Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  The thin, blue-veined hands splayed out in a sudden gesture of appeal and despair. ‘Unfortunately, when I did see her – and remember we had been meeting frequently all summer – she said she couldn’t afford to wait. At first,’ he admitted with a sad, ironic smile, ‘I was too stupid to understand. She had to spell things out for me. Well, at least I didn’t panic — not then. In fact, I seem to recall feeling rather idiotically proud of myself. I said we must elope, and she agreed. We made plans – which, as you know by now, never came to fruition.’

  Edward knew he should have been prepared by Mary Elliott’s account of what had happened to her sister, but he was profoundly distressed by his father’s side of the story. With his attention fully concentrated on that thin, ascetic face, he felt every word, every phrase, as though that callous old man, his grandfather, had mutilated him. Which in a way he had.

  ‘That our liaison was discovered, is obvious. How and by whom, I can only guess at – but that’s not important. What is important is that my father was informed. And you know, even after all these years, what was said during that interview with him still provokes feelings of – revulsion, I think.

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated distastefully, ‘revulsion is the only word to describe it. He used the baldest, crudest terms. My own father, whom I had loved and respected without question, destroyed every scrap of innocence, all my youthful, romantic illusions, in one fell swoop. He made what had been the most perfect, beautiful experience, seem like an act of corruption – vile beyond anything I had previously known or suspected.

  ‘His words were an act of corruption in themselves,’ the old man said slowly, ‘because, to my eternal regret, I believed him. He found the chink in my armour when he told me her age. I knew she was a little older than myself, but had no idea by how much. I was stunned when he told me she was thirty and offered to prove it. I was just twenty-two. His description of her as a scheming, calculating, experienced woman, playing upon the innocence of a boy, was suddenly all too plausible. And, as though he read my mind, before I could tell him of her condition, and therefore I must stand by her — he said she would claim that, true or not, in order to entrap me. It was wealth she was after, wealth and position; love had nothing to do with it. And anyway, how could a woman of her age and experience fall in love with a raw, gullible fool such as me?’

  Edward winced at that. Not at his father’s raw innocence, but at what seemed to him an accurate assessment of his mother’s character. Thirty years old, her looks beginning to fade, and the sudden decision to play George Gregory for all he was worth. Perhaps she had been fond of him, but Edward saw the gift of her virginity to that young man as the kind of ace his mother would use. And having lost the game so painfully, she would never offer her body again.

  Unaware of Edward’s thoughts, his father went on: ‘It shames me, looking back. I was gullible and foolish — he knew me so well. But, in trying to cure what he saw as my youthful folly, my father went too far. He stunned my love for Elizabeth, but he also managed to kill other affections. I hated him and despised myself. Although I had promised to marry her, I didn’t even want to see her again. My father suggested a polite note, cancelling any further meetings. I couldn’t even do that. I just wanted to get away — on my own — away from everyone.’

  George’s mother, desperately concerned for her son’s health, had suggested a few days in the south, with relatives. Willingly, George went and stayed for several weeks. Eventually, he said, he tried to write to Elizabeth, succeeding only in wasting vast amounts of paper. In the end, he knew he had to see her, but by the time he was ready to face up to his responsibilities, she was gone. His enquiries, discreet though they were, came to his father’s ears. He was interviewed again. Little was said on that second occasion; he was simply shown the document Elizabeth Elliott had signed, acknowledging receipt of a large sum in return for quitting the county.

  ‘Q.E.D. — the argument proved. I believed it for years,’ the old man confessed wearily. ‘After that, I went into the Church. For all the wrong reasons, of course — partly because I knew my father would hate the idea, and partly because it seemed a safe retreat. Law to me at that time seemed no more than an empty farce in an unjust world. And I was the matching empty vessel. I don’t think I even believed in God at that time: it was just something to do.

  ‘It wasn’t until I arrived in Lincoln – years later – that I began to seriously question what had happened. It was a very poor parish indeed — and as a young Curate I heard so many heartbreaking histories, baptised so many fatherless children who were destined to die within the year, it brought me to my senses. Life there made me think, it made me feel again. I finally understood why Elizabeth had made her promise and accepted that money. I came to understand that she hadn’t lied to me – she had been expecting a child – my child. And for the first time I saw that appalling situation through her eyes. Saw the choice she faced when I broke my promise and deserted her.

  ‘You see, my boy, women in that position cannot afford fine principles and a man’s sense of honour. Women will lie, cheat and steal to survive and protect their children – use any means at their disposal. I can’t say I blame them.’

  ‘No I don’t blame my mother for that,’ Edward said. ‘Not now. But I wish she had been less bitter.’

  Sighing, the older man nodded, and for a while there was the silence of shared consideration. Eventually, Edward asked whether he had ever tried to find her, and with another painful sigh his father described a journey made when Edward would have been six or seven years old. When the hotel on Tanner Row was flourishing, and a confused little boy had been brought back from those elderly relatives in Darlington and taught to call his mother ‘Auntie’.

  ‘I went to Metheringham and made some discreet enquiries. I heard a lot about the Elliotts, most of it confirming what your mother had told me all those years before — more proof, if I needed it, of her honesty. I heard the Elliotts were fine people, if a little proud for village society, and that in latter years they had enjoyed a small return of fortune. Certainly, when your mother’s parents were pointed out to me, I could see they were not poor – not as I had come to understand poverty. My informant was under the impression that of four children who had left the village, the two daughters were quite well-placed. He understood they were in business somewhere in the north. York, however, was never mentioned. Ironic,’ he sighed again, ‘to think how much time I must have spent in that city, never knowing she was there.’

  ‘Did you enquire of my grandparents?’

  ‘No. They didn’t need my help, and I was too ashamed to make myself known to them.’

  Edward closed his eyes against a sudden surge of pain. ‘I’m sorry for that,’ he said softly. ‘I spent every summer with them when I was a child.’

  The irony of that hurt them both. But as the old man begged his forgiveness, Edward was deeply moved: there were tears shining on those thin, pale cheeks.

  ‘There’s no need,’ Edward murmured. In his heart the words were repeated: no need to forgive, because I understand.

  Feeling the healing power of warmth and truth, Edward had only one regret: that he and George Gregory had come so late into each other’s lives. Although he was saddened by his father’s experience, by a burden which far outweighed his own, he felt that something had been made whole. Because of this meeting and all those yet to come, neither of them would ever be quite as lonely again.

  Three

  By the end of that beautiful month the Royals were ensconced once more in Dublin, the whole regiment looking forward to winter’s easy period, to weeks of comparative rest, entertainment at the city’s fleshpots, and, for the officers at least, relaxation on the hunting field.

  Having settled his men as well as possible into the less than salubrious surroundings of Islandbridge Barracks, Robert was determined to put all such concerns behind him for a while. Louisa had been extremely patient, and he wanted to make up for the lengthy absences, fo
r the visits which had scarcely been long enough for dinner and bed, much less sensible conversation. Eager to conclude his army business at the end of a tiring week, he had one more item to deal with, regarding a prisoner held at Mountjoy Gaol. There was a statement to make and papers to sign, and after that he was free to go home.

  With relief he rejoined Harris and they returned to the waiting carriage. For a moment, feeling exhaustion take its grip, Robert closed his eyes. Minutes later, at a sudden jolt over tramlines, he opened them again, seeing with irritation the amount of late-afternoon traffic. With dusk, it had begun to rain, a fine drenching mist which had shoppers rushing for cabs to whisk them home for tea. A self-defeating idea, Robert thought, since every cab was now caught up in a jam which extended the length of Sackville Street.

  Just visible at the head of a side-turning was St George’s, where once upon a time he had sworn eternal vows of love and fidelity to a woman who could scarcely have understood the meaning of such words. It seemed another life, another existence, he thought. Had Charlotte been sane, he might have persuaded her to divorce him; but in sickness she was blameless, and he the guilty offender. Under the circumstances it was an academic point, but it embittered him, nevertheless.

  Hating this part of town, he wished the traffic would clear, but it was a slow journey that evening, the coachman easing his way through every gap. Across a sea of bobbing umbrellas by Rutland Square, his eyes fastened on the lights of a mansion facing him, the house owned by Charlotte’s uncle, where Robert had courted her in ignorance, and been trapped like a fly in that cleverly constructed web of secrecy and deceit. Not since his marriage had he met them, nor did he wish to see them now; but they would know he was back in Dublin. And with Louisa in his house and on his arm, they would know, too, that he was not destroyed.

  With a sudden lurch of the carriage, the house was lost to view; they crossed the river, black and busy with traffic of its own, heading south down Grafton Street, thronged with cabs and carriages in the gathering November gloom. They turned east, past endless iron balustrades on Stephen’s Green, past dripping trees and ornamental lakes already lost to view. Here the traffic was clearer, and the streets, with faded Georgian grandeur, announced the presence of an equally fading gentility. Too many of the old aristocracy were feeling the pinch of high taxes and low land rent. Retiring to impoverished country estates, they were selling their town houses to the up-and-coming middle classes. Doctors and lawyers were the newly-rich in town.

  Regretting his marriage minutes ago, he had cause to be at least partly thankful as they entered Fitzwilliam Square. Without Charlotte’s money, he could never have afforded to restore and refurbish the Devereux house. It was ironic, he thought, as the carriage drew up before that elegant façade, that a couple of years ago he had hated it fiercely and had wanted to sell; whereas now, with Louisa awaiting him, it had become the home he never expected to have. For him, Louisa had laid the ghost of those early weeks with Charlotte, dispelled it more thoroughly than paint or paper ever could.

  Georgina rushed to meet him, and he swung her round in the hall, earning a disapproving sniff from McMahon as he did the same to Louisa. Breathless with laughter, she stood back, while Letty backed away, refusing to come near her brother until he promised to do no more than kiss her cheek. As though in defiance of the old butler, Harris managed a smile as he hoisted a couple of bags and prepared to take them upstairs.

  ‘Something comfortable this evening, Harris,’ Robert called. ‘I’ll be up shortly to change.’

  In the drawing room Robert hugged all his ladies again, delighted to be home. Seated in his favourite wing-chair, he glanced around in renewed satisfaction. The changes of colour had improved its aspect. Tall windows were now framed in rich green velvet; between were exquisite plasterwork panels of song birds and wild roses, while cream damask walls provided a perfect backing for his favourite Stubbs portrait. He thought his mother would have approved.

  Dainty as a piece of Dresden, his daughter smiled up into his face and he thought how perfect she was, and how his mother would have loved her too. Moved by that poignant thought, he drew Georgina onto his lap, listening attentively to all her news.

  He was unaware of the delightful picture they made: Robert uniformed in red and gold; his daughter in blue, fair against his dark good looks. Watching them, Louisa was filled with love and happiness, wondering in that moment how she could have doubted him, or questioned the wisdom of coming to Dublin. Of course it was right; she loved him so much, and he loved her; it was simply that he had a job to do, and that job took him away. She must learn to be less selfish, more understanding of the demands which were made of him.

  She sat quietly to one side of the sofa, listening with amusement to Georgina’s piping excitement, delighted to see the sparkling adoration in the little girl’s eyes, and feeling a surge of possessive pride. The child was so quick and bright, she was a delight to teach; and so happy by nature that Louisa could not help but love her. Having been granted the position of honorary cousin, Louisa’s only regret was that the relationship could never be closer; but Georgina regarded Letty as her mother, and her father was the only person who had her total and uncritical devotion. For him she would do anything.

  When, after half an hour, Letty said it was time for bed, there was the instant threat of tears; but as Robert pointed to the clock and said he must go up and change for dinner, Georgina curbed her trembling lip, and in her best, most wheedling manner, asked whether he would put her to bed.

  ‘No, you little minx, I’ve told you I must change. But,’ he added kindly, hoisting her into his arms, ‘I’ll carry you up the wooden hill. Come on, away we go.’

  Reaching for Louisa’s hand, he pulled her to her feet, and, laughing, the three went up the stairs.

  At the foot of the second flight Louisa said goodnight to the child and let Robert take her up to the nursery. She stood for a moment listening to their mingled voices, then went along to her own rooms at the back of the house. For form’s sake, Robert used the master bedroom at the front. It had been redecorated, but despite its warm russets and golds he complained of its coldness and rarely slept there, regarding it mainly as a place to keep his clothes. That he had once shared the room with Charlotte was never mentioned, but Louisa knew and understood.

  During the refurbishment of the house, bathrooms had been installed, one of which was in the old dressing room between the master bedroom and Louisa’s. Its communicating door was cleverly disguised, but Louisa knew it was no secret and wondered why he had bothered. He insisted it kept up appearances, while the fact that he slept with her seemed not to worry him at all. Although, when she thought about it, Louisa realized that when Robert was at home not even Moira entered her room in the early morning.

  With a wry little smile for his secret orders, she admired her reflection in the glass; the gown she was wearing was the first Robert had bought for her, its rich autumn tones making it one of his favourites, and the soft velvet flattering her figure. She patted her hair, tucking a stray curl into place, then turned to survey the room. Everything was neat, dressing-table tidy, a posy of dried flowers now in place of summer’s roses.

  The hidden door clicked open and Robert came in, eyes smiling, nimble fingers already unhooking the tight collar of his tunic.

  With a throaty laugh he crushed her in his arms and kissed her hungrily. ‘Lord, have I missed you! It’s been hell this week – thought I’d never get home. I’m filthy, I need a bath, I have to change and I’m absolutely starving — and,’ he kissed her again, ‘all I want is you…’

  Louisa laughed, stripping him of coat and shirt. ‘Then get your bath – dinner’s waiting. You can have me later.’

  ‘I can’t wait!’

  ‘Yes you can!’ she insisted, slapping those teasing hands away. ‘For goodness’ sake, go!’

  ‘Only if you come and talk to me,’ he pleaded.

  She pushed him into the bathroom. ‘Don’t be such
a spoiled baby — we can talk later. Anyway,’ she added, touching the rich velvet of her gown, ‘One drop of water on this, and it’ll be ruined.’

  ‘I’ll buy you another.’

  ‘Oh, go on with you, you’re wasting time!’

  But when he called to her a few minutes later she went to stand by the open door.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Robert said, soaping arms and shoulders, ‘we should go down to White Leigh. Oh, don’t look so aghast — we’ll have to go sooner or later, and in my book it’s better to get the unpleasantness over first. That is, of course, if unpleasantness there’s going to be. Personally I don’t think there will be any. I had a letter from William the other week, asking when I’d be going down, and wasn’t it about time Letty and Georgina paid a visit. So I took the bit between my teeth and told him about you.’

  Feeling the blood drain from her cheeks at the very idea of White Leigh, Louisa swallowed hard. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The truth, more or less.’ Rinsing the soap from his body, Robert reached for the towel and stepped out of the bath. ‘I told him that you were living here as a member of my household, and that if he wanted to see me at White Leigh, then he must also be prepared to accept you. And more to the point, that his wife must be prepared to accept you. She’s the fly in the ointment, Louisa, not him. Will’s like my father – couldn’t give a damn who’s doing what and with whom, as long as they’re happy.’ With an air of total unconcern, Robert began to shave.

  ‘Oh, Robert, how could you? Your sister-in-law will hate me for that!’

  ‘Anne hates everybody, particularly me. There’s no point in trying to be tactful. She’s like the worst kind of mare, that woman – you need to keep the whip-hand all the time. Will hasn’t the first idea.’ As he waved the cut-throat razor in an eloquent gesture, Louisa winced.

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ she pleaded, and a moment later added plaintively: ‘Do we have to go?’