Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Blushing, she dropped her gaze. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘not tonight.’

  With a theatrical groan, Robert clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘My God, when I think of the invitations I’ve turned down!’ Laughing, he reached for her hand. ‘Never mind, my love, I could do with a night in my own bed. Didn’t get an awful lot of sleep last night, what with one thing and another.’ Dropping a kiss on the end of her nose, he said: ‘I’ll stay until you go to sleep, then get a cab back to Fulford.’

  Four

  Wearing her best hat, a lavishly decorated bright blue straw, Moira was waiting on the upper landing when Louisa arrived home from work. Panting from the climb, Louisa set down her heavy baskets and greeted the Tempests’ housemaid like an old friend.

  ‘You look cold, Moira, come inside. I’ll soon have that fire blazing.’

  She was amused by the girl’s wide-eyed appraisal of the room: comfortable fireside chairs, chenille curtains at the window, and a matching table-cover. ‘Apart from the books and pictures, it’s all rented,’ she informed her with a smile.

  ‘It must set you back a bit,’ Moira replied, and then clapped a hand over her mouth in dismay. ‘Oh, I am sorry. Sure, I never meant to be rude.’

  Smiling, Louisa shook her head. ‘I know you didn’t. As a matter of fact,’ she said, with what she hoped was disarming frankness, ‘there are certain drawbacks to living here. The trains, for instance. So it’s not as expensive as you’d think.’ She crossed her fingers at the outright lie, for she knew now that the rooms were far from cheap. It had been difficult for Robert to find an accommodating landlord away from the immediate area of the Barracks.

  As Louisa bent to light the fire, Moira hurried to her side. ‘Let me do that, Miss Elliott. You sort out your shopping.’

  Thanking her, Louisa set about preparing their meal. Pork chops and potatoes – no room to cook vegetables – and a curd tart to finish. ‘This may take a little while, Moira. Will it matter if you’re late back to Blossom Street?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be in no more trouble than usual.’

  ‘How are things these days?’

  Intent upon supplying coals to the burgeoning fire, Moira sighed dramatically, launching into a long diatribe against the iniquities of the Tempest household, and the new governess in particular. ‘And she’s a nasty old biddy and that’s a fact. She’s why I came – I thought to myself, if I don’t go and tell somebody, I shall go mad and no mistake. The old bag – oh, sorry, Miss Elliott, but she is indeed. Worse than Mrs Petty, and that’s saying something, now don’t you agree?’

  With her back turned, Louisa allowed herself a smile. ‘Does this formidable creature have a name?’

  ‘Miss Maitland, if you please. Forty-two she’s supposed to be, but she’s fifty if she’s a day, always going on about the grand houses she’s been used to. I told her, you don’t want to bandy names like that about, not in this house. But she’s pretty quiet when Mr Tempest’s about, which is not often these days, I can tell you. And she likes her drop.’

  Louisa turned sharply, almost spilling the pan of potatoes. ‘You mean she drinks?’

  ‘She does that. Straight after breakfast she’s to her room — you can smell the gin and peppermints a mile away.’

  ‘What about –?’

  ‘Mr Tempest? Like I was saying, he hardly ever sees her. And with only me to see to Miss Victoria, it’s hardly a minute I have to breathe. And that poor mite hardly gets a couple of hours lessons a day, she’s on her own and miserable as sin since you and Miss Rachel left. You’d not know her, Miss Elliott — thin as a rag she is, and her always plump as a chicken.’

  Bereft of words, Louisa tried to digest this torrent of information while supervising the chops and vegetables. Louisa knew Moira’s slap-happy ways well enough to know that a situation had to be bad to upset her to this degree.

  As they sat down to eat, she said, ‘I gather Rachel still isn’t reconciled with her father?’

  ‘She’s banned from the house,’ Moira said, watching with round eyes as Louisa served the food onto two very hot plates. ‘She was after calling a couple of weeks back, but Mrs Petty answered the door and there was no chance to tell her a thing. So – not knowing what to do, Miss, I thought I’d better be seeing you. Did Miss Rachel never get in touch?’

  Apparently concentrating on her dinner, Louisa thought carefully before replying. Rachel had not contacted her, but through Robert she knew very well where Rachel was living, and in what style. Having recovered from the fait accompli of Arthur’s quite legal Scottish marriage, the Bainbridges had swallowed their recriminations, and with some aplomb set up their son and his wife in a pleasant little villa off the Fulford Road. How long the financial honeymoon would last, Louisa had no idea, but Rachel seemed to be making the most of things. Robert had been invited, along with Darnley and others, to afternoon tea some weeks ago. Largely under pressure from Tommy, he had accepted, returning to Marygate with a fund of cynical anecdotes. He disliked Rachel Tempest, as he persisted in calling her, and refused two subsequent invitations, finding the company too young, the gaiety rather overdone for his taste. Louisa made a mental note to ask him to accept the next one, when it came; his acquaintance with Rachel and Arthur Bainbridge could prove important where Victoria was concerned.

  ‘If I remember correctly, she’s living near the Barracks. I’ll see if I can find her address and get a message to her somehow. But I don’t see that I can do much more than that. If her father thought I was even remotely involved, he might make things worse for Victoria. So don’t ever say to anyone that you’ve been here—not even Rachel, if you should happen to see her.’

  With her fork halfway to her mouth, Moira looked at her curiously, but she agreed to the request. She commented appreciatively on the meal, and with a small smile of satisfaction, Louisa had to concede that she was right. The chops were tender, the potatoes just right. Almost for the first time she had produced something well-cooked and enjoyable. She wondered reflectively whether, with Robert, she tried too hard.

  When Moira had cleared her plate, Louisa set the curd tart on the table. With one of Louisa’s china cups poised, the girl sighed her satisfaction. ‘Miss Elliott, that’s surely the best meal I’ve tasted in years. Thanks.’

  There was such a wealth of sincerity in that simple word, Louisa felt ridiculously touched. Listening to Moira’s gossip over the washing-up, she was relieved to find the mention of Albert Tempest’s name affected her so slightly. She did not want to hear about him, how often he came and went, what incidents had caused his wrath, yet, as Moira’s tongue ran on, she might have been talking of a complete stranger. Only when she broached that last evening at Blossom Street did Louisa feel herself shrink. Almost brusquely, she side-stepped the subject, going on to describe her holiday in Blankney, her cousin’s children, the fact that John’s wife must now be near her time.

  But Moira had not done with Albert Tempest. With round eyes she went on to recall a curious incident which had occurred about a week after Louisa’s departure. A visitor had called, she said, an officer from the barracks.

  ‘Lord knows what it was all about, Miss – he wanted pen and ink and writing-paper – but there was a rare old shindy after that!’

  Having heard this from Robert, she tried to remain impassive. Only when Moira began to paint the gentleman in glowing colours, did Louisa begin to laugh. ‘He seems to have created quite an impression!’

  ‘He did indeed,’ Moira said, and began to giggle. ‘And not only on me! Why, he knocked the very devil out of Mr Tempest. I heard the crash as the table went. Mr T. stayed in his room all the day, and I had to take bowls of soup up to him — it was all he could manage, poor old soul!’ She dissolved into gales of laughter at that. ‘Wasn’t his face a mess! His mouth all swelled up and a tooth broken — I couldn’t hardly tell a word he said. Ah – it did my heart good to see him!’

  ‘It’s no more than he deserved,’ Louisa said with a bitter smile; but s
he was shaking inside.

  ‘You’ll be right, at that,’ Moira said, but again she gave Louisa a look. ‘A bit of justice from the Almighty, would you say?’ she asked slyly. ‘I wish he was my guardian angel, I don’t mind telling you!’

  Feeling her colour rise, Louisa cleared the table. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she murmured, and rather pointedly looked at the clock. It was almost half-past nine.

  She went through into the bedroom and fetched Moira’s threadbare little jacket together with the too-cheerful hat. Somehow, they symbolized her, and for that reason alone Louisa felt sad, and was possessed of a sudden desire to see her dressed in something warm and sensible.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Moira — and do all you can for Victoria. Give her my love, but swear her to secrecy when you do, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I will that, Miss, and she’ll keep it. She was too fond of you not to.’

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ Louisa said, ‘but I’ll try to do something. It may take time. Anyway, keep in touch.’

  They went down the stairs together, and with Moira’s profuse thanks echoing in her ears, Louisa waved her goodbye, watching that jaunty little figure as she disappeared into the darkness of the lane.

  Five

  Above the blackened roofs and smoking chimney stacks of Walmgate, a pale November sun rose slowly into a fragile sky. In the frosty air, clouds appeared and disappeared with every breath, while cart-horses clattered by like unquiet ghosts, enveloped in their own steamy haze. A crystalline rime edged pavements and cobbles, the gutters shining like jet.

  Heedless of the treachery beneath his feet, Edward dodged drays and workmen, aware that he was late.

  At Tempest’s front entrance, the boy who served in the shop was waiting, his eyes reproachful as Edward unlocked the door. Hurrying through the draughty workshops, past book store and composing room, Edward wrestled with bolts and padlocks and finally admitted the rest of Albert Tempest’s workforce, fifteen minutes after the usual time. Amidst much stamping of feet and ostentatious blowing of hands, the men filed in; one or two commenting, in half-jesting fashion, on the tardiness of his arrival.

  In no mood for witticisms, he ignored them. In his own tiny cubby-hole of an office, he removed his overcoat and hat, donned a brown coat of cotton drill, and sat down to study the order book. He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase all personal preoccupations, to focus his mind on the day ahead; but like dancing black spots the problems insisted on floating back. He had slept badly since Sunday, the shock of that day’s events superseded by the twists and turns of his aunt’s efforts to surround and contain the situation.

  Like a Machiavelli come suddenly out of retirement, Mary Elliott had thrown off the vestments of grief and shock, and set about protecting her eldest daughter and, along with her, the man who was her lover. Edward was stunned by the speed with which she had apparently recovered. Still reeling, he had listened in amazement as she repeated, verbatim, her orders to Bessie and Blanche, and, yesterday, to Emily. The only ones yet to be interviewed were the chief protagonists; it was to be their turn on Sunday next.

  She had already written to Louisa summoning them to dinner. Bessie’s protests had been waved aside; Edward’s insistence that he would not condone such behaviour by sitting at the same table as Louisa’s lover was met by an icy stare. ‘Try swallowing your indignation along with your meat,’ she had said. ‘And don’t forget your origins while you do it.’

  Effectively silenced, he had accepted her later apology along with her regrets that he, of all people, should need such a reminder. Afterwards, of course, he had thought of all the things he should have said: that Louisa ought to be reminded of her own origins. She had no friends; none of them had. The stigma did not end with childhood torment; it was a deformity the victim constantly strove to hide, so that reticence and suspicion became second nature, lies and half-truths the only means to survive.

  The more Edward considered Louisa’s position, the less he understood. Love? Yes, he could recall the joy of it, the almost miraculous wonder of believing one was loved in return; also the torment when, like a pretty bubble, the miracle burst. Louisa had gone through that, he was sure. Why then had she succumbed? Surely her experience was such that she would suffer anything rather than bequeath the same to her own children? She could not be so naive as to think she could evade it.

  He began to see her attachment to the Captain as a kind of derangement, fed and supported by the very presence of the man. Before, Louisa had been possessed of reason; now she seemed blind to everything. The change in her, Edward thought, could be pinpointed to her dismissal from Blossom Street. There was more to that event than had ever been admitted, and it seemed logical to assume that Robert Duncannon was involved. If she had been seeing him at the same time as Rachel Tempest was conducting her romance with young Bainbridge, it would explain the old man’s anger. If that was indeed the case, then Albert Tempest’s references to their respective backgrounds became suddenly understandable; as was Louisa’s reluctance to quote him directly.

  Having placed Louisa squarely in the wrong, Edward’s attitude towards his employer began to soften. With a modicum of reason introduced to the problem, it no longer seemed so important to look for another place. Resolving to ease the atmosphere between them as best he might, Edward turned once more to the order book: the working day, at least, was clearer now.

  With his return to Gillygate that evening, however, he found the problem inescapable. While Bessie attended to guests in the dining room, he finished his meal at the kitchen table and raised the subject of Louisa yet again.

  ‘Won’t you even tell me what stance you’re going to take? Surely you can’t condone this situation? She must be persuaded to come home before things get really out of hand.’

  ‘Out of hand, Edward? I should think things were already out of our hands. Or do you think Louisa’s merely play-acting?’ Waving away his protest, she said: ‘I know what you mean, but it may be too late for tears, and if it isn’t, a few days aren’t going to make much difference.

  ‘These things must be done properly,’ she insisted. ‘It’s no good weeping and wailing. We must be calm and strong. Above all, we stand together – no matter what happens – as we’ve always done.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Edward protested. ‘But you haven’t even spoken to her yet.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I’m going to see her this evening.’

  Edward’s frown lifted. ‘You will try to make her see the folly of it?’

  Exasperated, Mary Elliott swept plates and cutlery off the table and banged them into the sink. ‘I shall do my best.’

  ‘About Sunday,’ he continued hesitantly. ‘Do you think you should be the one to talk to him? Won’t it be difficult for you? Perhaps it might be easier if I spoke to him — man to man, I mean.’

  She stared long and hard at him, and sighed. ‘You’ve had your opportunity, Edward. How far did you get?’

  ‘Well, not very far,’ he admitted. ‘But Louisa was there, and at the time I was too…’

  ‘Precisely. Which is why I’ve done nothing until now. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know — I’m more than capable of talking to the Captain myself. Don’t forget,’ she added in gentler tones, ‘that I nursed him when he was too ill to know where he was, or even who he was. I’ve fed him and bathed him, and seen him naked as the day he was born. He’s no different to any other man — he hasn’t got horns, and he’s no more Old Nick than you are.’

  ‘I don’t —’ Edward began.

  ‘Yes, you do. You think he’s magicked her away and is holding her against her will. You’re wrong. It’s nothing more nor less than the feelings the Good Lord blessed and cursed us all with.’

  ‘Base nature, you mean!’

  With an abrupt gesture, Mary Elliott waved her nephew’s angry protest aside. ‘Call it what you like, I won’t argue the matter. It’s part and parcel of us all, whether you admit to it or not.’

  Stung,
Edward pushed his chair back and turned to leave; but before he could reach the door, his aunt called him back. ‘Are you so perfect,’ she asked, ‘that you can cast the first stone?’

  That hit home, as she had known it would. ‘I’ve cast no stones,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t mean to judge her, it’s just that I don’t understand. I really don’t understand,’ he repeated. ‘I know she loves him, but that doesn’t make it right.’ Anguish tore at him, and abruptly he turned away. ‘Believe me, it’s not just her soul I’m concerned for.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Edward.’ Bessie came and went with crockery from the guests’ table; his aunt looked at the time. ‘I’d better go and tidy my hair.’

  ‘Shall I walk down with you?’ Edward asked. ‘I’ll not stay, but I can call back for you later.’ She shook her head, but he insisted. ‘I need the walk.’

  Warmly bundled against the bitter wind which swept down Gillygate, Mary Elliott leaned on her nephew’s arm, clutching a basket of new-baked bread and scones under her cloak. Dead leaves scurried past them, brown and brittle, catching and chattering in doorways. The wind brought with it the sharp scent of winter, of ploughed fields and open skies less than a mile hence, and with sudden, downward gusts, another smell, sooty and sulphurous. Forever afterwards, Edward was destined to remember that evening, to have it conjured up perfectly by wind and leaves and unswept chimneys.

  Perhaps that redolence of open country prompted other memories, for Mary Elliott said suddenly: ‘There never was much talk of sin when your mother and I were girls, you know. People were always too busy. We went to church on Sundays, of course, but the parson’s sermon was always a good opportunity for father to have forty winks undisturbed. I don’t remember anybody pointing the finger at girls who had babes out of wedlock in those days. If anything, it was the man who was hounded, to do the right thing by the girl. And if he wouldn’t, he was made to pay, which was only just and right. A nine days’ wonder then, that’s all it was. None of all this fussing and fretting and secrecy. No need for it — everybody knew what was what. Still,’ she reflected sadly, ‘I’m getting old, and times were changing, even then. New parsons, new ways – hellfire and damnation if father took a drop too much on a Saturday, and God help you if you were poor, for nobody else could.’