Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  She chuckled. ‘Isn’t he clever? He knows me already!’

  ‘I should think he does after all this time. I thought he was never going to make an entrance.’

  ‘Worth waiting for, though,’ Louisa murmured. ‘He’s quite perfect, isn’t he? — and so beautiful. Not a bit red and wrinkled.’

  Greatly daring, Robert touched the waving, starfish hand; tiny fingers gripped his with incredible strength and, surprised, he laughed. The baby’s face crumpled immediately, and from that little pink mouth issued a piercing wail.

  ‘Well!’ Robert exclaimed in some alarm, ‘there’s nothing much wrong with his lungs, is there?’

  The nurse bustled in, full of professional concern for her charges, and, with an ease which amazed Robert, lifted the tiny bundle in one smooth movement, cradling it in her arms. The noise diminished to a whimper, and then ceased.

  ‘It’s a fine boy he is, sir,’ she said proudly, ‘and a fine big boy he’ll be – just look at the size of those hands.’ Robert peered obligingly, but they still looked very small to him. ‘Near ten pounds, too,’ she informed him accusingly, ‘No wonder Mother had such a hard time.’

  Feeling unutterably guilty, Robert stole a glance at Louisa, who stifled a laugh; and then, unbelievably, the nurse was offering him the baby to hold.

  ‘There we are – in the crook of the arm, that’s right. Don’t be stiff now, and mind his head.’

  The little face registered alarm, frowning at the indignity of being passed about like a parcel. Robert thought he was going to cry again, and almost panicked; but as the nurse opened thick velvet curtains on a bright new world, the baby blinked several times, revealing cloudy, grey-blue eyes which for a moment seemed to hold a very adult wisdom. But the effort was too much. He slept again, while the rising sun caught fine lashes and downy tufts of eyebrows, making an aureole of soft blonde hair on his crown.

  Overwhelmed, Robert felt his throat constrict with emotion. After months of waiting and talking and trying to plan, worrying from the distance of the Curragh, dashing back to town whenever he could, this was the reality, this little scrap of humanity whose tiny muscles twitched and moved of their own volition. The burden of responsibility was suddenly out of all proportion; as the nurse held out her arms, Robert was glad to be relieved of his burden and firmly ushered from the room.

  Alone, he stood for a moment, gripping the banister. Fatigue and relief set his muscles trembling; it was on very uncertain feet that he went down to find Molloy and a nerve-restoring drink.

  After weeks of indecision before the birth, they eventually agreed to name the baby William. It began as something of a joke, when Louisa said the baby was the image of her uncle; but as she had such fond memories of her mother’s brother, it pleased her to think of his name being perpetuated. Robert laughingly agreed, saying his own brother was sure to think the child was named for him, so both families would be pleased.

  ‘Pleased’, however, was not a word she associated with the Elliotts. Her family in York regarded her pregnancy as a tragedy, and not one of them had hesitated to say so. Her mother, of course, was relieved at her safe delivery, acknowledging Robert’s telegram with words to that effect, but Louisa had the feeling that, for Emily and Blanche, death would have been the only honourable solution.

  From Edward there came no comment at all, and there had been none for many months. Understanding, not blaming him, still his silence grieved her, for she missed his letters, a window on life at home; missed knowing what he was doing, missed the reassurance that he was still thinking about her, as she so often thought of him. Occasionally, she would begin a letter, only to destroy it: why hurt him further? she would think, seeking some activity to divert the longing for home.

  With winter upon them once more, there was little to do in the garden, which had been a most sustaining interest throughout the spring and summer. Gardening was Letty’s passion; a delightful counterbalance, she said, to all the dirt and misery of the slums. In a garden you could see results — plan, execute, succeed – and all that was required was patience. Louisa thought patience on the scale of years a large requirement, but from knowing absolutely nothing about any kind of garden, she soon found an affinity with growing things which gave her pleasure and satisfaction.

  ‘It’s the blood of your farming forebears coming out,’ Letty said, teasing her, while the only thing she bemoaned about Louisa’s pregnancy was the fact that they could not visit the country houses she had talked about all winter. They had to make do with public gardens within easy striking distance, but even those, as time advanced, had become forbidden territory. They had rented a villa south of Dalkey in August, and Louisa thoroughly enjoyed that month by the sea, strolling like any legitimate matron along the seafront.

  ‘Next summer,’ Letty said, ‘we’ll do all the things we couldn’t do this year,’ and meanwhile Louisa hugged her baby close, finding comfort in that warm, plump little body.

  He was filling out and growing fast, a fact which surprised few people in the household, since little Liam, as the servants persisted in calling him, was a hungry baby with an internal clock set to three-hourly meals. He loathed being fed from a bottle, screaming so loud for his mother that Louisa had long ago stopped relying on his nurse to give him the last feed. It was a restrictive and tiring routine which began at six each morning and ended just before midnight; and despite being able to rest in between, Louisa had little time or energy for anything else.

  As best she could, she kept up her time with Georgina, and, with Letty’s help, continued with lessons begun eighteen months before. At six years old, the little girl’s bright intelligence shone; she could read fluently, write a good hand, and, under Letty’s tuition, showed a talent for drawing and the piano. The visit to White Leigh in November the previous year had prompted requests for a pony of her own, and for her birthday Robert had bought a Shetland pony which she immediately named Dinky. He could be naughty and stubborn, but, with all his idiosyncrasies, Georgina loved him, showing a steadfast refusal to be daunted which terrified Louisa but quite delighted her father.

  With Robert’s hunters, Dinky was stabled in the nearby mews. On fine days when he was free, Robert took Georgina out with him to Stephen’s Green. Seeing them set forth amused Louisa: Robert sitting tall and straight on his seventeen-hand grey, the horse moving at a slow, elegant walk; and beside him, little legs straddling the barrel-sided Shetland, Georgina bounced along at a trot.

  Sometimes Amelia Loy went with them, and Louisa would watch through narrowed eyes as they passed the house, praying to see her take a tumble from that proud, strutting thoroughbred. But she never would; like everything else Amelia did, she rode with a ready crop and a very firm hand. Louisa could imagine her beating her animals, just as she verbally lashed her husband on occasion, and wondered how Robert could like her at all. He said she was amusing, entertaining company on a long day’s hunt, and Tommy agreed wholeheartedly. Louisa wished, however, that the hunting was less attractive in County Meath, that it was not so necessary for Robert and his friends to stay overnight as guests of the Loys.

  The six weeks of the Season that year were something of an embarrassment. Word of Louisa’s confinement had been passed, mostly with scandalized titillation, from one drawing room to another. The more strait-laced were genuinely shocked, horrified by the Duncannons’ lack of discretion in keeping mother and child beneath their roof. All three names were deleted from their invitation lists. There were others who clicked their tongues and quietly advised Robert to conduct his affairs at a distance from the public gaze; and yet more who frankly envied his bravado. In every case, however, it was made distressingly plain that Louisa could not be publicly received, and, because of her tacit approval of the situation, nor could Letty.

  It was no great surprise to Robert. Indeed, he had expected it, and at a family conference months before, they had discussed the relative merits and disadvantages of total discretion. To have retired from Dublin duri
ng the whole period of her confinement, and farmed her child out to foster parents, was the only way to preserve the appearance of respectability. That idea was repugnant to each of them; and to attempt anything less ran so many risks of discovery that it hardly seemed worth the effort involved. Without being blatant, it was decided that Louisa should stay in Dublin, and that, as a whole, they would face the social consequences.

  Faced with invitations which were addressed solely to him, Robert contemplated the ironies. As a man, he was not castigated; he could be accepted in the grandest society. And judging by the increased attention he received, his reputation appeared to be enhanced by that irregular relationship. Louisa, his equal partner in love or sin, was the fallen woman who should have known better, the woman nobody cared to acknowledge; while his sister, the innocent bystander, was treated as an accomplice after the fact. The true irony, however, was that neither of these women appeared to feel in the least punished by that judgement. Letty, particularly, heaved a huge sigh of relief, made a coarse comment to the effect that she could now take off her mental corsets, and threw herself eagerly into her own interests. Louisa simply smiled that secret smile of hers and went to tend the baby.

  In effect, it was Robert who was most put out. He was the one morally obliged to attend regimental entertainments, musical evenings and soirees, and now he must attend alone. He was the one who had gone to great lengths to renew that circle of social acquaintances in Dublin, acquaintances who now called upon him to make up numbers at dinner or parties attending receptions at the Castle. Much was tedious, and he could have refused, but at heart did not want to. After several years of life in England, the pleasure of being back amongst his own people was still a tonic to be savoured, despite his feelings of guilt at leaving Louisa behind. But it was more than guilt; even though it had been a trial to her at first, he genuinely missed her company, most especially the thrill of having a lovely woman on his arm, and knowing he was envied. That had been a luxury long denied, and he hated to give it up.

  Ten

  There was some consolation, however, in knowing their social life was not completely curtailed. Private dinner parties with very close friends were permissible, and visits to theatres and public concerts which they attended as a couple, rather than part of a group. On those occasions, Robert had to be content with a brief nod of recognition; no one would stop and speak. Louisa said it spoiled her enjoyment of the music, so, unless it was a programme they particularly wanted to hear, they did not go. The friends who were prepared to entertain them were few: namely Tommy and Darnley, a couple of bachelor friends from Robert’s schooldays whom he had met again through Gerald Loy, and of course the Loys themselves. What he could not understand was Louisa’s great reluctance to accept those occasional invitations to the house in Mountjoy Square. Having refused two because of some indisposition of hers, he insisted they accept the third, which came at the end of February.

  ‘Frank O’Mara will be there — you like him – and Tom McNeill. I know he’s not exactly to your taste, but he’s not so bad underneath that brusque manner.’

  ‘Like your cousin,’ Louisa said, ‘he drinks too much, and treats women badly. I’m not surprised he’s still a bachelor — for all his money, I wouldn’t have him if he came tied up in blue ribbon.’

  At first, Robert laughed. Then, realizing what she had said, asked: ‘Does Gerald treat women badly? I’ve never noticed. I always thought he had impeccable manners, especially where women were concerned.’

  ‘On the surface,’ she murmured enigmatically, and refused to be drawn.

  Like Fitzwilliam Square, Mountjoy still retained its air of prestige, lingering on the edge of the city’s slums like some ancient oasis of butlers, brass plates and visiting-cards. There was also a presence of incipient decay, as though most of the inhabitants had yet to make up their minds whether to renovate and stay, or sell up and move out. The triumph of hope over experience, Louisa thought, viewing the encroaching poverty with all the clarity of a newcomer. It seemed the newly-rich had more sense than the old aristocracy, having moved out to fresher air in Ballsbridge and Rathmines.

  The prestige of new paint and well-fitting sashes seemed not to bother Amelia Loy. Noticing marked and dusty wallpaper in a drawing room which had seen better days, Louisa tried hard not to shiver. A draught from the window at her back had her discreetly drawing up the folds of her lacy stole, and thinking of the cosy rooms left behind. They were early arrivals, and, without Letty, Louisa could think of nothing to say. Gerald avoided looking at her, as he always did nowadays, and his wife monopolised Robert without a care. It was a relief when the butler announced the arrival of the other guests, if something of a surprise to Louisa, who had not realized there would be other ladies present.

  Within a few minutes, however, it dawned on her that ‘ladies’ was a loose term. One might have been an elderly peer’s widow, but Louisa was certain she had begun life in far more humble surroundings, and had used the stage as a spring-board. The other was more difficult to place. Confident and hard-eyed, she could have been any age between thirty and forty, and, by her voice and mannerisms, was obviously well-born; but she wore no rings and her gown was hardly that of a femme fatale. It transpired that she was a neighbour of Amelia’s from Meath; for a while, Louisa wondered what her connection could be with Frank O’Mara, and then it dawned on her that Frank was very rich, and Amelia’s friend was not.

  Frank was Robert’s age, a softly-spoken, unhandsome man, immensely kind but not very bright, and for that reason both well-liked and much put-upon by all who knew him. Robert said he never had much luck with women, and it saddened Louisa to see that two at least were in collusion against his better interests. It surprised her too that after the meal their hostess did not signal the ladies to rise. Instead of coffee in the drawing room, the ladies supped port with the men and, as much wine had been consumed already, the conversation quickly became much freer than Louisa thought right or proper.

  Tom McNeil, short, dark and wiry, had a sharpness of wit which leaned towards the suggestive at the best of times; with drink inside him and Amelia’s rather raucous laughter as encouragement, every comment contained a double meaning. Even the most innocent response was turned, and at every feminine blush he laughed louder. His companion, the full-blown, rather gaudy widow, took it in her stride, feeding him opportunities like a straight comic in a music-hall. Like everyone else, she was enjoying herself immensely.

  Having dropped more than one innocent but ill-phrased remark, and found herself the butt of drunken hilarity, Louisa sat quiet for some time. At one point she inadvertently caught Gerald’s eye, and his smug little smile was very revealing. He’s paying me back, she thought angrily; and in the next moment was furious with Robert for making her accompany him, for being too drunk to realize how offensive she found the entire group. It was one thing to share that kind of joke in private: quite another with people she disliked intensely. Even Frank O’Mara, the silly innocent, was too far gone to keep his hands to himself; and that calculating piece, Louisa thought, will have a proposal out of him before the night’s out.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t amuse you,’ Tom McNeill said from across the table. ‘Tell us, Bob, what can we do to amuse your pretty lady? She sits quiet as a mouse beside you – doesn’t laugh, doesn’t drink, doesn’t talk – ‘

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ Louisa said clearly, rising to her feet, ‘you don’t amuse me. Not at all. I find your humour quite tasteless. In fact,’ she added, meeting each upturned glance, ‘you bore me. Goodnight.’

  With that, she swept from the room, leaving Robert to suffer whatever followed. There was a babble of voices and laughter as an impassive manservant fetched her cloak. Moments later Robert joined her, his face flushed and angry.

  He said nothing until they were seated in the carriage and on their way home; and then, in a voice which shook with barely-suppressed fury, he accused her of prudery and a most lamentable lack of manne
rs; not only had she embarrassed him, he said, but insulted his friends.

  They were travelling south down Gardiner Street, through the heart of the notorious brothel area. Soldiers in every style and colour of uniform strolled in groups along the pavements, while girls in crude finery gathered under street-lamps, beckoning and calling the business of the night.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing from the window, ‘see the soldiers, Robert? And those women? What difference is there between them and us? Answer me that.’

  Aghast for a moment, he stared at her through the gloom. ‘Have you taken total leave of your senses this evening? How can you liken such people to us? There’s no comparison at all!’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ she demanded stonily. ‘There’s no difference in the eyes of the law, and none in the eyes of your precious society, as far as I can see.’ Pointing again, she said bitterly: ‘That is how I felt this evening – no better than a common prostitute, in the company of prostitutes!’

  ‘If I were you,’ he said between gritted teeth, ‘I’d take that back – ‘

  ‘I will not!’ Shaking off the hand that gripped her arm, she declared passionately: ‘Blame your fine friends, and those gently-bred cousins of yours! And blame yourself, Robert, for taking me there in the first place.’

  ‘I didn’t know those women were going to be there — ‘

  ‘But you didn’t object to them did you? And you were as vulgar as the rest.’

  ‘Now wait a minute —’

  But, in full flow of self-righteous fury, Louisa gave him no quarter. ‘And as for that common little trollop, Amelia Loy,’ she went on, ‘I don’t care how far back her family goes, she’s no more a lady than that jumped-up chorus-girl. And the same goes for that fine friend of hers – I’d like to bet she’s been through every eligible man in County Meath, and a few more besides! I feel so sorry for poor Frank, he deserves better than that, and you know it.’