Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

Twenty-five

  A curious sense of detachment dogged him. Unable to concentrate on preparations for the journey to Ireland, he instructed Harris to pack, and left the house in his riding clothes.

  The barrack square was deserted. Not a breath of air stirred the white dust beneath his feet. Shuttered and still, the mellow brick buildings slept on in the bliss of Sunday afternoon. Acknowledging the sentry’s salute, Robert entered the stable block, inhaling the sharply ammoniac smell of the straw, walking past the empty lines to the tack room, where he selected his own mount’s saddle and bridle. On the way back, the Guard Sergeant approached him, eyebrows arched in surprise.

  ‘Riding out, sir?’

  ‘That is my intention, Sergeant.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll send one of the men to help you saddle up.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I’m quite capable of doing it myself.’

  The Sergeant hesitated, disconcerted by the rarity of the situation. It was not the done thing, and he was not at all sure that it was not against regulations. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘if you’re quite sure, sir?’

  ‘Quite sure, Sergeant.’

  The man hovered for a moment until, ignored, he turned on his heel, annoyed that the sentry had disturbed him for nothing.

  Irritated by this reminder that mundane tasks were supposed to be beneath the attention of officers and gentlemen, Robert hoisted the saddle and marched out towards the near paddock where the hunters were munching quietly. Resting the saddle on the fence, he took the bridle and whistled for the big bay gelding. Pricking his ears, the horse looked up and ambled slowly towards him. He nuzzled Robert, taking the bit with no more than a token protest, and stood patiently while the saddle went on and the girths were tightened.

  In the yard, the Guard Sergeant was waiting; after a rather stiff salute, he gave the Captain a leg up into the saddle, and watched him ride out onto the Fulford Road.

  Once clear of the village, he left the high road, heading through fields towards the river. Reluctant at first, the big bay cantered along the towpath, then, at Robert’s urging, broke into a gallop. The sensation of speed was release in itself; the wind roused Robert’s blood so that he began to feel the pain which had eluded him earlier, and the pain made him dig his heels in, driving the horse on to greater effort. He was almost at Naburn before he eased back, the preceding miles a blur of golden fields and trees in dark summer leaf. By a small coppice he slowed his mount to a walk, turned in among the trees and halted by the riverbank; his lungs ached and he slid to the ground with a gasp, looping the reins around a low branch before he dropped down on to the grass.

  The full force of Albert Tempest’s words hit him then. Wincing at the man’s obscene insinuations, he wondered how Louisa had ever become involved with a man like that, how she could have worked for him, when he obviously knew so much about her past. For Albert Tempest’s words had carried the ring of truth; Robert knew he had not lied.

  Hating to think of it, he hated himself, his foolhardy sureness, the conviction that he could avenge a dreadful wrong. No wonder Louisa had been so afraid of Tempest, so terrified her cousin would tackle him, and so adamant that he, Robert, should not. There was so much at stake: not only her own reputation, but her mother’s as well.

  Mary Elliott came into his mind, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not fit her into the image of a Miss Leonie or Mrs Dodsworth. She was no retired Madam, he would stake his life on it; and surely Albert Tempest would never have employed Louisa if she had been. Much of what the man inferred was the product of an overheated and lascivious imagination.

  With a sudden, piercing sense of life’s ironies, he realized that the father of Mary Elliott’s children could have been in his own position, tied to a loveless marriage without possibility of release. He supposed he must have found love and happiness with Mary Elliott, a happiness that he, Robert, sought with her daughter. But in seeking the physical satisfaction of that love, he ran the risk of placing Louisa in the same position as her mother, of giving her children without the benefit of his name, who would themselves be illegitimate.

  The enormity of that appalled him. His thoughtlessness, his monumental selfishness, rose suddenly to mock him. Never before, in all his casual encounters and brief affairs, had he considered the consequences; at least not in any serious way. He was considerate enough, usually, to practise a certain technique which seemed to have worked over the years; as far as he knew there were no fatherless children to his account. But perhaps that was luck as much as good management; and luck had a knack of running out.

  He tried to imagine what Louisa’s life had been like as a child; and failed. With a rare flash of insight, however, he saw that strength and resilience he so admired as having less secure foundations than he had imagined. Her innate reserve seemed founded less on middle-class morality than a deep-seated reluctance to become involved with anyone.

  She had not written again. He had searched the mail each day, but there had been nothing from her. It seemed, in the light of what he now knew, significant. She did not want him. How could she? In his distraction, Robert thanked providence that she had left him the address he had asked for. He could at least write and tell her he loved her.

  And if you really love her, a small voice said clearly in his mind, you will let her go.

  Waiting with the luggage, Harris watched the tall figure standing before the train departures board. He wanted the Leeds train, to change for Liverpool; what was taking him so long? He sighed, wishing the Captain would hurry. He had been so full of himself yesterday morning, but since then Harris had been able to get nothing out of him, not even proper instructions for packing. He hoped he had included everything. Glancing up at the station clock, he sighed with exasperation. If he stood there much longer, the train would be gone.

  ‘At last!’ Harris muttered beneath his breath.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m taking the Lincoln train instead. There’s something I must attend to before I go to Ireland.’

  Robert arrived in Lincoln shortly before noon. Purchasing a map at the station bookstall, he registered at the gloomily imposing Great Northern Hotel, picked at an indifferent lunch, and studied a railway timetable. The nearest station to Blankney was Metheringham, about a mile from the village, on the line to Spalding. He had just missed one train, but there was another in a couple of hours; the last one to return was shortly before eleven. Time enough, more than time enough to find her and talk to her.

  As he handed in his ticket at Metheringham, he asked the road to Blankney, finding the man’s thick burr hard to comprehend, and gathering more from gestures than words that there were two ways, the long route by the road, or the short cut by footpath across the fields. Once out of sight he consulted his map, finding no footpath marked, but, willing to trust to luck and further directions, he set off in that general direction.

  Crumbly chalk walls gave way to verdant hedges, and, sure enough, at a bend in the road was a gate and a stile, the field beyond laid waste by the reapers. Hunched figures picked over ears of wheat left behind, some women, but mostly children, too far distant for him to hail. They stood and stared as he passed, but he walked on, treading a well-worn path between the stubble. It was good hunting country, he decided, visualising the fallow fields of winter; a broad, undulating land with woody pockets, surprisingly familiar, like the Vale of York. Even the cottages with their mellow terracotta tiles lent conviction to the feeling that he had strayed but a short distance from his point of departure.

  Banks of white cumulus swathed the southern horizon, but the sky above was blue and clear, the sun drawing beads of perspiration beneath his eyes and across his forehead. At the next stile he rested for a while, fanning his face with the brim of his hat. Although his linen suit was light, it was still too warm for the day; with a shrug for the proprieties, he took off his jacket and slung it across his shoulder, continuing on his way.

  To the right and beyond a belt of young
trees, he suddenly saw a towering group of Gothic chimney stacks, and, as he breasted a slight rise, grey roofs and mullioned windows, shimmering like a mirage above a golden, blood-spotted field. Pennons should be flying, he thought with a quickening of the pulse, and lances glinting in the sun.

  And then in the stillness came shouts and laughter, jocular voices from behind the trees, and he saw the mirage for what it was, not a castle, not even an ancient fortified manor, but a group of cottages, the bold embodiment of another man’s romantic dream.

  Beyond the coppice, a knot of farm labourers with a reaping machine were gathered by the gate, calling to another who led a pair of heavy shires up the lane. As Robert approached, the men stood back, a couple faintly hostile, most frankly curious. The older ones touched their cap brims in polite deference to the stranger, and he bade them good afternoon, intending to seek further directions. But, with the other man’s arrival, he hesitated, resting on the stile, his eyes taken, as always, by the sight of well cared-for horses. With some light-hearted banter from the group, the man hitched the shires to the reaping machine, standing back as it was manoeuvred through the gate and into the field.

  He was well-built, tanned, his thinning hair bleached almost white by the sun; as he turned, Robert experienced a slight shock of familiarity. The face was nut-brown, but the eyes which met his enquiring gaze were so like Louisa’s, long and blue with thick-fringed lashes, and the shape of his mouth so very similar to hers: the man had to be an Elliott.

  A broad grin spread slowly across the man’s face as Robert made his enquiry. He took in the size and build of the stranger, the cut of his clothes and the curling, military moustache, and knew that this was Louisa’s dashing Dragoon. Who else would come looking for the home of John Elliott, and not know he spoke to the man he sought?

  ‘Well, sir, you’ve found the man, if not his home. In what way can I be of service?’

  Stepping down off the stile, Robert extended his hand. ‘Robert Duncannon,’ he said with a smile, and nodded towards the pair of shires. ‘Fine horses you have there, Mr Elliott.’

  ‘If only they were mine,’ John replied with a grin. ‘Now, what can I do for you, Captain?’

  Surprised, Robert met his gaze and held it, the struggle for explanations suddenly unnecessary. ‘I gather my reputation has gone before me,’ he murmured wryly. ‘Obviously, Miss Elliott has – mentioned me.’ The other man’s eyes were more expressive than his nod, and Robert looked away, feeling curiously betrayed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Captain, I surprised her one bad day, months ago. It was the day her sister was married. I doubt she’d have told anyone, otherwise. But what brings you here? I gather she’s not expecting you.’

  ‘No.’ Robert put on his jacket, wondering what to say, how little he could get away with. ‘Things have taken rather a surprising turn in York since she went away. I was going to write, but I thought to come in person. I hope you don’t object?’

  ‘That’s Louisa’s prerogative,’ John said with a laugh. He looked Robert over, rather as he would a new addition to the stable, noting the strong bone structure, steady eyes and absence of affected mannerisms. With a smile, he nodded, and began to lead the way towards the village.

  On the left, a high grey wall screened the grounds of Blankney Hall; at the end, by the deserted little schoolhouse, they turned onto the dusty white high road, where the butler’s house faced the Hall gates, and in descending order of grandeur, miniature Gothic mansions sat back on either side. In every tiny garden, bees hummed amongst the flowers, hollyhocks and snapdragons, pinks and scented stocks; Robert’s hand brushed against a fading lavender hedge, and the sudden, familiar perfume lent presence to his thoughts.

  John Elliott’s cottage was the last and smallest, but, like its neighbours, the front garden was a riot of colour, the side strip rich with soft fruits; at the back was a small orchard, dividing vegetables from the golden wheat beyond. A ripely pregnant woman pulled sheets and baby clothes from a washing line, and two plump toddlers played by the kitchen door.

  ‘We have a visitor, Jenny. Where’s Louisa?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ she replied, with a shy smile of welcome for the stranger.

  John strode into the house, while Robert hesitated in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light, so that Louisa looked up from her ironing, recognizing the shape of him, yet doubting it. She stood there by the kitchen table, flat-iron paused in mid-stroke, sleeves rolled above the elbow, collar open, face flushed, her blue eyes wide with surprise.

  Caught thus, off-guard, she looked so very beautiful that for a moment words deserted him. John rescued the iron from Louisa’s hand, covering the moment with laughter as he ushered them both into the parlour.

  ‘A mug of ale, Captain?’ he asked, and, without waiting for a reply, left them alone.

  Transfixed, they stared at each other, one too surprised to speak, the other too reluctant. Robert’s heart was racing, and he was afraid his apprehension showed like words on an open page.

  ‘Robert, what’s wrong? What brings you here?’

  Sighing, he shook his head. ‘Must something be wrong?’ he whispered, raising her hand to his lips. ‘I simply wanted to see you – had to see you – before I went to Ireland.’

  But Louisa was searching his face. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ he lied, standing away from her as Jenny came in with cool drinks for them both. At John’s insistence that he should join them for their evening meal, Robert glanced quickly at Louisa and, at her smiling assent, he agreed.

  ‘And in the meantime,’ John said, ‘why don’t you get yourselves out for a walk? You must have plenty to talk about.’ Needed elsewhere, John set down his empty tankard and made for the door. ‘I should take the path across the park – over towards the old lodge. It should be quiet that way, with everybody working at the harvest.’

  Catching the puckish twinkle in his eye, Louisa hoped Robert had missed it, but when she dared to glance up, she saw that he was smiling too.

  ‘I should go and change,’ she said, blushing, ‘I can’t go out looking like this –’

  But Robert insisted she looked delightful as she was, and, taking her hand, followed Jenny through into the kitchen. As they came out of the house, John was already turning the corner; with a smile for his retreating back, Robert explained how they had met in the lane. ‘Quite a character,’ he commented, but Louisa simply laughed and shook her head.

  Passing the gates to Blankney Hall, he turned to look at the imposing residence at the head of a curving drive. Palladian in style, but much rebuilt and added to over the years, it was a huge place, lacking White Leigh’s uncluttered lines.

  ‘You probably heard already,’ she said, glad of a chance to change the subject, ‘but it’s up for sale.’

  ‘Well, I heard that old man Chaplin went bankrupt – it was in all the papers. It’s a shame, he was quite an expert on bloodstock.’

  ‘If Edward’s mother was still alive, she’d be delighted. She always loathed the Squire’s family, blamed them for the loss of the family fortunes.’

  ‘Oh? What happened there?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Something to do with the Elliotts being local land-owners. Wealthy as the squire, then – or so Aunt Elizabeth always claimed.’ With a wry little smile, Louisa wondered why she was telling him this: to put herself a few rungs higher on the social scale, perhaps?

  ‘Of course, we’re going back a lot of years. Aunt Elizabeth was very young, but according to her, the Squire of the time – who would be this squire’s uncle or great-uncle, I think – tricked her grandfather out of what was truly his, and made paupers of them all. But my mother says their grandfather was quite a gambler too, so maybe he contributed to his own downfall. Apparently he invested in some grand scheme or other, and it failed. The shock of it killed him, but my mother’s parents had to pay his debts, of course, and ended up with nothing. Aunt Elizabeth never got over it – she
lived on grand memories for the rest of her days.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Oh, Mamma’s not like that. She was born after the fall, so to speak – her inheritance was no more than a good upbringing and a sound education. She escaped the bitterness, thank Heavens. But it’s ironic, you know,’ Louisa added, looking back at the Hall, ‘John was just telling me that the reason for the sale is because of the Squire’s gambling debts.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Full circle.’

  ‘Indeed. It’s strange sometimes, how history repeats itself.’ Something in his voice made her glance at him. He forced a smile. ‘So,’ he said carefully, determined to have it from her own lips, ‘your mother – and Edward’s mother – were sisters?’

  All the amusement left her face. She glanced away, and, with a flat little sigh, said: ‘Yes, Robert, they were sisters. And no, they weren’t married – either of them. I don’t know who Edward’s father was, because Aunt Elizabeth took that secret to the grave. But my father was a wool merchant from the West Riding. My mother idolised him: he was the one love of her life. Sadly, she wasn’t his only love — he was married, you see.’

  ‘Just as I am,’ Robert said quietly.

  ‘Just as you are. Life seems to go round in circles, doesn’t it?’

  For a while, they walked on in silence, neither of them speaking. Then, crossing the high road, negotiating the dry ditch beyond, he took her hand. ‘Tell me something. Did you mean I should know? Or did you not realize what you were saying?’

  Louisa did not immediately reply. As they climbed a slight rise, she turned and looked back at the village, the outlines of the cottages blurred by a shimmer of heat. ‘Does it matter? It wasn’t something I intended to keep from you, if that’s what you mean. You never asked about my father. If you had, I would have told you. Anyway,’ she sighed, ‘it’s out in the open and I’m glad of it. You had a right to know.’

  He moved in front of her and looked directly into her face. ‘I have no right to anything,’ he reminded her. ‘But I love you, even so.’