Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Blanche had arrived with the scent of St Maurice’s on her, and as Edward returned from Morning Service in the Minster, Louisa wondered who was right; whether her relationship with Robert Duncannon, sinful as it was in the eyes of the church, had condemned her forever in the eyes of God.

  In her present quandary, she would have liked to embrace Robert’s philosophy, which seemed to regard all as part of some grand practical joke perpetrated by an omnipotent and rather cruel Almighty. Lacking his sense of irony, however, she found it difficult. She was not even sure that he believed it, although from time to time he would quote odd, relevant verses from The Rubaiyat with great amusement. In Edward FitzGerald’s bitter-sweet translation, Louisa found disturbing echoes of questions which often tormented her. An insistence that life is transitory, that death is close and all too final, underlined her need to grasp happiness here and now.

  In her desire to be understood by Edward, she had bought a beautifully-illustrated copy for him as a Christmas present. It lay beneath the tree, unopened as yet; with a flutter of nerves, she wondered what he would think of it.

  When he joined them, he bestowed a chaste kiss on Blanche’s cheek; all Louisa felt was the soft brush of his beard against her skin. Accepting a glass of wine from his aunt, he sat down on the sofa, avoiding Louisa’s gaze.

  The presents were opened and exclaimed over. Opening Edward’s gift, Louisa had an idea what it was, and, afraid of making too much of it in front of Blanche, she pushed the beautiful album beneath her chair, trying to catch Edward’s eyes in order to thank him discreetly. It seemed he was resolutely determined not to be thanked, however, for he refused to look at her.

  As ever, when it came to opening his own presents, he was as much embarrassed as pleased, as though he felt he did not deserve them. Louisa watched him closely as he opened hers, but beyond a careful examination of the cover and spine, he exhibited little reaction to it. The smile as he murmured his thanks, however, was oddly at variance with the bleak look in his eyes.

  All through dinner he seemed preoccupied, although he complimented his aunt on the plump roast goose and the excellence of her Christmas pudding. Afterwards, when the table was cleared and Bessie had served them with candied fruits and peppermint creams and tiny cups of coffee, Edward was prevailed upon to read from Dickens.

  Clear and mellow, his voice enunciated the familiar words of that master story-teller, taking them through Dingly Dell with Mr Pickwick, who was a favourite of his aunt’s, on to passages from The Chimes, and The Cricket on the Hearth. By dusk both Bessie and her mistress, exhausted by their morning’s efforts, were fast asleep, and under the influence of the elderflower wine, Blanche was nodding gently. Staring into the fire’s glowing embers, only Louisa heard the last of Mr Scrooge and Tiny Tim.

  With a sigh, Edward placed A Christmas Carol beside its companions; he looked up and held her gaze for a moment, his expression unfathomable. In a sudden movement he bent to the hearth and, taking a lighted taper, touched the candles on their small tree to life.

  As he passed her chair, Louisa caught his hand. ‘A cup of tea?’ she softly asked, and he nodded, blowing out the taper. She rose to her feet, intending to thank him for the album, to ask what he thought of her small gift, perhaps offer an explanation, if one were needed. Touched by the sadness which for some reason he had worn like a shroud all day, on a sudden impulse she kissed his cheek; but as her lips touched him he froze, turning such a look of accusation upon her that she half-expected to hear the word ‘traitor’ upon his tongue.

  She flinched and stepped back. Edward brushed past her, bent to his books and began to return them to their correct shelf.

  ‘Yes, I would like a cup of tea,’ he said stiffly, and she fled from the room, determined not to show how much he had hurt her.

  Mechanically she filled the kettle, set it on the hob and stirred the fire. As she laid a tray with cups and saucers, milk and sugar, the front doorbell jangled; with a hasty glance in the mirror she wiped her eyes, just as Bessie ambled through into the kitchen.

  ‘Miss Emily’s here.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I’ll be through in a minute. You go and talk to her.’

  With a penetrating glance, Bessie said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Attempting a smile, she added, ‘Except Mr Dickens — Tiny Tim always did make me want to cry!’

  ‘Aye,’ Bessie laughed. ‘I’m glad I dropped off to sleep – else I’d have been sniveling too!’

  She disappeared, and Louisa stood by the window, waiting for the kettle to boil. It was dark outside, but deep swathes of snow illumined both yard and ramparts, reminding her of the last great fall, almost a year ago. Tired and anxious, she had come home that night accompanied by Edward; and met Robert Duncannon. How much, she thought, had happened in just one year. How impossible to think then that Edward would ever turn on her in such a way. Even after that first shock, he had been good to her, a little more reserved perhaps, but not unkind. Wondering what she had done to deserve that dreadful snub, she could think of nothing, nothing at all.

  As she leaned over to close the curtains, she saw a dark shape leap delicately onto the cleared path, running with an anxious, stiff-legged gait towards her. She opened the door and the cat mewed its gratitude, rubbing piteously against her skirts until she smiled and went to the pantry. With a guilty glance towards the door Bessie had left ajar, Louisa pulled a few scraps of meat from the carcase of the goose, leaving them, together with the cat, on the scullery floor.

  Strangely heartened by that small act, Louisa made the tea and sallied forth into the parlour.

  John Chapman stood up as she entered, and with a brief nod wished her the compliments of the season; Emily’s greeting was similarly lacking in enthusiasm, her eyes taking in every detail of Louisa’s expensive gown. With the addition of a new paisley shawl, Emily was wearing the same dove-grey silk in which she had been married.

  Once the weather had been discussed, conversation flagged; seeking another neutral topic, Louisa mentioned the Australian Exhibition. Emily glanced at her husband, pursing her lips.

  ‘Yes. We saw the Exhibition,’ she said. ‘We saw you, too.’

  For a moment, the statement hung in the air. Feeling both accused and guilty, Louisa inwardly cursed the colour which flooded her cheeks. ‘That’s strange,’ she said evenly, ‘I didn’t see you. Why didn’t you say hello?’

  ‘Oh, goodness me, you were far too busy with your fine friends — whoever they were – for John and me to interrupt.’

  Stung, Louisa retorted sharply, ‘You’re well enough acquainted with Robert — and I would have introduced you to his sister.’

  ‘You were with another couple and some children.’

  For a moment, Louisa was puzzled. ‘Oh, yes, we were for a minute or two. Sophie Bainbridge and — and her brothers. I’d quite forgotten about them.’

  Having discomfited her sister, Emily sipped her tea with an expression of smug self-satisfaction, while Blanche lowered her lashes and gave a little superior smile. Emily had gained weight, giving her a matronly look, yet for a moment she and Blanche seemed so alike Louisa wanted to smack them both. With shaking hands she poured more tea for her mother and Edward. As she passed his cup he looked up at her, his eyes eloquent with pain and apology; she was too angry to acknowledge it, sitting stiff and silent while her mother tried to smooth the ruffled atmosphere.

  Over Christmas cake and mince pies they gradually began to play their parts with some degree of conviction. With Louisa at the piano, they all joined in the carols, Edward’s light baritone and John’s deeper voice providing the foil for Emily’s pure soprano. But for Louisa the gaiety had a disturbingly hollow ring; she was relieved when the clock struck nine. In the kitchen, she made excuses to her mother.

  As she bent to kiss the soft, upturned cheek, Mary Elliott hugged her eldest daughter close. ‘You’ve been brave — I appreciate it, dear. It isn’t easy for you, I know that. And,’ she added w
ith a bright, quizzical look, ‘I suspect you could have been elsewhere this evening?’

  ‘Yes, Mamma, I did have an invitation to join them.’

  ‘Well, it was good of you to refuse it.’ She paused, saying: ‘Blanche and Emily don’t understand. They can’t. But I do. Don’t forget that.’

  Eyes suddenly brimming, Louisa hugged her mother close. ‘No, Mamma, I won’t forget. Thank you.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything. For just being you.’

  ‘Away with you!’ Mary Elliott exclaimed, turning abruptly to the tray of dirty crockery. ‘Will you be all right, walking down Gillygate?’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’

  Before she could take her leave of the others, Edward appeared in the doorway, coat on and hat in hand.

  ‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said quietly.

  ‘There’s no need. But I expect Blanche could do with an escort – she’s to go through town.’

  ‘Emily and John have already offered.’

  ‘Look, Robert is meeting me on Bootham, and I’m sure I can walk that far on my own.’

  Her coldness cut him, the more so because he knew it was justified. ‘I’d rather make sure,’ he insisted. ‘It’s bad underfoot and there may be revellers about.’

  Mary Elliott suddenly clicked her tongue and they both turned in surprise. ‘Don’t tell me you two are falling out now! I’ve never known such a family, and at Christmas, too. Edward’s quite right – you’d better let him walk down with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mamma,’ Louisa murmured. Without looking at him, she said, ‘All right, Edward, if you’re ready, we’ll go.’ She went through the ritual of departure with the others, and bade Bessie goodbye at the door. After the suffocating atmosphere of the house, the cold, sharp air of Gillygate was welcome.

  Longing to speak, Edward could not find the words. Apologies meant explanations, and how could he explain the feelings which had torn him apart at her touch? The change in her, strangely underlined by that most unlikely Christmas gift, repelled him, even while his whole being longed to leap to her protection. He burned, just thinking of Emily and Blanche.

  Had Robert Duncannon not been waiting for her at the end of the street, he thought he might have tried to explain; but the fact that he was waiting to take her home, waiting to take her into his arms and into his bed, strangled any attempt.

  They walked side by side, not touching, the silence between them as frozen as the snow beneath their feet. As once before, he watched her every footfall, anxious lest she should slip; remembered that other night, an age ago, when she had leaned on him and he had lifted his face in pure delight to the soft, cold kiss of the snow.

  The folly of that momentary happiness hit him hard. On that night, as now, he had been taking her to another man; the only difference being that then he had not known it.

  Thirteen

  If the long climb up to Christmas had been fraught with hazards and pain, it had also, Louisa thought, had its beautiful moments. She was sorry to say goodbye to Letty and Georgina, and, on being exhorted to write often, had promised she would. Her moments alone with Robert’s daughter had been rare and, in retrospect, precious, although whenever she thought of the child she became aware of maternal longings which were not easily quelled.

  In spite of Letty’s warnings, she began to look forward to Dublin, to the prospect of teaching Georgina and living with Robert and his sister as family. He had agreed to the plan quite readily, said nothing would please him better than to have his daughter permanently in Dublin. Letty could set herself up as chaperone if she liked, but he had no intention of allowing Louisa to hide herself away. The two women had been forced to accept that, and although Letty had voiced some misgivings, Louisa felt sure that between them they would eventually make Robert see sense.

  The wintry slide down the New Year to Easter was quieter, with life settling into the kind of mundane routine which bred contentment even while it dulled the senses. Once or twice a week she visited her mother, usually in the afternoon, for she was reluctant to invite further rebuffs from Edward. When their paths did cross, which was rarely, his manner seemed set to reflect the weather, which continued cold and bitter. It was depressing, yet she could not discuss it with Robert, who was still touchy on the subject; and while she felt sure her mother noticed, Mary Elliott was obviously reluctant to air the matter.

  News of Emily’s first pregnancy did not help to heal the breach between the sisters. As though she sensed Louisa’s envy, Emily preened like a well-fed cat, while Blanche cooed and fussed over her, declaring her delight at the prospect of becoming a doting aunt. Louisa tried to distance herself, although she was drawn in by her mother’s subsequent distress at news of the young couple’s decision to move away from York. It had been discussed for some time; with the country in the grip of depression, John reckoned he could do better for himself in Leeds, where the cheap clothing industry was booming, and people had money to spend on furniture and funerals. It was eminently plausible, but Louisa saw other reasons behind it, reasons which were understandable though not endearing.

  Although she took pains not to show it, Robert sensed her despondency and tried hard to cheer her. He bought a small secondhand piano which fitted awkwardly behind the sofa; they spent many a pleasant hour during the long February evenings, playing duets and songs old and new. When the mood was on him, he would make her laugh, striking dramatic chords and singing sad Irish songs in a mock-mournful voice; but when she played for him, he was tempted into seriousness, and sang the songs as they were meant to be sung.

  He would rarely be drawn on the subject of Gladstone and the proposed Home Rule Bill, but Louisa knew that his loyalties were very much divided. He felt that his first allegiance should be to the regiment and his brother officers, yet, because of his background, Robert believed implicitly in an independent Parliament for Ireland. Almost a century before, the Duncannons, together with many other old-established families, had opposed the Act of Union which abolished the old Irish Parliament and with it the ideal of a separate identity for Ireland. As landlords, they had suffered at the hands of successive inept and arbitrary English governments, not least during the years of the Famine, when attempts to alleviate that terrible tragedy had been frustrated by legislation from London. Robert’s grandfather had almost bankrupted the estate in his efforts to stem the tide of hunger and disease which ravaged the local population, opening his own kitchens, and later financing escape for those who wished to emigrate.

  Louisa had felt chastened then, recalling the accusations which had gone through her mind at the time of Moira’s personal tragedy; even more so when Robert said: ‘So don’t talk to me about absentee landlords — the Duncannons were never that, no matter what other sins may be to their charge. We never recovered from the Famine, nor have many of our closest neighbours. At least I married Charlotte,’ he added bitterly. ‘If I’d not married her – or some other willing heiress — White Leigh would be crumbling now, like so many other estates in the south. William, God bless him, married a wife with even fancier ideas and less money than he had. They’re all so damned feckless!’ he swore angrily as he poured another drink. ‘God save us from the Irish gentry.’

  Despite that, he firmly believed that Ireland should be governed by people who understood the country and the problems peculiar to it; the English would never get things right, if they tried till Doomsday, yet they seemed bent on dying in the attempt. He was well aware that his colleagues were mostly Conservative and Unionist; they were for the expansion of the Empire, with themselves lending a hand in the expanding; and as such would have cursed Gladstone to perdition, given half a chance. So Robert learned to keep silent, except with Tommy, while they both read and reread the reported debates, arguing vociferously as to the outcome.

  There were rumours that Ulster was secretly arming, that should the Bill become law, the possibility of civil war in the province would become fact. One editorial
even went so far as to suggest that ninety-nine per cent of the army’s officers would hand in their papers rather than accompany their regiments to Ireland on an expedition which would require them to fire upon the Loyalists.

  ‘They have the gall to call it cold-blooded and murderous tyranny,’ Robert snarled as he read the piece aloud to Louisa. ‘The double-dyed hypocrites! So democracy is only fair when it works in their favour, I suppose, and the army may only be employed against rioting Catholic peasants! Carson and his bunch of Loyalist bully-boys don’t count, of course. And we mustn’t forget that he’s an industrialist,’ Robert added sarcastically, ‘and one of their own kind. No, we mustn’t lose sight of that small fact. But in my book, Louisa, a mob is a mob, and incitement to riot is a crime, no matter the name or title. Carson should be arrested now, before he does any more damage.’

  Louisa had asked then whether he knew the man, but he said not. ‘Although, oddly enough, I believe he’s distantly connected to Charlotte’s family by marriage. For that reason, too, I’d like to see him silenced.’ It was a strangely chilling revelation.

  The hitherto unconsidered power of Charlotte’s family preyed on Louisa’s mind, and she began to have severe qualms about the wisdom of moving to Dublin. Robert, apparently, had none.

  While never-ending debates wore on in the House of Commons, he refused to let natural anxiety colour his life, and apart from the occasional furious outburst, refrained from lengthy comment. He hunted regularly, attended the occasional house-party, and went to the usual semi-official functions alone; but as plans for the regiment’s leave-taking gathered momentum, he began to entertain what seemed to Louisa a quite ludicrous idea.

  There was to be a Regimental Ball at the end of April, a gesture of thanks towards neighbouring gentry and civic dignitaries alike, a small return for hospitality rendered. When Robert first suggested she should be his partner, Louisa refused outright, firstly because such an indiscretion would be folly, and secondly because she had not danced for years and had quite forgotten how. Robert suggested lessons, and when she modestly baulked at that, brought Tommy over to play the piano while they practised a few basic steps.