ she pleaded. ‘And for goodness’ sake, don’t cry. Tears solve nothing.’ She paused while Rachel collected herself. ‘All right. If it means so much to you, I suppose I shall have to ignore the conventions for once. I’m flattered that your father thinks me suitable, but there is another problem. I don’t have anything to wear. Even my best black wouldn’t do for a grand occasion like Miss Sophie’s party.’

  ‘Haven’t you something in lilac or grey that would do?’

  Louisa shook her head. ‘I don’t usually attend social functions, Miss Rachel.’

  After a moment’s thought, Rachel brightened. ‘Your sister, she’s a dressmaker. Wouldn’t she run something up for you?’

  Louisa chuckled. What Rachel Tempest knew about dressmaking would fill a short piece of notepaper, and she was entirely unacquainted with Blanche. ‘My sister sews all day for Miss Devine. I doubt she’d be willing to sew all night for me.’

  ‘But she’s your sister.’

  ‘Sisters are able to refuse with alacrity, Miss Rachel — only friends are restrained by manners.’

  ‘Then we’ll see her together,’ Rachel said, undeterred. ‘She won’t say no to me.’

  Blanche did not refuse outright, but what help she offered, Louisa decided as they left that crowded little workroom, was most certainly from astonishment at Rachel Tempest’s temerity in asking in the first place.

  It was agreed that she would purchase some material on Louisa’s behalf from Miss Devine, cut the gown and fit it, while Louisa did the sewing. It would mean bearding the housekeeper for a loan of the sewing machine, and some late nights, but it was more than Louisa had dared to hope.

  Rachel was jubilant as they came out into Coney Street. ‘There! I told you she’d be willing to help. Your sister may be brusque, Louisa, but I’m sure she has a heart of gold.’

  ‘I’m sure your presence helped, Miss Rachel,’ Louisa murmured dryly.

  Her excited chatter ceased as they began the short, steep climb up Micklegate; flanked by those imposing Georgian mansions, however, Louisa’s thoughts strayed yet again to Robert Duncannon.

  ‘By the way,’ she enquired, as casually as she was able, ‘this officer of Dragoons the Bainbridges have staying with them — what is he called, do you know?’

  ‘Oh, let me think,’ Rachel pondered, slowing as they breasted the rise, ‘It begins with a D, I think...’

  Louisa held her breath, her heart racing out of all proportion to the effort of their climb.

  ‘Hugh — that’s his name — Hugh Darnley. Sophie says he’s lovely — I think she’s got quite a pash on him!’ Rachel confided with a giggle. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ her companion sighed, aware of disappointment. ‘It’s just that I have difficulty remembering names — I like to fix them in my mind, if possible, beforehand.’

  Nine

  After further consultation, Louisa decided upon a soft, fine wool crepe for the gown. The material was expensive, but infinitely wearable, which was more than could be said for Rachel’s suggestion o
f exotic black lace. Blanche’s design was a high-necked, front-fastening gown with tiny jet buttons, sleeves puffed at the shoulder but tight in the forearm, the skirt smooth over the hips with soft folds falling into a small train. Rachel’s passion for lace was catered for in a separate jabot, which retrieved the simple design from seeming too much the day dress, and yet could be removed afterwards. Carried away by her own imagination, Rachel thought it too plain and governessy, but Louisa was thrilled. In her eyes it was exactly right, saved from severity by the softness of the material, and well worth the time, effort and money it had cost. With care, it would last for years. It was even worth Blanche’s bad-tempered fussing over the set of the sleeves, and her half-sarcastic, half-envious jibes at Louisa’s social aspirations.

  The evening before the party, Rachel insisted on a full dress-rehearsal. With its scooped, shoulder-revealing neckline and short sleeves of ruffled lace, Rachel’s pale yellow silk was beautiful; in yellow satin slippers, long satin gloves and with her rich brown hair piled into a shining heap of curls, she looked stunningly pretty. Beside her, reflected in the long wardrobe mirror, Louisa provided the perfect sober contrast. At last, Rachel was forced to acknowledge the wisdom of her companion’s choice.

  Sighing pleasurably, she dragged her eyes away from herself and turned to the array of cloaks and mantles laid out on the bed. ‘What do you think to this?’ she asked, holding up a short cape in moss green velour.

  Louisa shook her head. ‘It could be a cold night, Miss Rachel. A long cloak would be better.’

  Rachel studied and sorted, grumbling about her lack of suitable evening wear, until she eventually held up two cloaks, one in mulberry wool, the other a dark brown velvet. Louisa indicated a preference for the latter, and Rachel agreed.

  ‘But what about you, Louisa? What will you wear? Not that old black cloak of yours, I hope — that won’t do at all. I know!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘I have the very thing.’ She rummaged in the wardrobe, producing a short black cape heavily embroidered with jet beads. ‘I wore this for poor Mother’s funeral, and hardly ever since. It’s a little old-fashioned, but it will suit your new dress admirably, don’t you think? Try it on, Louisa, and we’ll go down and show Father how fine we look.’

  Albert Tempest thought they looked very fine until his daughter removed her mantle. His mouth fell open and the colour drained from his face. As a flush returned to his cheeks, he seemed to have some difficulty in finding his voice. ‘You – you can’t wear that!’ he stammered. ‘It isn’t decent!’

  Rachel’s shock was almost as great as her father’s. The yellow silk was her first evening gown, and accustomed as she was to choosing her own clothes, it had never occurred to her that her father might object. To the price, perhaps, but not the design.

  ‘But it’s the height of fashion,’ she whispered, her hands, nevertheless, straying to her naked throat.

  Her father leapt to his feet. ‘I don’t care what it is — you’ll not leave my house dressed like that!’

  ‘Father,’ Rachel pleaded, ‘it’s an evening gown – all evening gowns are cut low at the neck. Sophie and the other girls – they’ll all be wearing similar dresses.’

  Louisa looked at her employer and, for the first time, quailed inside. She had witnessed his anger before, but had never seen him quite so choleric.

  ‘I don’t care what they wear!’ he exploded. ‘You are my daughter, and I say you go nowhere dressed in that indecent fashion. When your mother went out in the evenings, she wore proper clothes, I never saw her half-naked in public!

  ‘But I see Miss Elliott hasn’t given way to such indecency,’ he added, with an almost regretful glance in her direction.

  ‘But she’s different,’ Rachel sobbed.

  ‘Don’t answer back, Miss! Get up those stairs at once, and don’t let me see you half-dressed again!’

  As Rachel rushed out of the room, Louisa turned to follow.

  ‘Wait,’ he said before she reached the door. Making a visible effort, Albert Tempest inhaled deeply and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Miss Elliott, I’m both astonished and displeased. I credited you with more discretion.’

  In the manner of an obedient servant, Louisa studied the carpet. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Tempest. I didn’t know you hadn’t seen the dress before.’

  ‘How could you think I would approve?’ he shouted.

  Having been raised in an almost exclusively female household, Louisa was unused to being browbeaten by men. Albert Tempest’s anger was frightening; even the pitch of his voice felt like an assault, but she refused to be cowed. Abandoning all pretence of humility she stared back. ‘It’s an evening gown,’ she said quietly, ‘and in my opinion, quite modest.’

  ‘Huh! In your opinion. And what opinion’s that, may I ask? Is my daughter’s companion so well-versed that she can venture to give me an opinion?’

  Angered by his sarcasm, Louisa lifted her chin a little higher. ‘My sister makes evening gowns for some of the best families in the county,’ she said with spirit.

  For a moment, surprise curbed something of his fury, giving way to a more biting suggestiveness. ‘Oh, she does, does she? So tell me, Miss Elliott, would you wear a gown like that?’ There was a distinctly unpleasant twist to his mouth as he spoke, and his foxy little eyes were bright with speculation.

  Humiliated by the inference, Louisa cursed the blood which rushed to her face, but she refused to drop her eyes. Her nostrils flared as she fought to keep her voice under control. ‘It’s a beautiful gown, Mr Tempest. It suits your daughter very well, but it would be unbecoming to me. Especially,’ she added, ‘in my position as Miss Rachel’s companion.’

  His eyes glittering, Albert Tempest coldly dismissed her. But Louisa stood her ground, determined to say what needed to be said, even if it cost her her job.

  ‘I told you to go.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished, Mr Tempest. You can dismiss me afterwards, but please listen for a moment. Miss Rachel may be wilful and spoiled, but she isn’t bad, nor would she willingly do anything of which you might disapprove. This — this party — is the first occasion of her life. She’s looked forward to it for weeks, had this gown specially made, and now you say it isn’t suitable. She may have something else, I’m not sure, but that’s not the point – she wants to wear this one.’

  He paced up and down before the fire, apparently deep in thought. ‘Miss Elliott,’ he said at length, in the tones of one explaining a difficult problem to an hysterical child, ‘I’m not an unreasonable man. Contrary to your belief, my daughter’s happiness is a matter very close to my heart, but so is her welfare. She does not leave this house in a state of near-nakedness, whether that is the fashion or not. Just imagine what people would think!’

  And there lies the nub of the matter, Louisa thought wearily. ‘Very well, Mr Tempest. So Rachel may go to the party, as long as her shoulders are covered?’

  ‘Why yes, of course,’ he replied, in the manner of one who wonders what all the fuss has been about.

  Louisa resisted a smile. ‘Then I think I may be able to solve the problem,’ she said. ‘The dressmaker left some odd lengths of silk and lace which I’m sure we can utilise to your satisfaction. May I tell Rachel?’

  ‘You can tell her I want to see the results before she goes out!’

  ‘Naturally. Thank you, sir.’

  That evening, she cut a generous square of silk, hemmed and edged it with lace, and folded it into a triangle. Draping it around Rachel’s shoulders, she fastened the points with a brooch, attached it to the dress, and stood back.

  ‘It’s modest,’ she said, in response to Rachel’s uncertainty. ‘Your father will approve, and – well, if you should happen to be a little warm…’

  ‘It can soon be removed!’

  ‘Hush, you’ll get me into trouble.’

  Louisa’s day off fell on the day of the party. She needed a few hours of peace, and despite Rachel’s pleadings refused to give it up. With a fir
m promise to return at five, she left for Gillygate.

  Bathing facilities in the Tempest household were limited, so she preferred to bathe at home, in hot water, before a good warm fire. Every other day of the week she wrapped herself in a towel and performed the necessary ablutions to keep herself clean and her clothes fresh. Each Saturday’s bath and newly-laundered linen, however, were sensual pleasures of which she never tired. Camisoles and petticoats felt smooth and cool against her fire-warmed skin, while the scent of lavender filled her nostrils; a new extravagance were the fine silk stockings, purchased in a moment of madness that morning.

  She called Bessie to help with her stays. ‘Lace me good and tight, Bessie — I made the waist of my dress a bit on the small side.’

  ‘Breathe in then — there, how’s that? I wish I still had a waist as neat as yours, Miss Louisa. It’s a fine figure you’ve got. Let’s see you in that dress.’

  ‘Not yet, Bessie, I haven’t dried my hair yet. Off you go and keep Mamma company. I’ll be down soon to show you how it looks.’

  A pair of curling tongs were heating by the fire. She tested them first on a piece of paper, took strands of hair at the crown and expertly turned the golden brown waves into curls. Within a quarter of an hour she was finished and, teasing out the curls above her forehead, surveyed her reflection with some satisfaction. A touch of soot to darken her brows and lashes, and she was ready.

  For weeks she had thought of the party with apprehension. Every evening was spent sewing and wondering what manner of people the Bainbridges were. Sophie and her elder sister had called to take afternoon tea with Rachel, surprising Louisa by their striking contrast of looks and temperament. Petite, feminine and frivolous, Sophie could almost have been Rachel’s twin, while the elder girl was thin and rather mannish. She had little to contribute to their conversation, and indeed seemed rather rude. But when Louisa tried to draw her out, she understood Lily’s attitude stemmed from a complete lack of interest in her sister’s favourite topics. Miss Lily Bainbridge’s passions were bloodstock and hunting, and social calls were decidedly low on her list of priorities.