Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Moira came, and helped her to undress. Glad of her company, Louisa chatted lightly about household arrangements and Georgina’s presents; tomorrow they would be erecting the tree in the hall; the girl’s face, as she left, was smiling again.

  It was a little after ten, still early according to the hours Robert kept. Glancing at the clock, wondering unhappily whether he would keep to his own room, she settled herself before the fire to read. Half an hour later, resigned to loneliness and convinced the New Year would see her in York once more, Louisa retired to bed.

  It was past midnight when he came to her, his body chilled and shivering, and with an outdoor dampness about his face and hair.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she whispered, while icy hands sought the warmth of her skin.

  ‘Out — walking. I needed some air, and Harris was still up, so we went out. God, but I’m cold!’ he said shakily, clasping her close along the length of him. Thighs and haunches were frozen, and instinctively she wrapped herself around him, chafing tension from his back, warming face and ears with kisses. As heat blossomed between them, the shivering ceased, became the frisson of fettered passion; and lips which had been like ice were suddenly hot and questing.

  Aroused, tense, she responded avidly, heart and mind racing, blood tingling like needles in her veins; she loved him, wanted him, could never live without him; this glory, this delight, this song in head and heart and womb was his, only his, this fusion the only thing worth living for, dying for, suffering for...

  Too late did she recall what should never have been forgotten, too late whisper caution to one whose curbs were long disused...

  Seven

  Afterwards, lighting candle and cigar from a single match, Robert looked down at her and smiled. ‘It should always be like that,’ he whispered, ‘with nothing between us — nothing at all.’

  ‘Did you know?’ she asked, thinking of the little device resting unused in her bedside drawer.

  The picture of innocence, he shook his head. ‘Know what?’ he asked, his hand caressing the slight roundness of her stomach. ‘I meant there should be no more secrets, that’s all.’ But with what seemed to Louisa a most remarkable tenderness, he bent and kissed the area of her womb.

  ‘Whatever either of us meant,’ he whispered reverently, ‘that was the best — the very, very best.’

  For a while, whenever Louisa thought about it, she was anxious; but with their relationship restored to its former ardent nature, it passed, and for the first time since her arrival she felt happy. Christmas was delightful, with toys for Georgina and silly games; they sang carols at the piano, ate too much, drank too much, and retired to bed early, all quite exhausted.

  Boxing Day was the servant’s party. Cook had prepared a hot lunch and cold buffet supper for the family, and the party began unofficially sometime in the afternoon. By teatime the abstemious Harris had been persuaded to take a drink; by evening his inhibitions had fled. When Robert and Louisa went down in answer to McMahon’s suspiciously serious invitation, Harris had the floor with one of the kitchen girls, while the coachman was seated in a corner, fiddling a foot-tapping Irish reel. Despite his height and military stiffness, Robert’s servant was not making such a fool of himself, and the laughter and hand-clapping was that of encouragement, not mockery. Cheering him on, Moira grabbed his hand and joined in, steering him adroitly, as the music stopped, beneath a judiciously-placed sprig of mistletoe. To cheers and applause, he bent his head and very graciously kissed the girl; then, catching his master’s eye, blushed furiously and came to attention. Amidst gales of laughter, Robert simply instructed him to carry on.

  It was honest, enjoyable fun, something Louisa understood; and, having become well-acquainted with them all, something she could enter into now without fear of embarrassment. She began to hope that perhaps she might also feel at home with Robert’s friends once she knew them better; but apart from Tommy and Darnley, the old faithfuls, that feeling resolutely eluded her.

  They dined out a good deal during the twelve days of Christmas, and attended a couple of informal subscription dances, but despite Letty’s continuing support as ostensible friend and chaperone, there were undercurrents of hostility wherever they went. As though threatened by Louisa, the regimental wives were the worst, affecting not to notice her presence and, in Letty’s company particularly, treating her like a paid companion. Although it was mildly offensive, that attitude was something she had grown used to over the years; in fact, she would have been happy to keep up the pretence as a blind to her real position, but Robert would not have it. He unfailingly took her arm, kept her beside him, drew her into conversations where she would rather have kept silent, and in dozens of small ways advertised his interest.

  He seemed not to notice the snubs of his colleagues’ wives, nor the lingering, sometimes insolent stares of the men. Louisa did, and it was a subtle form of torture to her. Wanting to please him, however, she swallowed the instinct to flee, and summoning all her pride, glared challengingly back. That fighting instinct aroused Robert’s admiration, and he encouraged it, coaching her in the art of small-talk, the doubled-edged reply. ‘It’s time you learned the art of self-defence,’ he told her, ‘because you’re bright enough to slaughter the lot of them in a verbal fencing-match.’ Louisa was not so sure, but she practised sharpening her wits, wore the shoulder-revealing gowns he liked, used a little cosmetic help to enhance her best features, and learned to smile, smile, smile, whatever the odds.

  It was at the beginning of February, as Dublin’s social season was flowering with receptions and levees at the Castle, that Louisa’s anxious and only half-acknowledged suspicions began to give way to chilling certainty. A visit to Patrick Street made her unexpectedly ill; the reek of brandy and port after dinner nauseated her, and breakfast was a meal she could no longer face. Missing her second monthly period, she sought a discreet appointment with the apparently unshockable Dr Molloy.

  With a professional air of detachment he asked the relevant questions, and on the point of ringing for his nurse he paused. Normally, he said, he asked the nurse to be present while he examined his lady patients; but in the interests of complete discretion, Miss Elliott might prefer otherwise? It was something she had not envisaged, having to undress for a man she knew better socially than medically, and she blushed furiously as she asked whether an examination was absolutely necessary.

  ‘If it’s a thorough diagnosis you are wanting,’ he said gently, ‘then yes, I’m afraid it is. This is not a social call — in this room we are no more and no less than a doctor and his patient.’ After that grave reminder, he added with a merry chuckle: ‘You know, we’ve seen so much together in the stews of Patrick Street, I never expected you to be this squeamish.’

  That made her laugh; even so she was severely embarrassed lying on the couch in her shift, even more so as he touched her breasts with cold fingers and even colder detachment. With face and throat on fire, Louisa studied rococo plaster cherubs on the ceiling, only afterwards thinking how appropriate they were.

  Dressed again, she faced him with something approaching composure, convinced that he was about to dismiss her worst fears and say it was a straightforward malfunction of the normal cycle. Instead, he looked at her, hummed and haahed for a moment, chewed his pencil, and displayed all the symptoms of a man with awkward and possibly unwelcome news to impart.

  ‘You’re a young woman,’ he said at last, ‘in the very best of health, I’m delighted to say – so there’s nothing to be worrying about in that way. It’s a good, strong frame you have, too, so bearing children should not be difficult at all...’

  ‘It’s definite, then?’ Louisa whispered. ‘I am carrying a child?’

  ‘Well, now, it’s a little early to be absolutely sure – ideally, I should see you again in another month to six weeks — but yes, I’d say so. You have all the signs and symptoms.’

  To Louisa, those words were like the slamming of a door; a door which had been propped c
arefully open to admit light and air and a means of escape. Now there was no way out, no retreat; she was committed, irrevocably and forever. Only in that moment did she realize how uncommitted she had been before, how much she had clung to the idea that she could always go home if she wanted to. Now there could be no return, not even for a visit.

  Numbed by the enormity of that one idea, Louisa barely took in the doctor’s brisk advice to go home and rest for a while. She struggled to speak, found herself mumbling inane, automatic words of thanks — for what? — as he came round the desk.

  ‘It’s a shock to you, I can see that, but sure, it’s not the end of the world, and you’ll not be abandoned, that I do know.’ A moment later, assisting her to her feet, he said, ‘You have a good friend in Letty Duncannon — don’t forget that, now. And try not to worry yourself. In a few months’ time you’ll be the mother of a fine, healthy baby – not like those poor souls in the Liberties.’

  The statement was true enough, but small consolation, and Louisa resented that call to count her blessings. Affecting a composure she was far from feeling, she straightened her bonnet, pulled on her gloves and bade the young doctor a dry good morning.

  She came down into a large hall which was almost the twin of the Devereux house, stepping out into a sly breeze and pale, tremulous sunshine. It was an indecisive day, with a sky of washed-out blue and clouds which might or might not hold rain. The trees in the square seemed poised between winter and spring, and the patches of white beneath might easily have been snow. Standing there, not wanting to return to the house across the way, yet having nowhere else to go, Louisa felt everything echoed in herself. Peculiarly aware of her body inside its impeccably tailored clothes, it was as though her spirit had stepped slightly sideways and was looking down with scarcely-veiled disgust at changes which were going on without permission.

  She walked towards Stephen’s Green, passing seven uniformed nannies on the way, all with perambulators. There were more in the park, some with sturdy little children playing ball. Well-fed, well-dressed, the excited little voices reminded her of Georgina in the Museum Gardens just over a year ago. Meeting Robert’s child for the first time, she had had her moments of envy, moments of longing for children of her own, but those longings went with marriage and security and a home of her own, not this state of limbo where she wore a different mask for every occasion. After months of play-acting, months of not really being herself, not even with Robert, Louisa knew she was in danger of losing sight of the person she had been. Even as a governess, at the beck and call of other people’s children, she had been used to having time to herself, time to read, time to be quiet, time to be at peace with the solitary soul within. In a strange land, amongst strange people with even stranger customs, she felt constantly bombarded, her very soul thrown out of kilter in its efforts to absorb and understand.

  With a fervour which spread like pain, she longed once more for home and peace and time to think; and knew she should have gone before Christmas, not waited to give it one more chance. Too late now! logic said with callous satisfaction; and a moment later she was wondering what her mother would say, wincing painfully at thoughts of Edward.

  ‘You told me,’ she whispered aloud, her eyes tight shut against the children playing on the Green; ‘but I didn’t believe you.’

  Opening her eyes she saw the vast expanse of parkland, groups of people in twos and threes, soldiers with swagger-sticks, riders in the distance, and was sure they were friendly and happy and unconcerned. In the void which she inhabited, only she was alone and vulnerable, an unmarried woman with the seed of life within her, a marked woman, an outcast.

  Eight

  Needing time to adjust, Louisa said nothing. She told herself it was because her pregnancy could not be confirmed for another month, whereas in reality she was concerned as to Robert’s reaction. The possibility of children had never been seriously discussed, and the only time she had tentatively mentioned it, he had airily dismissed her fears with an assurance that of course he would look after her.

  While not doubting that, she was equally sure children were not in his scheme of things; even Georgina’s requirements were incidental, despite his virtuous claim to have thought of her when renovating the house. Towards Louisa, Robert was loving, generous, and very possessive; he wanted her to be there for him, ready to fall in with his plans, his friends, his needs. How he would react to a child’s demands upon her time and affection, Louisa dreaded to think.

  Despite that constant anxiety, after the early nausea attacks, physically she began to feel remarkably well; a shade delicate first thing, but that was easily hidden. At Robert’s insistence, after Christmas she had dropped one afternoon’s work with Letty, which made life much easier on many fronts; it would have been impossible to keep up the social whirl of the Season otherwise.

  Catching enquiring looks from Letty, she often wondered whether that very shrewd lady suspected her condition; obviously, Robert did not. He remarked one day that she was putting on weight; another that she was growing more and more beautiful. Glancing in the mirror, Louisa was bound to agree that she had never looked better: her eyes were clear, her skin glowed, and her hair was thicker and glossier than ever.

  Lies, all lies, she thought, turning away; just like the bland little notes written every week to her mother and Edward.

  In the second week of March she again visited Dr Molloy. The original diagnosis was confirmed, as she had known it would be, the birth projected for the end of September. Feeling more than ever the exile, she walked out into the Square, and through the railings were the nodding heads of early daffodils, reminding her unbearably of York. On the ramparts facing the station, just coming into bloom, would be mass upon mass of them, waving in the wind, ready to welcome the weary traveller, to greet the returning native home.

  She stood for a moment, staring, letting the two pictures merge and blend; and then she shook her head and turned away, going back to the house for tea.

  Considering ways and means of breaking the news to Robert, she felt it would be better to wait until after the seventeenth, when the Season was officially over. Her condition was borne forcibly upon her during the final fitting of her gown for the St Patrick’s Day Ball; in only two weeks her waist measurement had spread more than an inch, and no amount of heaving at stays and laces would reduce it. The seamstress gave her some very hard looks, muttered ominously about the seams, and proceeded to let them out. She was there all afternoon, but no one was completely satisfied with the result. Trying the gown again in the privacy of her own room, Louisa realised that her bosom had deepened considerably, and tight lacing, coupled with the gown’s restrictions, thrust her breasts upwards into quite immodest display.

  Chuckling appreciatively, Robert made several lascivious comments when he saw her; Louisa wanted to slap him.

  ‘I can’t go looking like this!’ she cried, trying shawls, stoles, scraps of lace to hide what resolutely refused to be hidden.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said firmly. ‘You look wonderful — stunning, in fact. I’ve seen dowagers displaying more than that, and an acre of wrinkles besides.’ Turning her round to face him, he smiled and kissed her gently. ‘You’re the most desirable woman I ever saw,’ he whispered, his blue eyes twinkling in the lamplight, ‘and to tell the truth, I’d as soon stay at home and make love to you as fight my way through that thrash at the Castle tonight.’ He kissed her again, passionately, his hand cupping and caressing the firm white rise of her breasts.

  With an effort, she pulled away from him, and on a nervous laugh, sent him out while she prepared herself for the evening ahead. As he closed the door, she sank down onto the bed, disconcerted to realize that, in spite of everything, she wanted him more than ever. It seemed her recalcitrant body was determined to have its own way, no matter what her mind was thinking.

  As she went down into the hall, Letty’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Louisa said uncomfortably, ‘th
at dratted woman made it far too tight, but,’ she sighed, ‘it was too late to do much about it.’

  ‘It’s a lovely gown,’ Letty said, fingering the pale apricot silk, ‘and will stand out beautifully amongst all the green that’s bound to be there tonight.’

  From a silver tray held by an impassive McMahon, Robert took little sprigs of shamrock. He pinned Letty’s to the left shoulder of her amethyst-coloured gown, his own to his lapel, and, with a rueful grin, surveyed Louisa’s cleavage. ‘There’s not a lot to pin this to, now is there? Here,’ he said, handing over the little bunch of tiny green leaves, ‘stick it down the front of your gown – it’ll give a bit of cover.’

  Louisa was still blushing in the carriage. She was reminded of last year’s ball at the Assembly Rooms, but her self-consciousness this evening was caused by so much more than a simple fear of strangers. Across the Square, Dr Molloy was waiting, having arranged to share their carriage. He bade everyone a happy good evening, but Louisa tried hard to avoid his glance.

  They passed the smart, well-lit thoroughfare of Grafton Street, with its exclusive little shops and tea-rooms, but beyond that they were soon in the dark, ill-swept area surrounding Dublin Castle. Robert lit a cigar as their carriage slowed in a line of others, the aromatic scent disguising other pungent odours. Having spent time out there, Louisa was almost immune to the sight and sound and smell of poverty, but she was surprised, even so, to see the excited, jostling crowd outside the Castle gates.

  It was a cold night with a chill wind blowing, and many of those who waited to see the quality in all their finery were barefoot and dressed in tatters. There were seditious comments and ribald cat-calling from both men and women, but there were unexpected cheers, too; far more cheers, Louisa felt, than anyone deserved.