‘Will you stop this? I don’t give a damn about Frank O’Mara right at this minute, I want you to listen to me – ‘
‘No,’ she declared emphatically, ‘you listen to me, Robert Duncannon. I never want to see your cousins again — ever. Or that McNeill creature. Invite them to the house if you wish — it’s your privilege — but don’t expect me to be there to entertain them. I might not be welcome in polite circles, Robert, but I swear to you, I’d rather live like a hermit than mix with people like that.’
‘My God!’ he exclaimed with a bitter little laugh, ‘you’re so bloody middle class’.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ she acknowledged, ‘but at least I have manners and a set of principles. Being your mistress hasn’t made me lose sight of them — not entirely, anyway.’
With that furious exchange hammering one more nail in the coffin of their social life, Robert made no more attempts to involve Louisa.
Almost as a matter of principle, he continued to see Gerald and Amelia, often finding himself in the position of escorting some otherwise unaccompanied female friend or acquaintance. It both amused and annoyed him to realize that Amelia was actively trying to pair him with another woman.
One evening when she was extolling the virtues of a particularly attractive girl, he said: ‘Don’t be an idiot, Amelia, I’m married, in case you’d forgotten. Quite apart from any other consideration.’
Her thin features registered a little moue of disappointment. ‘But of course, one tends to forget, you’re so often alone.’ She sighed. ‘And how is la petite bourgeoise? Although she’s not exactly petite, is she? More the Amazon, I think.’
‘Now stop that,’ he said sternly, as though to a child. ‘Showing your claws doesn’t become you.’
‘I wish I knew what did become me,’ she said archly, ‘in your eyes, that is. In fact, if I thought anything I did would dent that iron heart of yours, Robbie darling, I’d be more than gratified.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ he said sardonically, and turned away.
‘I mean it, Robert.’
Surprised, he looked back; she was smiling that pert, teasing little smile, but her eyes were quite uncertain.
‘I don’t need anyone else,’ he said quietly.
‘No?’ she laughed, twirling the stem of a glass between her fingers. ‘Well, when you do, just let me know.’
Eleven
After a mild, wet winter, March was bitter, with frosts and gales and heavy blizzards; spring took a shock and, with everything delayed, burst forth quite suddenly into summer at the end of May. Within a week it seemed the sheltered garden of the Devereux house was alive with perfume and colour: yellow tulips, blue hyacinths, lilacs and laburnum, spikes of irises and fat purple aubrietia edging lawns bright green in the sun.
Having felt at odds with everything for weeks, Louisa’s listless spirit bloomed again, and in a surge of renewed energy she began to make plans for the summer ahead. While baby Liam gurgled happily at Georgina from his cradle beneath the lilacs, she and Letty pored over seed catalogues and guide books. Robert would shortly be away to the Curragh for the drill season, and with him away they could more or less please themselves. And at eight months old, Liam could quite well be weaned, Louisa thought, which would leave her free to take trips with Letty.
They planned visits to Glasnevin’s Botanic Gardens and Wicklow’s beautiful Glendalough, and, if Robert would sanction it, a week in Killarney before the summer visitors overran it. ‘It’s a pity we couldn’t stay over at White Leigh,’ Letty said, understanding Louisa’s refusal, ‘because the gardens are superb in the summer.’
Hearing the name, Georgina set up a clamour to see her cousin Harry, so it was decided that she and Letty would go for a few days alone, a plan which would suit everyone, including Robert.
By the middle of July, with the two of them away and Robert back in Dublin for a couple of days, it suddenly occurred to Louisa that, in spite of weaning the baby, her monthly cycle had not readjusted itself, and, more worrying still, that she was putting weight on rather than losing it. She felt well, looked well, had no early-morning nausea; but still the creeping suspicion grew.
While Robert was preparing for an early return to the Curragh next morning, she stood in front of the pier-glass and examined her silhouette. It was suspiciously rounded in the area of her abdomen. With a sinking heart, she pulled on her robe and went into the bathroom, where Robert was shaving. She stood for a moment, holding onto the doorjamb, knowing instinctively that for him it would not be welcome news, and yet needing his loving reassurance, needing above all things to tell him, and tell him immediately. After the harrowing effort of keeping her last pregnancy to herself, she could not do it again, not even for a week.
‘I think I’m having another baby,’ she said hollowly.
The smooth sweep of the razor stopped abruptly, drawing blood beneath his chin in a long, thin line. There was silence for several seconds, and then as he wheeled, grabbed a towel to staunch the cut, he swore long and volubly.
‘Do you want me to cut my bloody throat?’ he demanded after that string of curses; Louisa burst into tears and fled.
Moments later, half-dressed, he was by her side, apologizing even as he dabbed at his face, drawing her to him with his free arm. His eyes, however, were singularly lacking in delight.
‘Are you sure?’
‘No, not absolutely. It’s hard to tell, what with the baby and – and everything. But I think so.’
Staring hard into her face, he said, ‘You can’t be. I thought, while you were feeding the baby…’ He broke off, not entirely sure of himself. ‘And since then — well, you always said everything was all right.’
‘I thought it was! It seems I was wrong, though, doesn’t it? I’m sorry — I didn’t plan it — it’s as big a shock to me as it is to you!’
‘All right, all right, calm down, I didn’t mean…’ Sighing, he squeezed her shoulder, and, looking down, swore softly at the amount of blood on the towel. ‘God, Louisa, you really choose your moments. Just look at that. Any time you want to polish me off for good, do that again. I’ll probably get the jugular next time!’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realize, didn’t think what you were doing.’
He laughed softly. ‘That goes for both of us, I think.’ Ruffling her hair, he kissed her cheek. ‘No use crying over it, darling, especially as it’s not certain. You’d better get yourself over to see Molloy, and let me know immediately.’
As ever, the clock was against him. With a train to catch, he dressed hurriedly, sharing toast and coffee with Louisa in her room. The small meal put colour back into her cheeks, and he smiled ruefully as he kissed her goodbye. ‘I think I know what Molloy’s going to say – you’ve got that luscious glow about you again. I should have noticed.’ Kissing her again, lingeringly, he said, ‘Or maybe I did. Thanks for last night — it was the best we’ve had in a long time.’
Flushing uncomfortably, she shook her head and pulled her robe closer. Robert sighed and kissed her cheek. ‘Write to me. I’ll try and get back next week – if not, it may be two. Take care, and give my love to Georgie.’ At the door he paused and looked back. ‘What will it be this time, I wonder? Brother or sister?’
Georgina was disappointed. Having one little brother, she had told her father that it would be very nice to have a baby sister to play with; but the week-old baby boy in his crib seemed so appropriate at Christmas, she forgave Louisa everything, adoring the child with the same wide-eyed wonder she had displayed at Liam’s birth. A practised father this time, Robert held his new son with wonder, looking down into a face Letty swore was the image of his own. Scoffing at such nonsense, swearing babies looked like babies and no one else, deep down he was pleased. Certainly this little scrap had dark and curly hair, fine black lashes and eyes which might clear to the colour of his own.
A general consensus said he must be called Robert for his father, and Robin he became, a child for whom the sun seem
ed always to shine; he rarely cried, even from the first, and was content to rest in anyone’s arms. That supreme contentment under which he thrived was fortunate, for, in spite of a much easier birth, Louisa was slow to recover. Two children in less than fifteen months had taken their toll, leaving her tired and low.
Dr Molloy prescribed plenty of rest and a fortifying diet, but still she lost weight, and, more worrying still, her interest in life. Letty often came across her in the nursery weeping over her two babies, sometimes sobbing as though her heart would break; although when questioned she would not, or could not, say why. Abandoning her charity work, the older woman took over supervision of the nursery and her niece’s lessons, which, with her usual housekeeping duties made her feel, as she remarked to Robert, less the maiden aunt than a bowed-down mother of three.
Robert felt totally helpless, his initial irritation at such groundless misery soon changing to the most abject concern. An interview with Dr Molloy did nothing to relieve his anxiety. It was a distressingly common complaint, he was told, often following childbirth; but its frequency did not lessen its serious nature. To prevent any possibility of tragedy, Molloy said, she must be watched; and under no circumstances whatsoever must she be allowed to conceive another child.
‘At least,’ he added weightily, ‘not until I see a complete recovery, and even then not for a year or so. You do understand what that means?’
‘I think so,’ Robert murmured, resisting the inference, even so. ‘At least, I understand what you mean.’ For a moment, trying to assess Molloy’s position, his likely reaction, Robert paused. Then he said, in worldly, man-to-man tones: ‘But in this day and age, there are ways and means — surely, as a doctor...’
‘Would you have me struck off the medical register? As a doctor, I must tell you that I do not — cannot — approve.’ Meeting his gaze, the younger man allowed himself to show a brief if eloquent sympathy. Looking away, he added: ‘Surely, sir, you know how unsafe and unreliable these things are. There is only one way to ensure conception does not take place — a priest would call it celibacy. I call it common sense, because there’s certainty in nothing else.’
‘Certainty, no,’ Robert ventured, ‘but a percentage of success.’
With stern disapproval, the young Irish doctor shook his head. ‘In other circumstances, I might say “Fine, take your chances,” but not in this situation. It’s a peculiarity of Mother Nature, Captain, that women who have recently given birth are immensely fertile: one mistake is all that’s needed. Embrace abstinence for a year,’ he advised with grim humour, ‘Like fasting, they say it does wonders for the soul.’
‘Mine’s already damned,’ Robert said acidly, ‘by your Church’s reckoning, at least.’
‘By yours too, I should think,’ came the quick reply, but he was smiling again, enjoying the sparks they inevitably raised between them. On a more serious note, before he left, Molloy asked leave to refer Louisa to a colleague. ‘He’s a specialist,’ he said, ‘and very well thought of.’
‘What kind of specialist?’ Robert demanded suspiciously.
Sensing delicate ground, the younger man tried to backtrack. ‘In this kind of disorder,’ he said, ‘for my own peace of mind as her doctor, I’d like confirmation of my diagnosis. And Stevens might well suggest some treatment I’m not yet familiar with.’
‘Why don’t you just say it, Molloy? His speciality is mental illness – you think she’s mad, like…’ Furious, he broke off, turned away. ‘She’s not, you know, not a bit of it. She needs taking out of herself, that’s all, cheering up. If only,’ he added miserably, ‘there were some way of doing it.’
‘I didn’t say she was mad, nor do I think it. But she won’t talk to you, or Miss Duncannon. She won’t even talk to me. Stevens is a stranger – and quite brilliant — she may well talk to him.’
‘No, I won’t have it,’ Robert said vehemently. ‘There wasn’t a specialist yet could help my wife, and believe me, we’ve tried them all!’
‘You haven’t tried him,’ was the reasonable reply. ‘And your wife, if I might venture to point out, is a totally different case.’
But Robert was not assured. He felt as though the most terrifying nightmare of his life was being re-enacted, and, fluctuating between belief and disbelief, his nights and days became a blur of unreality. Molloy called each afternoon that week, and went away still shaking his head and insisting on a second opinion. His patience at an end, Robert cornered him, demanding an explanation.
‘But I’m not an expert,’ Molloy repeated. ‘I can diagnose physical illness and be right most of the time. I can tell you the effects of poverty and malnutrition, even describe the various afflictions of wealthy women of a certain age. But I cannot assess Louisa’s state of mind, because I can get nothing out of her, or too little to suggest a remedy. I confess she seems a little better: I’m not as anxious as I was, and I doubt she’ll injure the children in any way, but–’
‘Oh, good God!’ Robert exclaimed, feeling the walls close in on him, ‘don’t even think it.’ Pouring himself a drink, all resistance shattered, he simply said: ‘Whatever his name is — get him.’
Crisis at Islandbridge, however, interrupted all private considerations. There was an outbreak of dysentery at the Barracks, which to those who had viewed the sanitary arrangements was no surprise, and to Robert least of all. But it was no time for gloating at being proved right; the sick men had to be removed to the fever hospital, and the rest to huts at the Curragh. Afraid of endangering the children, Robert stayed away from the house for three weeks, and while colleagues dashed back and forth enjoying the latter end of the Season, he conducted lengthy correspondence with Letty and Dr Molloy.
‘You will be relieved to know,’ wrote Molloy at the end of March, ‘that Stevens does not consider the problem to be serious. Indeed, I have seen a great improvement myself recently, and would bear out his diagnosis. He would like, however, to see you personally, so I will say no more at present...’
Robert rang the bell for Harris and asked him to bring fresh coffee and a large brandy. Standing over the pot-bellied iron stove, he shivered and shook as though with an ague, wanting to rush home immediately, wanting to see Louisa, talk to her, love her; wanting solid, physical reassurance that she was indeed better. Never again did he want to see such misery in her eyes, never again feel that terrible chill around his own heart as he looked at her.
Reading the letter through again, however, it became apparent that no one had actually said she was recovered. Improved, yes; and the problem, whatever it was, was not considered serious. There seemed some optimism, without being specific. Misery descended again like a leaden weight.
When Harris came, Robert drank the brandy quickly, following that blood-tingling warmth with a mug of hot coffee; and while the other man fed logs into the stove, paced the small area which comprised his quarters.
Outside, the sun was setting in a clear, cold sky; frost, which had lingered all day in the shadows, would be reinforced during the night. Shivering again, drawing his cloak around him like a blanket, he thought longingly of home. Once, the bare wooden walls of his quarters, with the attendant lack of ease and warmth, would have been beneath his notice; but the last three years had conditioned Robert to a softer way of life, and he missed most sorely the comforts of his own home.
In the chilly solitude of a narrow bed, thoughts of Louisa were never far away. Cold and sleepless, he would have gladly exchanged anything for the simple pleasure of sharing her warmth. Wanting her, he tried to recall the last time they had made love, and knew it must have been at least six months before; and while acknowledging the necessity for abstinence, it irked him like a hair-shirt. He told himself repeatedly that physical desire was no more than a part of their love for each other. Even so, it seemed painfully ironic that the mistress he had taken four years ago should have become so much his wife that even sex was now forbidden.
Wife, mistress, sister, children; the responsibility
of caring, of keeping them clothed and housed and fed; of listening to their myriad tiny problems and solving the dozens of major ones: it was becoming too much. Stuck at the Curragh, the most miserable place on earth in winter, miles from anywhere, without a scrap of anything worthwhile to look forward to, Robert felt very sorry for himself. He should take a few days off to go home, he knew that; but, much as he wanted to be with Louisa, the thought of all that misery held him back.
Next morning, in the midst of tedious paperwork to do with the men who were sick, Harris brought in the mail and requested permission to speak.
‘Yes, Harris, what is it?’
‘Well, begging your pardon, sir, but I wondered whether we would be going back to Dublin?’
Slightly irritated, Robert laid down his pen. ‘By we, do you mean the regiment? If you do, the answer’s no, not for a long time.’
Clearing his throat, Harris said: ‘No sir, I meant — begging your pardon – would you yourself be going back to Dublin anytime soon?’
‘I shall be, but I can’t say exactly when. Not at this moment, anyway. Why do you want to know?’
Colouring with sudden embarrassment, Harris said: ‘Well, sir, it’s to do with me leaving the colours — sort of.’
‘Oh, good grief, yes – I keep forgetting about that.’ Opening a drawer in his desk, Robert sifted through some papers. ‘Seven years — and six of them with me — it’ll be hell breaking a new man in,’ he joked, ‘can’t you do another seven?’
‘Wish I could, sir, wish they’d let me.’
‘Ah well, regulations,’ Robert sighed. ‘When exactly is it? End of May?’
‘The twentieth, sir.’
‘You know, there’s been so much going on,’ Robert muttered, finding at last the details he was looking for, ‘it’s been pushed to the back of my mind. But I haven’t forgotten what we discussed at Christmas,’ he added, glancing up. ‘Was it that you wanted to see me about?’
Louisa Elliott Page 53
