Edward raised his eyes. ‘Probably not, but plenty do.’
With a snort of disgust, Louisa said: ‘If Albert Tempest cared for his daughter, he would have seen what Moira saw months ago and done something about it! He’s a cruel man, Edward, if only by default. Thoughtless and cruel. I’ve no pity for him, None whatsoever.’
Stunned by the vehemence of his cousin’s words, Edward sat still and silent. At first he suspected Louisa of exaggeration, but then incidents from the past came back to him: summary dismissals of men with ailing wives or children, the almost constant ill-feeling which prevailed in the print-room. He escaped it simply because Albert Tempest was a printer and not a bookbinder, and Edward’s standards were too high ever to give cause for complaint. Perhaps because they had never seriously crossed swords, Albert Tempest trusted him.
‘I suppose,’ he eventually admitted, ‘that over the years my view of him has been restricted. He’s hard, I know that. That’s why I was so shocked this morning. I couldn’t quite believe it.’
‘He’s more than hard,’ Louisa said quietly, her face a blank mask; but in the next moment, the mask crumpled. ‘That poor child,’ she whispered. ‘I tried so hard, really I did. Even in the beginning, when she was so difficult, I could see it wasn’t her fault. And in the end – in the end, she was so loveable. If only —’ She broke off and covered her eyes. ‘There was nothing I could do, Edward – nothing! That’s what hurts so much.’
Studying the small area of carpet which lay between them, it seemed a mass of shifting quicksand: one foolish step and he risked being lost forever. Her feet, bare and vulnerable beneath the hem of her nightdress, drew his gaze; he had the strangest desire to kiss them, to beg her forgiveness for the distance he had inadvertently created but deliberately maintained. A fleeting second later it dawned on him that, for the first time in his life, he was disturbed by Louisa’s state of undress.
We were too close, he thought uncomfortably, recalling his own myopia. Sadly, it had taken another man to open his eyes, to make him see her as she really was, yet it was still a shock to meet her face to face. The image of innocence he had held for so long was hard to dismiss, even harder to reconcile with the desirable woman she had become.
Edward knew his attitude in recent months had been interpreted as moralistic, knew also that this was partly true; but he remembered Christmas as the day she had presumed too much, presenting him with a book of verse whose philosophy ran contrary to everything he believed in, and kissing his cheek as though nothing at all had changed. That brief and casual touch had stripped him naked, exposing wounds which were not even half-healed. Since then he had been overly aware of a need to protect himself against her; while she would not willingly hurt him, he was afraid she would do so out of blindness. To her he was simply Edward, the edges of his manhood blurred by familiarity and, he had to admit, his own inability to define himself.
In that respect he had begun to rectify matters. There had been too much grief and, for him, too much self-recrimination. The time had come for more positive things, and if the rest of his life was to be lonely, without benefit of the companionship he had always longed for, then he knew he must learn to accept it, and so must she.
A photograph of Robert Duncannon on the table beside him was sufficient reminder that Louisa was not alone, not without comfort in her moments of grief. And if her state of undress was anything to go by, he reflected, then the Captain could well be arriving shortly. Smarting at the thought, he rose to his feet. ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said, ‘what happens.’
Louisa stared up at him, eyes wide in disbelief, pain and amazement plainly etched upon her face. Looking down at her, Edward felt all his fine resolutions begin to melt away. He even took a step towards her, but then he closed his eyes, and common sense took over.
‘I can’t stay,’ he said at last, and his voice sounded strained, even to himself.
‘Why not?’ she demanded, and he thought he detected a faint, high note of hysteria. ‘Do I embarrass you?’
‘Of course not,’ he murmured gruffly.
‘Then what is it, Edward?’ Again that high note in her voice. ‘Are you afraid to stay? Afraid you might be contaminated?’
Again he closed his eyes. No, he shouted silently, it’s you I’m afraid of — you and the power you have to hurt me.
‘You might as well admit it,’ she declared, rising abruptly. ‘I can see it in your face – you’re ashamed of me!’
If she had repeated the accusation, taken one more step towards him, Edward knew he would have snapped. As she headed for the door he took a deep breath, slowly uncurling his fingers from a crushed hat-brim. With a great effort he kept a hold on his temper, forced himself to speak calmly and without rancour. It would have been easier to walk out, but he knew that if he did, the tenuous link between them would be severed, perhaps forever.
‘I have an appointment to keep. To view some premises in Piccadilly. I didn’t want to tell you before, because it seemed — callous, I suppose.’ He struggled to explain himself, all the time aware that she was hardly listening. ‘I’ve been thinking for some time that I should leave Tempest’s. I just wish this opportunity had come at some other time. Anyway,’ he added, ‘this place may not even be suitable. I shall have to see.’ With a glance at the clock, he sighed heavily. ‘I shall have to go, Louisa. I’ll call again as soon as there’s any news about the child.’
In the safety of the lane he stopped for a moment, feeling ill; as he mopped his brow, he noticed his hands were trembling. Struggling to regain some sort of control, he swallowed hard and tried to breathe deeply, but the evening was warm and the scented air, trapped between mellow brick walls, almost suffocated him. Eager to escape, he set off in almost feverish haste, disturbing a pair of lovers in the shadow of an overhanging lilac. Apologizing, feeling like a leper, he continued on uncertain feet towards the lower end of Marygate. On the Landing he rested against a bollard, gulping at the sharp green smell of the river until his nausea passed.
Boatmen were idling, smoking pipes and calling to each other; from the prow of a keel-boat a black and white dog barked at a group of ragged children playing on the opposite bank. There was a sane normality about it which placed the last half-hour in the light of madness.
Now that it was over, he loathed himself, feeling not the smallest speck of pride in that display of self-control. He almost wished that he had retaliated: it would at least have shown some degree of feeling. But his worst regret was the distance between them: that he had been unable to share his investigations and his plans. Once, she would have wanted to be involved; excited, even. Now, she hardly wanted to know.
But Louisa had played her part, however unwittingly. Looking back, he could see that he had stayed at Tempest’s out of sheer inertia, preferring to ignore his employer’s shortcomings than to take the risk of striking out elsewhere. The static world of books and poetry had kept his head down, enabling him to blend quietly into his surroundings, gradually suffocating any latent embers of dissatisfaction.
The advent of Robert Duncannon had come like an earthquake into that safe world, his affair with Louisa, shattering. And then the aftershock of her dismissal from Blossom Street. But if all their lives had been shaken, out of the rubble of Edward’s dreams had come a glimmer of light. He had discovered something which might otherwise have been lost, and from there had started to put his own life into perspective. The decision to leave Tempest’s and go into business for himself had come out of that.
Armed with his father’s family name he had been chasing facts throughout the winter, worrying librarians like a terrier, until every available scrap of information was unearthed. There were notebooks filled with hastily-scribbled details covering several generations, people whose way of life was so far removed from his own that he was able at first to see no connection. Until one cold night, viewing the growing family tree with its leaf-like bunches of detail, he began to see things differently.
&nb
sp; Short of a confession from the man himself, Edward knew he was never going to prove his father’s identity. What mattered, however, was his connection to that man’s family. With a sudden blaze of clarity, he saw that he was the inheritor of their failings if not their virtues. And in trying to fathom them, he was beginning to understand himself.
He had seen connections there which had never been apparent on the Elliott side. And if the man with the thin, ascetic face was indeed his father, then it was clear why Elizabeth Elliott had treated her son with such apparent disdain. Not only did Edward favour such looks, it seemed he may have inherited other characteristics too. Bookish, unambitious, that much he knew about himself – and, by deduction, about the Reverend George Crispin Gregory. The scholarly air of absent-mindedness could be an effective cover for many failings, cowardice amongst them. Edward did not accuse him – at least, no more than he accused himself. But the world of books contained no personal pain. There may be conflict within, but that was something to be resolved by thought, not action.
It was easy to escape into a book, as Edward well knew; easy to pretend not to know, not to have heard, than to challenge the speaker. Simpler by far to give in, to feign unselfishness for the sake of peace, and see the surrender as sacrifice.
Was that the source of his mother’s disdain? That he refused – like his father – to fight back.
Well, he thought, straightening his shoulders, the time had come to act if not to fight. Louisa had her lover to comfort her now, and Albert Tempest would always survive, with his help or without it. The timing was unfortunate, but at this juncture it seemed imperative to ignore their separate calls upon his sympathy and look to his own future. If he tarried much longer, those premises on Piccadilly would be taken by someone else.
Sixteen
Those who understood the nature of Victoria Tempest’s illness said her death would be a blessing, but it was impossible for Louisa to see it in that light. Haunted by visions of the child’s suffering, the argument with Robert paled into petty insignificance, leaving her wondering what on earth had given rise to those harsh exchanges. Anxious only to forget the whole incident, to bury her distress in the reassuring comfort of his arms, she wrote the very next day, no more than a brief note, but he came at once in answer to it.
The last remnants of pride and determination crumbled within minutes, and, knowing nothing of the crisis at the Tempests’, he simply took her into his arms and into bed. Later, eager to make amends, he listened to the outpouring of troubles, but found the guilt and grief hard to understand.
Despite his attempts to divert her, nothing could sway Louisa’s conviction that the little girl had pined, in her weakened state becoming prey to the illness which had her so firmly in its grip. At night she tossed and turned, beset by the milestones of the past year, examining each event with the glare of hindsight, convinced she should have done more, written to Rachel, gone to see her, forced the girl to do something about her sister’s situation. Yet Rachel had seen her sister on several occasions, she knew that from Moira. Was she wilfully blind, Louisa asked, or simply ignorant?
‘Too proud,’ Robert said. ‘And no doubt too afraid of old Tempest. You can hardly blame her.’
But Louisa did.
Edward called each evening, for a few minutes only and with news of the child. Louisa would have welcomed his company and a chance to talk, but he was busy, he said, and seemed reluctant to spend more time with her than was absolutely necessary. In truth, she did not blame him.
And when, just ten days later, he brought news of Victoria’s passing, she was prepared for it, and did not weep, or beg him to stay.
Hesitating by the door, he said: ‘Another thing I must tell you. Albert Tempest has been taken with some kind of seizure, I understand. They say he’s very ill…’
She was surprised, but not sorry. ‘Retribution?’ she said shortly. ‘I hope so – he deserves it.’
Edward sighed, and left.
Moira came the following evening with similar news, missing the Captain by minutes, but even that failed to register. In the midst of their shared grief, Louisa forgot her expensive tea-gown and the lingering aroma of cigars. The funeral was to be on Friday, Moira said, but she was not sure Albert Tempest would be fit to attend. At news of his daughter’s death he had been taken with some kind of seizure, and since then was confined to bed, the doctor visiting every day. Rachel had called while her father was sleeping, and Mrs Petty had been under the strictest orders not to disturb him. Moira felt sorry for them both; Albert Tempest was but a shadow of his former self, and Rachel so upset, her pretty face all blotched and swollen with weeping.
Recalling Rachel’s propensity for tears, and her father’s self-indulgent temper, Louisa could feel no sympathy; only outrage that Albert Tempest should go on living while an innocent child lay dead in her coffin.
Nevertheless, when she saw him at the funeral, it was a shock. Heavily veiled, she sat in a pew at the rear of the Priory Street chapel, while Edward was near the front as a representative of the Tempest workforce. On the other side of the aisle sat Moira and Mrs Petty, both in new though ill-fitting mourning. Rachel, smart in couture black, sat with bowed head between her father and a middle-aged couple, the aunt and uncle, Louisa presumed, from Bradford.
As the little coffin was borne out, Albert Tempest staggered, ashen-faced and so obviously ill that his brother-in-law and another man took his arms, supporting him down the aisle. He seemed oddly shrunken, a grey and feeble replica of the man who had once had the power to terrify. She shuddered at the memory, and when she raised her head again Rachel was with him in the lobby, taking her father’s arm like a reconciled and dutiful daughter. He made no demur, but turned to her in pathetic gratitude, while their various relatives stood by, nodding like a bunch of donkeys.
Bitterly, Louisa looked on at a scene being played for full sentimental effect. Waiting for the crowd to clear, she could think of nothing but the total bankruptcy of that supposedly touching reunion. Too late, too late! were the words drumming through her head; why couldn’t you make things up before?
Oppressed by the weight of human folly, eager for clean, fresh air, she pushed her way through the crowd at the head of the steps. Rachel and her father were being assisted into the leading carriage, while to one side stood the entire Bainbridge family, all looking suitably mournful. With a little snort of disgust, Louisa turned away.
She found Edward at the foot of the steps, exchanging polite conversation with a couple whose faces were unknown to her. Not wanting to be introduced, she hung back, but Edward noticed her immediately, excusing himself to speak to her.
He squeezed her arm in sympathy. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so,’ she whispered, her eyes on the leading carriage. ‘But I hope he suffers! I hope they both see what part they had to play in that child’s death, and never, ever, forget it!’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Edward murmured, glancing round. ‘That’s no way to talk here.’
‘You don’t understand!’
‘Perhaps I don’t,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s neither the time nor the place. The child’s dead, Louisa. Bitterness won’t bring her back.’
For a moment she chewed her lip. ‘Of course it won’t,’ she conceded at last. ‘But I just wish — oh, how I wish, Edward! — they could have swallowed their pride a little sooner than this. It’s all so pointless. Arguments in families, people not speaking, others suffering. And then, when it’s all too late…’ Voice breaking, Louisa shook her head. ‘Why,’ she pleaded, ‘does it have to take a tragedy to make people see?’
Ushering her away from the crowd at the pavement edge, Edward sighed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But you know, Louisa, there are lots of things I don’t understand.’
Amidst the quiet buzz of subdued voices, the impatient shifting of horses’ hooves, it seemed he waited expectantly, waited for her to see how closely her criticism of the Tempests applied closer to h
ome; and at last, she did. As truth dawned, remorse flooded through her like a hot tidal wave.
‘I’m sorry,’ she got out at last.
‘So am I,’ Edward murmured with infinite regret. For a long moment, neither of them spoke; then, as though it cost him very deeply, he said: ‘I wish we could talk. Sensibly, I mean, not with ill-feeling.’
Overwhelmed, Louisa simply squeezed the hand which still held hers.
‘Are you going to the cemetery?’ he asked, and when she shook her head, looked back at the rapidly forming procession. ‘Well, I should go, but I very much doubt whether they’ll miss me by the graveside. Look, if we walk together at the back of the crowd, I’m sure we can slip away.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked as the cortege slowed by the castle.
‘My new workshop,’ he replied. ‘It’s not far. When you’ve seen it, we’ll have tea somewhere. I think we both deserve it.’
Lifting the heavy veil from her face, he smiled reassuringly, tucked her arm in his and guided her round the corner and into Piccadilly, a narrow cobbled street which bore no resemblance to its fashionable London counterpart. The buildings here echoed the changing fashions of at least three centuries; crumbling, jettied buildings with age-skewed doors and windows, glanced sidelong at less than classical Georgian facades, while stables and agricultural factors nudged elbows with houses both private and public. A strong smell of hops assailed them as they passed the entrance to a timber-framed brewery. For a moment it conquered the odour of horses and the pungency of the Foss, running parallel only yards away. A group of soldiers were lounging in the doorway, supping ale from pewter tankards.
Producing a large iron key from an inner pocket, Edward led the way to an ancient building which might have been modern in the latter years of the fifteenth century, its quaint upper storey tilting drunkenly towards the street. Cracked and peeling stucco made it more than a match for its neighbours, but with a smile and something of a flourish, Edward unlocked the heavy oak door and pushed it back for Louisa to enter.
Louisa Elliott Page 38
