Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  But not impossible, he thought bitterly.

  Tormented by memories, Robert remembered his last sight of her. Three weeks ago, on the Knavesmire, he had been with Tommy and others, making arrangements for the Royals’ annual steeplechase. Riding the course, racing the last few furlongs, he had suddenly noticed two women and a little girl alongside the winning post. The shock of recognizing Louisa had destroyed his concentration, and Tommy streaked ahead, laughing like a banshee. Cantering back, he swore he would take the Regimental Plate this year, and Robert must eat humble pie for a change. But Robert, patting his horse, breathing hard, had eyes only for Louisa.

  Automatically, he had nodded to Rachel Tempest, returning her laughing commiserations with a formal smile, glad when Tommy dismounted to envelop the girl with his usual easy charm. While Tommy and Darnley fought a friendly duel of wits for Rachel’s attention, Robert looked down into Louisa’s serious, upturned face. She was thinner, he noticed, and her eyes, echoing the colour of the sky that day, were more grey than blue.

  The child at her side was blonde and blue-eyed like his daughter; he smiled at her and she responded eagerly, demanding that Louisa pick her up to stroke the big bay. Taken by Victoria’s appeal, Robert dismounted. Louisa picked her up, standing close beside him while the child patted and stroked the bay’s nose and neck, her eager questions covering the silence.

  If only it could have been his own daughter in her warm and capable arms, he thought, the three of them alone, without constraints, able to laugh and talk and touch... Almost afraid to look at her, in case his eyes should reveal too much, he had found his voice at last, asking in clipped, formal tones whether she would be at the races the following Saturday. With downcast eyes, she shook her head, while silly Rachel Tempest volunteered that she would be there, accompanied by the Bainbridges. As though he cared for them.

  And so, cheered on by an enthusiastic crowd which lacked the only witness who mattered to him, he had gone on to win the Regimental Plate for the second year in succession. It had been an excellent birthday present, with protracted celebrations in the Mess afterwards. At the end of it, drunk and maudlin, he had told Tommy he would rather have lost and had Louisa by his side. Tommy had not been sympathetic, and Robert had later regretted his tactless and ungracious remark.

  The party cost him a large proportion of the thirty guineas prize money, and an appalling hangover. In the mood of depression and remorse which followed, he felt ashamed of himself, knowing his reactions were rapidly becoming those of a callow youth rather than a thirty-one year old man. Louisa would not have approved; aside from all other considerations, the prize money would have covered her salary for a year.

  With a mental shake, he forced himself back to the present. Properly modulated voices, filled with gloom and regret, droned on, followed by a specially-composed requiem in memory of the departed Duke. As the pipes of the Royal Scots took up a haunting lament, Robert bowed his head, hating the stirring sentiment of the pipes and what seemed to him the sheer exploitation of his personal feelings. The strange, eerie music echoed hollowly throughout the Minster, so exactly mirroring his despair, he had to force himself not to march away in outraged protest.

  He hated what seemed to him this farce of a Memorial Service; he loathed the men and women who were gathered in the guise of mourning for a man whose private life, if rumour were to be believed, would have made many of them blanch. So long as the conventions were observed, the great god of Society was placated. Step out of line, answer your true inclinations openly, and you were finished — as unacceptable as a trooper suddenly gone berserk in the noonday heat. Society would say that what he felt for Louisa Elliott was sinful, and therefore wrong, yet on his knees for the final prayer, Robert Duncannon placed those feelings before a God he only partially believed in, and his supplication was for release.

  Sixteen

  In a dove-grey dress, carrying a bouquet of white orange-blossom and wearing the same fragrant flowers in her glossy brown hair, Emily gave shy responses to her wedding vows.

  In the vestry afterwards, looking pretty and demure, she pushed back her veil and hugged her new husband, dark eyes aglow with happiness. The two respective families filed out after the bride and groom, Louisa with the best man, Edward with John’s mother, Mary Elliott with old Mr Chapman, and Blanche bringing up the rear, proudly declining the arm of the groom’s younger brother.

  Outside the church, Blanche tolerated a warm embrace from Emily, giving proprietorial care to the silk dress and little adjustments to Emily’s veil as she did so. Edward, having given his cousin away, kissed her warmly on both cheeks. Overcome by this, the first wedding of a daughter in the Elliott family for many years, Mary Elliott had to be revived with Blanche’s smelling salts. Mrs Chapman, however, was somewhat less impressed by the originality of the occasion.

  With the parlour of the Gillygate house packed tight, the guests overflowed into the kitchen, where Louisa and Bessie handed out food and drink, rescuing precariously balanced cups and plates, and preparing more. With a wisdom born of past experience, they left the handling of the Chapmans, which needed a delicate sense of social balance, to Edward and his aunt.

  Louisa was engrossed in the task of slicing wedding cake into reasonably even pieces, when a hand slid familiarly round her waist. Startled, she gasped and tried to pull away, but the owner of the hand dropped a kiss on her cheek as she turned to see who would dare such an act.

  ‘John Elliott! I might have known it was you. How dare you make free with me, and you a married man these past eight years!’

  Eyes that were like her own crinkled as he laughed. ‘And why aren’t you married? All that governessing isn’t good for a pretty girl like you. You’ll soon be saying you’re on the shelf and turning sour – and that, my lovely cousin, is not what you were made for.’

  ‘Oh yes? Then what was I made for?’ she asked with a laugh, turning back to her task.

  With his hands still on her waist, he leaned over her shoulder. ‘Loving,’ he whispered softly, his lips against her ear.

  Her eyes filled with sudden tears. She laid the knife down carefully, afraid of slicing something other than the cake. ‘John — please don’t tease. It’s not funny.’

  His fair, handsome face expressed surprise and more than a little concern. ‘Why so sad? What have I said? This isn’t like you, sweetheart. Here —’ He drew a yellow handkerchief from the top pocket of his new suit and wiped her eyes with great tenderness.

  ‘Leave the cake,’ he said. ‘Isn’t there somewhere to sit down?’ He glanced round the kitchen in some desperation. Guests laughed and talked, oblivious to the little drama in the corner; eventually, he caught Mary Elliott’s attention and, at her direction, took Louisa upstairs.

  ‘Now then, sweetheart, what’s it all about? I wouldn’t have thought you’d cry like this at a wedding feast. A funeral, maybe, but not your sister’s wedding – unless she married the man you wanted? But no — he’s not your sort, is he? You’d go more for a fellow like me, now wouldn’t you?’ he teased. ‘A good-looking chap with something to say for himself…’

  A watery smile fought its way through the tears, and with his soft Lincolnshire burr, John Elliott gradually drew out the story of Robert Duncannon. In some surprise, for she’d said little to anyone, Louisa found herself telling John everything. Unburdening herself was a curious relief.

  ‘I said you were made for loving — I knew it years ago. Remember when I was living round the corner? Used to pop in here for my dinner, see your Mam, tease you a bit. You had a passing fancy for me in those days, didn’t you?’ he asked, chuckling at the memory. ‘But you were too young, sweetheart, and, alas!’ he exclaimed, dramatically striking the region of his heart, ‘I was promised to another!’

  With her face hidden against the rough tweed of his jacket, Louisa blushed and smiled, finding the revelations embarrassing after so many years. She had almost forgotten, but he was right: she had thought him attractiv
e, and in the bitter resentment of Edward’s leaving, she had flirted shamelessly with her Lincolnshire cousin. Unlike Edward, John had responded. But she had been no more than a girl then, and he a man; in the intervening years she had grown to adulthood, while he remained much the same, impudent, roguish and oddly likeable. Aunt Elizabeth had never cared for him, nor Edward; but her mother had always kept a soft spot for her young cousin, welcoming him with open arms and the choicest cakes.

  For Louisa, his earthy masculinity was something of a relief. The faint tang of tobacco reminded her of Robert, and the simple physical comfort of being held in someone’s arms was reassurance in itself.

  ‘Are you happy, John?’

  ‘Bless you, of course I am,’ he laughed. ‘I love my Jenny and she loves me. We’ve five fine babies to prove it.’

  ‘She should have come with you. I’d like to have met her.’

  ‘With five to look after, and another on the way? Impossible!’

  Louisa stepped back and looked at him. ‘Another one? How on earth do you manage?’

  He chuckled. ‘Oh, I manage fine – it just comes naturally.’

  Colour rose to her cheeks, but she could not restrain a smile. ‘Really, John! It’s a good job my mother can’t hear you.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it! She’d have a good laugh, and that’s better than crying, sweetheart, now isn’t it?’

  ‘I do feel better,’ she admitted with another sidelong smile. ‘Thanks for listening to my woes — and not judging.’ After a moment, she added: ‘You won’t say anything, will you? To my mother, I mean — or Edward.’

  ‘What? I’d be afraid to say anything to Edward. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secrets. But what are you going to do about this grand fellow of yours?’

  ‘What can I do?’ she shrugged.

  He thought for a moment. ‘As I see it, you’ve got two choices. Three really, but I wouldn’t recommend the third. You can follow your inclinations — be his mistress and live in the lap of luxury; or you can marry the next man to ask you. Don’t be an old maid — Blanche would make a good one, but with you it’d be a waste.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple,’ she chuckled.

  ‘You know, I love it when you smile like that — your mouth turns up at the corners, your eyes sparkle, and you’re lovely.’ Taking hold of her shoulders, he pulled her towards him, watching her through narrowed, smiling eyes. ‘For old times’ sake?’ he asked, and before she could pull away, kissed her fully and lingeringly on the mouth. ‘I just wanted to know what it would feel like,’ he whispered, ‘kissing you.’

  Crossly, Louisa pushed him away. ‘You’re a rogue, John Elliott. Isn’t one woman enough for you?’

  ‘Usually,’ he admitted, brushing his lips against her. ‘Don’t be angry,’ he pleaded with pained surprise. ‘It was only meant in fun. I wanted to cheer you up, that’s all.’ He had all the appeal of a mischievous little boy, and he knew it. Louisa wanted to smack him.

  ‘Oh, get yourself back to Blankney, John, and stop trying to misbehave with me. What would your Jenny say, if she knew what you were up to?’

  The long blue eyes twinkled yet again. ‘And what would your Captain of Dragoons say, if he’d seen you a minute ago?’

  Sharply, Louisa raised her hand, but he backed out of reach, laughing. ‘I’m going, I’m going!’ he protested, diving for the stairs. ‘But I can’t go back to Blankney. I’m staying here tonight.’

  After he had gone, Louisa slipped away into the best bedroom and closed the door. For a moment she gazed at the bed where Robert had slept, and then she lay down, embracing the pillow.

  ‘What have you done to me?’ she whispered, knowing that what had so recently transpired would never have happened before she knew Robert. She would have pushed John Elliott away, told him not to be stupid. Instead, she had allowed John to kiss her, and imagined it was Robert. The knowledge shamed her. ‘What have you done?’ she murmured again. ‘What have you made of me?’

  There was a gentle tap at the door, but she was deaf to it; when Edward laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder, she jerked upright.

  Disconcerted, Edward stared at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m – I’m all right,’ she stammered. ‘Honestly. I was just coming down.’

  Knowing that his cousin had been upstairs, Edward made a fair assessment. ‘What’s John been up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Shaking her head, Louisa pulled herself up, straightened her dress.

  Impatiently, Edward waited for an explanation. There was a deep antipathy between the two men, and Edward greatly resented his cousin’s presence in the house. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing, Edward! I felt unwell, and he brought me upstairs. Then I came in here to lie down, that’s all.’

  ‘Then why have you been crying?’

  ‘I told you – I don’t feel well.’

  ‘I know something’s been bothering you for weeks. What is it?’ he asked sharply. ‘I wish you’d tell me.’ When she did not reply, he sighed irritably; several hours of social nicety had sorely worn his patience. ‘Why can’t you tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ she lied, on the verge of tears again. She silently cursed her own weakness, wishing she could have confided in Edward, and wondering why she could not. ‘Perhaps the wedding upset me — or maybe I’m going down with something – I don’t know.’

  He frowned, conscious of a gnawing anxiety. She had looked pale and drawn for too long. Suddenly alarmed by the thought of consumption, he touched the back of his hand to her hot forehead. ‘Perhaps you should go to bed.’

  Peace and silence, the thought of being fussed over like an invalid, of being absolved from the effort of living, at least for a little while, were suddenly very seductive. There would be no need to go back downstairs, no need to wave Emily off with her new husband, and the Chapmans would hardly remark on her absence. It was too tempting. She nodded, and lay back with relief.

  ‘I’ll make your excuses to Emily and John – although she’ll probably want to come up and say goodbye before they go. And I’ll put a flea in the ear of John Elliott while I’m about it,’ he added shortly. Louisa was too exhausted to reply.

  Some hours later, when the guests had all departed, John Elliott crept up to Louisa’s room at the top of the house. For once, he appeared genuinely contrite. ‘Say you forgive me, sweetheart. I’d hate to leave tomorrow, thinking we’d never be friends again.’

  She studied him for a moment. ‘It’s all right, John – my fault, too. I didn’t know, until today, just how badly I felt about—everything.’

  ‘You’ve forgiven me, then?’ he asked, and she nodded, her mouth firm. With a sheepish grin, he said: ‘Your mother asked me what was wrong with you. I said you weren’t well, and stuck to that, but I think she knows there’s more to it. She said she wouldn’t force me to break a confidence.’

  ‘Oh dear, I thought she’d forgotten about Robert.’

  ‘Maybe she hoped you had.’ Awkwardly, he sat on the edge of the bed and laid his large, square hand over hers. ‘Why don’t you come and see us this summer? We’ve asked your mother many times, but she doesn’t come, and you haven’t been to Blankney since you were so high. Won’t you come and stay with Jenny and me?’

  Louisa gave him a long, searching look, and he grinned. ‘Oh, Jenny will keep me in line, don’t you worry.’

  Touched by his attempt to make amends, she smiled. The idea of summer in Lincolnshire was very appealing. ‘I promise I’ll think about it,’ she said.

  Seventeen

  Called in by Mary Elliott, Dr Mackenzie had diagnosed general debility brought on by overwork, recommending a strengthening diet of beef, liver, plenty of eggs, and as much rice pudding as Louisa could eat. For the few days that she was at home, she played up to this, skilfully sidestepping her mother’s casual references to Robert Duncannon, and taking refuge in sleep. She was curiously reluctant to talk about him. To say why she was so unhappy
would have meant telling the whole sorry story, and she could not admit to her mother that he was married.

  Whenever Louisa looked back on those few days, she realized that the giving in had been necessary. Even John Elliott was forgiven. His reputation was less than spotless, and she should have known better; as a catalyst, he had provided a much-needed reaction.

  John had been a girlish fancy, but Robert had come into a woman’s life, shaking her image of herself as a cool, detached spinster, interested in neither marriage nor men. The revelation that he was married had illumined an unknown part of herself. Her shock had not been that of a prude, but of knowing bitter disappointment, of having unacknowledged hopes and desires blighted forever. Of realizing, for the first time, how much she loved and wanted him.

  She had shared his pain, had felt it doubled by his declaration, by his sense of honour; and then the shutting down of feeling, that sense of moving in a world of cotton wool, where every action required effort and nothing was real, least of all herself.

  John Elliott had unwittingly released her, had put her back amongst living, breathing people. She had to thank him for that, if for nothing else.

  She prayed daily never to see Robert again, fought regular battles with Rachel over their afternoon walks, insisting on the Museum Gardens, the riverside, anywhere but the Knavesmire where the Royals exercised their horses. Each time she lost the argument, Louisa walked in dread; the memory of that other time, when they had conversed like strangers, ate into her even now. The only blessing seemed to be his aversion to the same old places; he was rarely at the Bainbridges, and while Rachel had been used to bemoaning his absence, of late she had become rather taken with Sophie’s brother, Arthur, an attraction which seemed to be reciprocated.

  Rachel had been invited to accompany Sophie’s family to the Field Day that afternoon, for which Louisa was grateful. The Knavesmire, with its press of people, was the last place she wanted to be on a hot June afternoon. While the citizenry of York watched a display of formation riding by the Royals and the 14th Hussars, she intended to take a chair outside and read a book.