Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Edward listened intently, aware that these thoughts were but a summary of all that had been in his aunt’s mind for days. In all the years that he had lived beneath her roof, he had never before known her speak so freely of the past. Part of him was faintly shocked, for he was a product of a different age. And yet this was one of the secrets of her philosophy, and probably why she was so much easier to live with than his mother had been. There was no bitterness in his aunt; she had lived her life according to her own lights, accepting the consequences with little more than a shrug.

  Her ideas had been formed years before he was born, in a place where he had spent some of the happiest times of his childhood. With another, greater shock, it dawned on him that friends and relatives in Lincolnshire had always known him as Elizabeth Elliott’s child; no one had ever remarked on his lack of a father. If there were no secrets there, as his aunt maintained, then perhaps his father’s identity was known.

  Carefully, for he was afraid his anxiety to know the truth would set a guard on her tongue, Edward formed a reply. As casually as he was able, he said: ‘You make life in the country sound eminently desirable, Aunt. Perhaps we should persuade Louisa to retire to Lincolnshire? In fact,’ he continued, ‘under the circumstances, it sounds such a good idea, I can’t help wondering why my mother found it so necessary to leave.

  ‘Won’t you tell me? You must know something, and I’d appreciate the truth. My mother’s dead now — it can’t possibly matter anymore.’

  Under a flickering street lamp, his aunt glanced up and realized her mistake; but lies seemed suddenly pointless, and she was heartily sick of deceit. Sighing, she said: ‘Your mother left because she was pregnant, because your father’s family forced her to leave. And she made me promise never to tell you because she was afraid you’d go back — afraid you’d try to contact them. It was vital to her that you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mary Elliott sighed again. The reasons seemed old and trite and trivial compared to current anxiety; the more so because history seemed so depressingly set on repeating itself. ‘Oh, some document was involved. I suppose they were terrified of a scandal, so they made her swear on oath that she’d never reveal your father’s name. In return for that — and quitting the county – she was given a lump sum and a small annuity for your upbringing. She was lucky,’ Mary added dryly, ‘they were quite generous.’

  Caught by a sudden wave of revulsion, Edward stopped dead. ‘You mean she was paid off?’ he demanded, and in the next second wondered why he was so surprised.

  ‘Oh, be your age, Edward! She didn’t have a choice! If she’d refused, and stayed in Blankney or Metheringham, what would it have meant? Think about it —think hard! — try to imagine what life was like for us in those days. Our parents had nothing, and they were getting old. For twenty years they’d worked like slaves — and for what? Trying to pay off old Tom Elliott’s debts – a shilling here, a guinea there — struggling to give us younger ones a decent start in life. Then Elizabeth, thirty-one — and still not married, despite the offers she’s had — comes home and says she’s expecting!’

  With a snort of disgust, Mary Elliott continued walking, not caring whether Edward followed or not. Elizabeth! she thought bitterly, remembering her sister as she had been then: pretty, clever and vain. Haughty, too, forever harking back to the old days, when her father and grandfather had been men of property, and she the only daughter, apple of her father’s eye.

  Born after the fall, Mary remembered only the genteel poverty of the cottage in the High Street, where a few remaining pieces of fine furniture mouldered against damp walls. Their father’s books consisted of favourites salvaged from the sale, dog-eared with use and hard for young minds to comprehend, but they were read over and over again. Year after year their mother’s gowns were altered and turned, until the once-good cloth was threadbare, hardly fit for rags. Everyday matters to Mary, who had known nothing else; but to her sister they were daily recriminations.

  Elizabeth, with her mincing manners and passion for fine clothes; she did well as a lady’s maid, Mary thought, wishing her sister had possessed enough sense to see the folly of wanting more. But pregnant, and with the spectre of poverty hanging over her, reality had been hammered home then; it was no good ranting at fate, swearing marriage had been promised and cursing the family whose name she had coveted; the old Baronet had the upper hand and knew it. So did the Elliotts.

  Distraught and helpless on Elizabeth’s behalf, at least her parents were realists. Experience had taught them that little could be achieved without money, and their elder daughter had been granted enough to make a future of sorts. Mary was summoned from Lincoln, and with her help Elizabeth was finally brought to her senses. Between them the practicalities were ironed out. They had relatives near Darlington in Yorkshire, who would take her in until the child was born; and after that, with that generous lump sum, Elizabeth might set herself up in some kind of business. Eventually she agreed; but that surrender had not been won without sacrifice on Mary’s part. She would only go, she said, if Mary would accompany her.

  Then, she had had no real regrets; but later Elizabeth’s unconcealed distaste for Mary’s problems had hurt deeply. The trouble was, Elizabeth had never wanted the encumbrance of a child; had been quite happy whilst ever her son could be fostered by those elderly relatives in Darlington. She had never understood Mary’s attachment to her own daughters, the need to have them with her. It was that need which had started the gossip; that maternal love which had led, ultimately, to the end of their partnership. And the end of that had meant the end of friendship, the end of sisterly affection.

  An angry little sob broke in her throat as Mary hurried along, and she was suddenly aware of Edward beside her, catching anxiously at her arm.

  He forced those angry steps to slow; and gradually, as she regained control of herself, the threatening tears subsided, and she was able to speak with relative calm. In a low voice she related the bare circumstances of his coming into the world, glossing over the less pleasant aspects of his mother’s character.

  ‘I suppose she must have loved him – she’d had plenty of other offers and turned them all down – but like an awful lot of others, dear, he disappeared when he was most needed. Tragic, because she never got over it, but at least she didn’t end up on the streets, like thousands more in her position. I don’t know,’ she sighed, ‘men have the pleasure, we pay the price. It’s an unfair world. And whatever your father’s intentions, they obviously didn’t stand up too well in the face of his family. That’s what I tried to tell Louisa — but then, I didn’t know the Captain was married.’

  ‘You seem to have told me everything,’ Edward said, ‘except who my father was.’

  ‘That’s because I don’t know. Oh, I can tell you the family name — your father’s father used to hunt with the Blankney pack when I was a girl — I’ve seen him many a time, and you have the same look. But you see, dear, there were three sons and a daughter, all close in age, and none of them married. And whatever your mother’s faults, Edward, I’ll say this for her – she stuck to her oath, and never uttered his name again.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he demanded, turning to face her. ‘This isn’t another excuse not to tell me the truth?’

  Mary Elliott stood her ground. ‘I didn’t lie to you before, Edward. You asked if I knew who your father was. I didn’t then, and I still don’t. It was the bare truth.’

  After leaving her at Louisa’s door, Edward turned back towards town, conscious of a desperate need to walk. There was solace in the bleak, blustery evening, in the empty city streets. Lights still burned in a few small shops, but there were few people about, and those he passed paid him scant attention.

  Blind to his surroundings, he crossed the river twice, and without realizing, found himself on Fossgate, outside Tempest’s. Like a sleepwalker suddenly come to, he stood and stared at the shopfront, wondering how and why he was there. Then he blinked, and with
a surge of irrational anger, turned sharply away.

  He had gone no more than a few yards when, from a recessed doorway, a painted face leered at him suggestively. Stonily, Edward walked on, ignoring her, but the prostitute caught at his arm, and with an obscene gesture, named her price. In what seemed no more than a reflex action, he twisted free and grabbed the woman, pinning her against a shop window. As her terrified eyes stared into his, he felt, rather than heard, the window begin to crack. He pulled her to him and, locked like lovers, the two stood fast.

  Cheap perfume, mingled with the odour of her unwashed body, assaulted him; as she opened her mouth to scream, he released his grip and flung her aside.

  Pursued by a round mouthful of curses, he strode on, away from the shadowy half-world and into broader, brighter thoroughfares. At the head of Pavement, the lantern tower of All Saints stood pale against the night sky; on impulse, he sought refuge within.

  Shuddering, trembling, he sank to his knees in the shadows of the Lady Chapel, his mind racing, reliving the scene in Fossgate over and over, until he was convinced he had half-killed the woman in his rage. His reactions, usually so controlled, horrified him. Prostitutes often approached him; they were a fact of life, regrettable, like poverty, and as ever-present. Usually he ignored them; or if pressed by the old and destitute, found a piece of silver, however small, to give them.

  In the sanctuary, candles burned, tiny lights shining in the darkness, symbols of a greater light, of hope and peace and love in a bitter and unfeeling world. In spite of his mother’s peculiar brand of piety, Edward had never lost sight of that, even though there had been times when his faith was strained to breaking point. Shame burned as he felt the power of frustration, the seductive pull of darkness and despair, the ease with which even a sane, intelligent man could descend to violence.

  Most of all he was aware of deep betrayal: by his mother, who had never trusted him, and by Louisa, who rejected all that he, Edward, stood for. All his life he had believed in decency and kindness, gentleness and moral precepts founded on his Christian faith. He was no whited sepulchre, he hated extremism and loathed the double standard; in trying to understand without condemning, he had also sought to pass on those beliefs to his cousins. In Blanche’s case it was wasted effort; Emily was more easily swayed, going the way of the prevailing wind; but Louisa was strong and sure, and with her he had imagined he shared a deep and lasting rapport. He had trusted her, believed in her, relied upon her, and most of all loved her for what he thought she was. Now it seemed he did not know her at all.

  Remembering her face that day, the way she had wept as she embraced him, Edward knew, in spite of that later bravado, that what she did was not done lightly; she loved him still, it was simply that she loved Robert Duncannon more.

  But that it should be him! Edward inwardly raged. A married man with nothing to offer; a married man who would discard her as soon as he grew bored. She was good, intelligent and kind; she was also very lovely; she could have had anyone. Why had she chosen him? How could she be so blind to the folly she was committing?

  He wanted to pray, but found it impossible. It seemed that even the Almighty, who could have prevented this catastrophe, had laughed and flung Edward’s belief back in his face.

  Drained and numb, he rose from his knees with only one thought to comfort him: he had a name. Out of all this chaos had come the answer to a lifelong question, and he would use every wit he possessed to pursue the truth. Hornet’s nest or no, to Edward it did not matter: his mother was dead, and her fears and bitterness were buried with her. He would uncover the truth, whatever the cost.

  Six

  Despite the honesty of that lengthy conversation with her mother, in which they had talked as equals for the first time, Louisa was nervous as she walked the length of Gillygate. She had not seen Edward since the previous Sunday, and not even her mother’s assurances could erase the memory of his face as he left the apartment. Bessie she had not seen at all. Knowing her fierce protectiveness, Louisa feared the worst kind of reaction. Dreading it, she took a deep breath and slowed her quick, anxious steps, trying to appear as though this was a regular visit home.

  The long straight road seemed longer, the gusting breeze colder as it tugged at her cloak. Under a fitful noonday sun children ran home, kicking up dusty leaves as they went, while stiff young men escorted self-conscious girls from chapel and church. A neighbour, unfamiliar in his Sunday best, raised his hat to her, and further on a little girl smiled a shy greeting as she passed. On this day of all days, Robert’s presence beside her would have been a great comfort, but at the last minute each had agreed to bow to discretion.

  Feeling like a stranger, she rang the bell, in her nervousness studying the doorway as though she had never seen it before. The fanlight was mirror-clean and she could almost see her face in the spotless green paintwork. Bessie must have worked late, she thought, noting the freshly whitened doorstep. Suddenly, the door opened, and Bessie was standing there stiff as a guardsman, her eyes like gimlets beneath furrowed brows.

  Louisa sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Bessie...’ she began tentatively.

  ‘Aye,’ the older woman muttered brusquely. ‘And no doubt you’ll be sorrier still before you’ve finished. You’ve not got all your bread baked yet, you know,’ she added tartly. ‘He’s here already, by the way,’ and she nodded towards the parlour, leaving Louisa to go through alone.

  As she went in, her mother was saying to Robert: ‘I’m sorry about Bessie. She’s getting old, I’m afraid, and all this has been a terrible shock to her.’

  With a glance at Louisa, Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d have thought,’ he said gently, ‘that it had been a greater shock to you, Mrs Elliott.’

  ‘Well, Captain,’ she murmured, with a small deprecating gesture, ‘as I’m sure you are aware, I am not entirely ignorant of the world. And Louisa is my daughter. Do you think I’d abandon her?’

  ‘Not at all. I simply meant –’

  ‘Bessie is a servant, but she’s been with us for almost thirty years, through good days and bad. While I don’t approve of her attitude at the moment, I do understand it. In time, I’m sure she’ll grow used to the idea. Until then, I hope you’ll bear with her.’

  Robert had the feeling that the same little speech, or something very like it, had been used several times already. Crushed, he gazed appealingly at the older woman. ‘I feel I should apologise,’ he said, in some embarrassment, ‘but that would denigrate Louisa. However, I am sincerely sorry for the pain we’ve caused you...’

  Mary Elliott laid a small hand over his. ‘May we talk about it later? Edward will be joining us in a moment, and I think Bessie is wanting my help in the kitchen.’

  Like Louisa, Robert dreaded the meeting with her cousin. In spite of her protests, the lengthy explanations he had listened to, Robert could not forget that first, shattering impression, nor the austerely-phrased opinions which had set him so squarely in the wrong. That slight man, with his passionate eyes, had severely unsettled Robert; in his anger he had longed to strike back, and in doing so had only succeeded in hurting Louisa. For her sake, he knew he must make a supreme effort to conquer his antagonism.

  When Edward did appear, the eyes which met Robert’s were still wary, still hostile, but although he did not look at Louisa even when he spoke to her, he seemed to be making an effort for her sake. His self-control was admirable under the circumstances, Robert thought. With Mary Elliott’s light, inconsequential chatter, it was almost possible to forget the previous week’s appalling sequence of events.

  He followed Louisa to the table, taking the place indicated by her mother. Edward said a short Grace, and, with the arrival of the first course, praised Bessie for her Yorkshire puddings. The crisp batter pudding was certainly delicious, and he added his compliments.

  The beef, sizzling in its ring of golden roast potatoes, was placed it before Edward at the head of the table. While he carved, Bessie served the vegetables, leaving a sau
ce-boat of piping-hot gravy in the centre of the table.

  As Robert ladled a spoonful onto his beef, Edward addressed him directly for the first time. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘we read so much these days about reform, but I often wonder what army life is really like. The food, for instance — is it as poor as some of the newspapers would have us believe?’

  ‘Not in the Officers’ Mess,’ Robert emphatically replied. ‘But then, it should be good, we pay enough for the privilege. As for the men, well, their rations are vastly improved on what they used to be, and we’re constantly exhorted to check their quality. The raw victuals are usually quite good, but,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘I think the food would be more palatable if Mrs Elliott were doing the cooking! And, come to think of it, ours would be a deal better, too!’

  With a deprecating comment, Mary Elliott offered him more meat; as he accepted another slice, Edward said to him: ‘You must forgive my lamentable ignorance, Captain Duncannon – but I have no experience whatsoever of military life.’ He paused, and Robert looked up into eyes which belied the softness of his tone. Such cold and open resentment was nothing new to Robert: he had seen it in the eyes of recruits when their Sergeant’s back was turned; seen it in the eyes of sergeants when brought to book by a junior officer. It was both familiar and understandable, and twelve years of army life had taught Robert how to deal with it. What he could not bear, and could not deal with, was raw emotional pain. He was glad to see that Edward had put that behind him.

  ‘So, Captain, what do you actually do?’

  Relief brought a smile to Robert’s face. ‘Well, in the winter,’ he said evenly, ‘little of any consequence. The usual parade-ground drill, of course, and training of recruits. And the horses have to be exercised, whatever the weather. Usually, though, we ride to hounds two or three days a week, which is one of the great advantages of being stationed in York – lots of good hunting within easy distance.