‘I don’t know him well,’ Louisa protested. ‘We met by chance some weeks ago.’
Mrs Bainbridge smiled again. ‘If you want my opinion, my dear, he’s quite taken with you. And he couldn’t make a better choice, you being so good with children.’
Mystified, Louisa shook her head. ‘I’m sorry…?’
‘Why, he’s a widower, didn’t you know? With a small daughter. And I have it on excellent authority that he’s quite wealthy — estates in Ireland, you know.’
Louisa did not know, but she perceived that Mrs Bainbridge was even less in control of her tongue than of her household. Anxious lest their conversation be repeated with embellishments, she sought an effective reply. ‘I know nothing of Captain Duncannon’s personal circumstances, Mrs Bainbridge. Our conversations have been brief and quite superficial. I doubt his interest in me is anything more than kindly. My social position,’ she added, trying to smile, ‘is far too humble for any deeper interest on either side. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Rachel and I really must be leaving. Mr Tempest said we were to be sure to return before dark.’
The older woman looked hurt, and Louisa was sorry. ‘Forgive me, I know you thought to be kind, but—we really do have to go.’ Dismayed, she stood up, signalling to Rachel, repeating their thanks for the previous evening’s hospitality. She was aware that she had been hasty and ungracious, and that Rachel was far from pleased by this abrupt leave-taking.
As the manservant brought their cloaks, Robert followed them into the hall, suggesting, very casually, that he escort them back to the main road.
Doubly mortified, Louisa wished him a thousand miles hence; but Rachel was flattered and thanked him with a winning smile, reserving her stony expression for Louisa.
It had begun to rain and the pavements were wet. Complaining, Rachel raised her umbrella and hoisted her skirts with a complete disregard for the amount of ankle and petticoat she displayed.
‘In Ireland, we’d say it was a soft day,’ Robert commented.
Catching up the train of her dress, Louisa did not reply. His twinkling, downward glance was not lost on her, however, and she was tempted to drop her skirts into the muddy path.
‘Don’t do it,’ he said. ‘You’ll spoil that lovely dress.’
Infuriated, she averted her eyes, inwardly raging at his lack of discretion. His actions gave the lie to what she had said to Sophie’s mother and, considering those comments, she squirmed afresh, unconsciously speeding her footsteps as though she longed to be on the tram and back in Blossom Street.
‘Goodness me, Louisa,’ Rachel said crossly, ‘do slow down. We’re not in a race, you know. You were inordinately eager to leave the Bainbridges, but there’s no need to run!’
‘Is anything wrong, Miss Elliott?’ Robert asked evenly.
‘Mr Tempest wanted us to be back before dark.’
Mystified by her ill-temper, he sought her eyes, but she resolutely refused to look at him.
‘Are you angry with me?’ he whispered.
She shook her head, blinking back tears.
He addressed himself to Rachel. ‘Do you have a long journey, Miss Tempest?’
‘Long enough,’ she admitted. ‘Blossom Street, just a few doors down from the nunnery, which doesn’t please my father.’
Making desultory conversation with Rachel, Robert waited with them until the tram arrived. Despite Louisa’s frosty attitude, he assisted them both onto the platform, then with a part wave, part salute, he strode smartly away towards the Barracks.
In a fierce undertone, Rachel ranted furiously all the way home, commenting, with great irony, on Louisa’s lack of manners both to the Bainbridges and to Captain Duncannon, whose interest it was important to encourage. Louisa stared blankly out of the window at the pouring rain, and said nothing. When they arrived back home, she asked to be excused, pleaded a headache, and retired to the safe solitude of the schoolroom.
Two days later, a letter arrived for Louisa. In a plain, good quality envelope, it was addressed in a bold and unfamiliar hand, but the York postmark provided a clue to its sender. Ignoring Moira’s questioning eyebrows, she slipped it into her pocket.
It was evening before she had chance to read it. Making the excuse of lessons to prepare, she took a tray of tea up to the schoolroom. Pulling her desk and chair closer to the fire, for it was a bitterly cold and windy evening, she lit the oil lamp and spread out her books.
Only then did she open Robert’s letter.
‘My dear Miss Elliott,’ she read, ‘I hesitate to address you less formally, recalling your silence, and I fear anger, at our last meeting. I can only assume that you were outraged by my lack of restraint the evening before. The presence of Tommy Fitzsimmons and Miss Tempest, and the press of people later, prevented the quiet words I longed to share with you, the things I wanted to say.
‘I attended the Bainbridges on Sunday afternoon not only to thank them but in the express hope of seeing you, of perhaps arranging another meeting where we could talk privately. For there are things I must say. I long to see you again. So, Miss Elliott – Louisa — I beg you from the depths of my erring being — please forgive my hasty embrace. And believe that it will not be repeated, should you agree to see Your obedient servant, Robert Duncannon.’
She read the letter through twice; and then a third time, savouring every word of it. Aside from family missives, and replies to job applications, she had never had a letter from a man before. She looked at the signature and smiled. ‘Your obedient servant’ sounded both dignified and humble, and also touchingly sincere. Remembering his kisses, she touched her lips, knowing that if she lived a hundred years, she would never forget. Mentally, she consigned Mrs Bainbridge to penal servitude for the words which had provoked that angry reaction, which had made him think that he had offended her.
Glancing at the letter again, she wondered what it was he needed to say. If Sophie’s mother was to be believed, he was a widower and a father, roles which cast him in a different, softer light. It occurred to her that his wife’s death might have been quite recent, perhaps after a long and protracted illness, which would explain the sadness she had seen in his eyes.
His reference to the night of their first meeting made her think again about those scars, the ‘accident’ he had so carefully glossed over. She had spent a great deal of time deliberately not thinking about Robert Duncannon, and suddenly realized she knew very little about him. At once she was seized by a desire to know all about him, every little detail that made up his life, from schooldays through to adulthood. He had a daughter: what was her name?
Impulsively, she began to write a reply to his letter, but halfway through she stopped, tore the page into small pieces and burnt them.
In trying to explain the cause of her anger that Sunday afternoon, she saw just how dangerous a liaison with him could be. York was a city, but it was small with gossip. People knew people who knew people. Louisa’s background would be checked by interested parties, and even supposing that she told him the truth, that by some wild, incredible stretch of the imagination, he loved her in spite of it, the gossip would be too much to endure. The slur upon them both would be bad enough, but to have her mother subjected to all that again was intolerable.
Had he been an ordinary serving soldier, it would have been simpler; but Robert was too well-born and too eligible for a relationship with Louisa Elliott to go unremarked.
Sadly, she went into her room, placing Robert’s letter with those sent by her mother and Edward when she had lived in the North Riding. She knew that she would have to reply, but the letter would need thought and careful phrasing, and at the moment she was too tired for either.
Eleven
Moira was allowed Tuesday afternoons off, usually returning to Blossom Street at half-past eight in the evening. At half-past nine however, it was Mrs Petty who brought a tray of tea into the drawing room.
Rachel did not look up from her book, but Louisa thanked the cook with some surpri
se.
Mrs Petty sniffed loudly. She was little and thin and perpetually irritated by every circumstance of life. Her mouth had a dissatisfied, downward turn; wispy grey eyebrows met in a constant frown, and her shrewish nostrils quivered uncontrollably. ‘Moira’s not back yet,’ she said crossly. ‘And that girl Ellen has a streaming cold. I’ve sent her to bed – for all the use she’s been to me today, she might as well have been there all along.’
‘That was kind of you, Mrs Petty,’ said Louisa equably. ‘Have you told Mr Tempest that Moira’s not back?’
With another disapproving sniff Mrs Petty shook her head. ‘Taken herself off, I shouldn’t wonder. All the same, these Irish — no sense of duty.’
‘I’m sure you’re wrong, Mrs Petty. She’s usually back by this time. She may have had an accident, or something may be wrong at home – we don’t know. I think you should inform Mr Tempest. He should be in his study.’
When Mr Tempest was informed, the facts annoyed him. By the following morning, when Moira had failed to return, he was extremely irritated. Mrs Petty said she could not possibly cook and serve breakfast, which left the kitchen waif, Ellen, sneezing abominably, to lay the table and fumble with sausages, eggs and bacon. Louisa winced at her nervousness, and longed to help her; Rachel clucked her tongue at every mistake, and her father’s colour rose each time he checked his watch. Furious, he declared that the porridge was the only edible item on the table; the eggs were broken, the bacon cold, his toast like leather. Rachel and Victoria wilted under his thunderous complaints. Louisa was driven to offer her services for the next meal, but at this Albert Tempest turned puce. Flinging back his chair, he vehemently rejected the offer.
‘But if you want to help, Miss Elliott – go and look for her. Ask Mrs Petty where she spends her time off, and see if you can find the stupid girl. If she’s left for good, I want to know – then we can make other arrangements.’ With a final glance at his pocket watch, he stormed out of the house.
In the kitchen, the skivvy sneezed and wept into a sinkful of washing-up while the cook glowered at her over a reviving cup of tea.
In answer to Louisa’s enquiry, Mrs Petty wrote down the address from a greasy notebook she kept in her apron pocket. ‘You’ll have your work cut out to find it, I reckon. No good asking me — I’ve never been down Walmgate in my life. Nor would I want to,’ she added, smugly pulling down the corners of her mouth. ‘I should take care if I were you, Miss.’
‘Oh, I shall take care, Mrs Petty, don’t worry.’
After a hurried consultation with Rachel, who reluctantly agreed to supervise Victoria’s lessons for the morning, Louisa went to her room for her hat and cloak. The black velour she had so recently refurbished was rejected in favour of an old brown felt hat with an unfashionably wide brim and dusty ribbon. She sucked in her lips, regretting the fact that her old coat had been left in Gillygate; her black cloak was hardly new, but she had the feeling it would be noticeably smart in Walmgate. As an afterthought, she took some silver and copper coins from a small box in her top drawer, and slipped them into her pocket.
It was a cold, dank day, the leaden sky already darkened by a pall of smoke hanging over the city. Mist swirled over the river, obscuring barges and cargoes, muffling the cries of men, eerily revealing masts and spars, booms and winches, the upper half of warehouses by Ouse Bridge. There would be a fog by evening, thick and sulphurous; Louisa knew the signs well, and shivered, praying she would find Moira and return with her before dark.
She hurried through the town centre, passing Tempest’s Printers on Fossgate, and crossed the narrow bridge over the stagnating waters of the River Foss. A thick mist obscured the shallow river, into which the sewers of the area drained. Behind these semi-respectable façades lurked some of the most squalid houses of ill-fame in York. Louisa kept her eyes about her, amazed that anyone could be tempted by vice in such evil, malodorous surroundings, and pitying the female remnants of humanity whose degradation led them there. The very thought made her blood run cold, and she was glad that her journey was in daylight.
For a moment she wondered about Edward and Mr Tempest, going home on dark winter nights. Had they ever been accosted by the women of the streets? How did they view the half-world that bordered Fossgate? She could not imagine Edward feeling anything more than pity for those unfortunate women; but Albert Tempest would have little sympathy to spare. Yet he was the kind of man she believed would be tempted as long as the price was right and the sheets tolerably clean. He strove so hard to give the impression of well-bred gentility, but his temper gave him away, together with those strange looks she had sometimes surprised, the looks that made her grow hot with embarrassment. Looks that made her feel like something which could be bought.
With a shiver of distaste, she renewed her determination to keep the distance of formality between herself and her employer. Too many girls fell by the wayside within the confines of houses in which they worked; and all too often that fall led them to streets such as these.
Walmgate had more inns and alehouses than any other thoroughfare in the city; even at this hour of the morning men were hanging about in groups by warm doorways, their eyes following her, watching every hesitation in her step. Glancing down each dark and noxious alley, searching for name-boards, Louisa despaired of ever finding Butcher’s Yard, not knowing which side of the street it favoured, nor how far it was into the maze of courts and passages beyond. She dared not approach the men, and even the women she thought to ask returned her enquiring glances with hostility, their eyes taking in her good warm clothes with obvious resentment. Almost resigned to walking the length of Walmgate twice, she suddenly spotted a solitary child, a boy of about seven or eight years, gazing longingly into the window of a bread shop.
She approached him carefully, apparently a casual customer also interested in the loaves and baps displayed behind the grimy glass. Taking a penny from her pocket, she asked him if he knew the address she sought. The child was startled, wary, but with the street knowledge of a half-starved urchin, he saw the penny was within his grasp. A pair of ancient eyes looked up at her.
‘I might,’ he said, studying the coin.
‘If you can take me exactly where I want to be — exactly, mind, I want to see the people first — you shall have this penny.’
‘Butcher’s Yard, you say. What’s the name of the people?’
‘Hanrahan.’
‘It’s off the Yard. You’ll never find it on your own. I’ll take you.’
He walked ahead of Louisa. Her heart twisted as she looked at his filthy rags and blue-mottled legs. Diligence, thrift and luck had kept her own family away from the maelstrom of poverty; she had seen enough as a child, however, to know that for some the grip on decency was at best a tenuous one, too easily swept away by the downward spiral of illness and unemployment.
Butcher’s Yard was less than fifty paces away, on the same side of the street. The child paused at the entrance, his old eyes raking her face.
‘You’re not from the Board, are you?’
‘The School Board? No, there’s no need to worry about me.’
‘Board of Guardians, workhouse, I meant. Have you come to take her in?’
‘Who?’ Louisa asked with a frown.
‘Old Ma Hanrahan — they reckon she’s dying.’
‘Is she? How dreadful — so that’s why –’
The child stared at her. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m not from any Board,’ she replied quietly. ‘Moira Hanrahan is a friend of mine. I’ve come to find her, to see if I can help.’
Evidently satisfied that she was not an enemy, he nodded. ‘All right, lady. I’ll take you, but you’d better keep close by me.’ With that, the skinny child disappeared into the alley, emerging in a muddy court with a pump at the centre, around which several dishevelled women gossiped. One stared at Louisa, and the rest turned, silent as statues, suspicion and hostility radiating from them in almost solid waves.
; In the close, dank air, the stench of privies assaulted her nostrils, causing her to swallow hard. She hurried in the boy’s wake, fishing in her pocket for a handkerchief with which to cover her nose and mouth. He disappeared again, into another passage, between a row of tiny, brick-built cottages and a stinking slaughterhouse. The reek of excrement coming from the passage halted her. Fighting nausea and the overwhelming urge to run, to put miles between herself and this disgusting place, she called out to the boy to wait.
He returned for her, his eyes taking in the horror of her expression, hardening at her disgust. Impatiently, he tugged at her cloak, pulling her into the black bowels of the alley. Something wet touched her face and she smothered a scream, but the boy muttered that it was only somebody’s washing, and dragged her on. A subdued light showed the existence of another yard behind the first, and Louisa almost ran towards it.
Clutching her handkerchief to her mouth, she clung for a moment to the wet wall by her side, her eyes on the squelching mud at her feet, refusing to take in the filthy piggery, the agitated and squealing animals, the dungheap piled against one side of the tiny court. Liquid leaked over the mud, and presumably into the cottages which formed its sole support. She closed her eyes and breathed shallowly, trying not to smell the stench.
As she opened her eyes, the child extended a skinny arm in the direction of the far corner. ‘That’s Hanrahan’s,’ he stated flatly.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked feebly, unable to believe that dear, funny, cheerful Moira could come from such appalling surroundings.
Her small, hardened companion nodded dumbly, his contempt reserved for Louisa. Stung by the realization that he probably lived in equally squalid conditions, she gritted her teeth, lifted her chin and, abandoning her skirts to the mud, crossed the unpaved yard. A tiny child which had been playing outside an open cottage door was whisked inside as she passed, the door slammed behind it. She had a fleeting impression of faces at grimy windows, hurriedly withdrawn; of eyes watching every sliding footfall, taking in the minutest details of her progress, her appearance and her scarcely-hidden disgust.
Louisa Elliott Page 11
