Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘Well, no, not exactly.’ Scarlet with embarrassment, Harris came to attention. ‘I’d like your permission, sir, to ask for Miss Moira’s hand in marriage. I know she’s a Papist, sir, but she can’t help that, and she is clean and hard-working. What’s more, I know the ladies have taught her to write a good hand and figure accounts – I think she’ll do me very nicely. You did say, sir,’ he added into the stunned silence, ‘that I’d find it hard going on my own, and thinking it over, it makes sense. So if it’s all right with you, sir, I’d like permission to ask.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Robert murmured into his hand. Covering a smile, he said: ‘Does the girl know of your intentions, Harris? I mean, is she likely to agree?’

  Relaxing somewhat, the younger man nodded. ‘Oh, I think so, sir. Miss Moira likes me well enough. I think she knows I’d have offered before, if I’d had anything to offer — if you see what I mean, sir. Army life’s no life for a woman, in the ranks, that is,’ he added hurriedly, ‘and I know she misses her home town – so if I was to look for a public house in York, she’d say yes like a shot.’

  ‘She’d be a fool to turn you down,’ Robert said quietly. ‘Yes, Harris, you have my permission to ask for her hand.’ Smiling again, he added: ‘And kindly take two days’ leave. You deserve it!’

  ‘When, sir?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Flicking through the mail on his desk, looking for handwriting which might be pertinent, Robert shook his head. ‘See me about that this evening, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and thank you, sir!’ With a very crisp salute, Harris marched from the office, looking at least six inches taller than when he had entered. Watching his retreating back, Robert’s smile faded.

  I know she misses her home town — the words echoed hollowly in his head. Could that be Louisa’s problem? After almost three years away, was she simply heart-sick for home and family?

  In the beginning, he had promised to take her back, but since then, what with pregnancies and children, there had been no opportunity. We must make that opportunity, he thought, his mind jumping back to Harris and his plans for the future.

  Sober, thrifty, hard-working, Harris would make a success of his venture, of that Robert had no doubt at all. With no collateral except his faith in the man, Robert had offered to invest in that long-standing ambition to own a small public house in a garrison town. Without that material help, Harris would have found it exceedingly difficult, for army pay, even that of a privileged servant, did not allow for vast savings. Even so, Harris had gathered a surprising little nest-egg, and Robert’s investment would not be large. It remained only to find a suitable property, and that could not be done until Harris finished his time in May.

  Perhaps then, he thought, we might go across to view the place and spend a few days in York.

  Picking up the mail on his desk, he sorted through it again. There was a lengthy epistle from Letty, a few bills, and a slim envelope addressed in the spiky hand he had come to recognize as Amelia Loy’s.

  Curious, he opened that one first, and his face relaxed into a smile as he read her note. She and Gerald were invited down to Kilkenny by some boring but hospitable cousins; if he could inveigle a few days off, would he like to join them for the hunting? It was so long since they’d seen or heard from him, Amelia said, she was beginning to think the Curragh no more than an excuse.

  ‘Admit it,’ that spiky hand ordered, ‘you’ve joined some Trappist order in the bogs of Connaught! Even so, I trust this will be passed on, and that vows of poverty, chastity and silence will not prevent a handwritten reply.’

  He laughed at that, amused more by the accurate analogy than anything else; on an impulse, he wrote straight back, promising to join them for a day and a night the following week.

  Twelve

  With the worst of the regimental problems ironed out, and the prospect of cheerful company and a day’s hunting to fortify himself, Robert thought it was time he went back to Dublin. Dreading the meeting with Molloy’s colleague, Dr Stevens, he made that appointment first, needing to know the worst and best of Louisa’s situation before seeing her.

  Like Molloy, Stevens was no more than thirty years old, a tall, thin, intense-eyed man with a high, domed forehead and narrow jaw. His handshake was firm and protracted, and Robert felt, rather guiltily, that the long fingers absorbed as much as those piercing eyes. In the manner of a man whose time is valuable, after a very short silence, he launched at once into a frank assessment of his patient.

  In his opinion, he said, the depression was a common one brought about by childbirth; not particularly severe in itself, but complicated by other factors. He did not consider the patient to be of a melancholic disposition, nor was it likely that she would be permanently affected; nevertheless, he added, he was still very much concerned.

  Robert cleared his throat. ‘Why is that?’ he asked, having an uneasy feeling that the cause was about to be placed squarely on his own shoulders.

  With eloquently raised brows and a sigh which spoke volumes, the doctor said severely: ‘Your situation is hardly the usual one, Captain. Miss Elliott is not your wife, and yet she lives with you as such — there are two children of the union, are there not?’

  ‘Now, look here!’ Robert protested, rising to his feet; but the tall doctor waved him down.

  ‘Calm yourself,’ he ordered, ‘I’m not here to make petty moral judgements, but to give you my considered medical opinion. My fees, incidentally, are not small, so please don’t waste my time.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Robert murmured, feeling as though he had just been carpeted by the Colonel.

  ‘You are prepared to listen? Good. Then let me tell you this: it took some considerable time to discover what lay at the heart of Miss Elliott’s problem, several interviews before I was able to gain her confidence. At first, loyalty stood in the way, loyalty to you, Captain.’

  He paused for a moment and, when he looked up, again there was that disapproval in his eyes, as though the man before him had performed some deed unmentionable between gentlemen. ‘She’s an admirable woman – in spite of the irregularity of your union – a fine woman with a strong moral sense. And it’s that very moral sense which is destroying her. Why? Because she feels guilt. Her children are evidence of her wrongdoing, yet she loves them dearly, as she most surely cares for you.’

  For a while there was silence, while Robert was so swamped by shock and his own brand of guilt he could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Perhaps if you could have lived quietly somewhere... away from the pressures of society, away from public condemnation, she might have come to terms with it. As things stand, I find it hard to find a solution. To abandon her — even if you could find it in your heart to do so — would be worse, yet to continue the physical side of your relationship is, I think, as bad. She is afraid, you see, very much afraid, of bearing more children. Not because of the physical pain,’ he added quickly, ‘but the moral, emotional pain — the guilt.’

  When he could find his voice, Robert whispered, ‘Is she — are the children – in any kind of danger?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t think so. No,’ he repeated more firmly, ‘she’s unhappy, but I don’t sense that destructive urge in her, rather the opposite, in fact. And now the post-natal melancholia has lifted, she is improving. Now she understands why she is unhappy, she is coming to terms with it. But no more pressure must be put upon her. You do understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Robert said bleakly.

  ‘There is one other thing — her family. I understand she is in communication with her mother, but feels condemned by the rest. I don’t know how you stand with regard to them, Captain, but if someone could be persuaded to write and explain the situation – if they could be persuaded to forgive her and say so — then I feel that would set her squarely on the road to recovery. Society’s opinion would perhaps matter less.’

  Her family! Robert thought, with Edward clear as day before him. Hot, jealous anger burned the ic
e away, and suddenly he felt betrayed by all Louisa had confessed. Doctor or not, he had no right to know the inmost secrets of her mind, no right to probe where he, Robert, had never been.

  Through tight lips, he said: ‘I couldn’t possibly begin to explain. Perhaps my sister might.’

  ‘Persuade her,’ Dr Stevens said. ‘It is important.’

  It was the middle of the afternoon when he came out of the consulting rooms in Merrion Square. Although it was but a short walk home, Robert turned in the opposite direction, towards a tavern he knew near Trinity College. It was a wild, blustery day, with raindrops scattering in sudden gusts; fighting against it seemed the most positive, enjoyable thing he had done in weeks.

  Blood was tingling in hands and face within seconds of entering that tiny, smoke-filled room; not wishing to draw attention to himself, he ordered a large whiskey and downed it quickly, relishing the gasp of heat in his chest; ordered another and sipped it, holding the glass between his hands. Several students were arguing noisily in one corner. They turned to him for a good-humoured judgement, but he was in no mood for their idiotic and fanciful philosophies; with a taut smile he shook his head and left.

  He entered the house almost stealthily, going straight to his study, and sending McMahon to fetch Letty. While he waited, he poured himself another drink and sat down, at last feeling the tight knot in his stomach begin to unravel. Not too far, though, he told himself sternly, pushing the bottle across the desk; too much and he would fall apart completely, and that would never do.

  Startled, he turned, to see Letty leaning against the door, shaking her head. ‘Oh, Robert, don’t start that habit again, please.’

  Angry, he slammed the glass down. ‘One drink! Am I not allowed that after what I’ve just been through?’

  She sighed. ‘You’ve been to see Dr Stevens, then? What did he say?’

  ‘Enough. None of it very good. Oh, she’ll get over it – not very serious, he said. Except,’ Robert added bitterly, ‘she’d be a bloody sight happier, apparently, if I walked out and joined a frigging monastery!’

  ‘Less of the barrack-room adjectives, please!’

  Leaning back in his chair, he propped his booted feet on the desk-top, another habit she disliked. With challenge in his eyes he watched her pace the square of carpet before him, waiting for the inevitable comment. When none came, he said flippantly: ‘It would appear she’s suffering from an attack of the vapours, sister dear, brought on by the nasty things people say and do. Or rather, the nasty things she thinks they’re thinking, since to my knowledge no one has actually said a damn thing to her face!’

  ‘You have been drinking, Robert, I can tell. Don’t bother denying it,’ she said furiously, ‘because if I thought you were sober, I’d strike you now!’ Brandishing the heavy brass poker, Letty stabbed at the fire, holding it, between thrusts, like a weapon. ‘How you can speak so, I’ve no idea. If I thought you meant it, if I thought you didn’t care— ‘

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Letty. Of course I care!’

  ‘You have a most delightful way of showing it.’

  ‘I know, it’s part of my natural charm — or so you tell me.’

  She came at him with fire in her eyes. For a second the poker threatened; and then on a long breath she lowered it slowly to the desk. Leaning forward, his sister hung her head like someone exhausted.

  ‘Please,’ she said quietly, ‘don’t fight with me. I’m trying to help you. I need to know what was said. What was really said, not some sarcastic interpretation. I’ve been as worried as you, Robert, thought the same things, spent sleepless nights thinking of Charlotte – and all she did after Georgie was born. So please, if there’s anything I can do, tell me.’

  Dragging his faculties together, trying to quell the bitterness, Robert managed at last to relate most of what had been said that afternoon. Acrimony crept back, however, as he recalled that final plea to write to her family. Confessing that to his sister cost him much in injured pride, and her eagerness to fulfil that duty was no pleasure at all.

  Glancing at the time, he rose slowly to his feet. ‘Where is she?’ he asked. ‘I suppose I ought to see her.’

  ‘Indeed you should!’ Letty remarked sharply. ‘What’s the matter, don’t you want to?’

  For a moment Robert could not reply. ‘I dread it.’

  Impossible to say more. Impossible to discuss with his sister the remorseful secrets of his private life. He could not describe to her the effects of those early days with Charlotte, the fear and guilt which Louisa had salved so miraculously. In her eager response he had found the balm he needed, and in her delight a happiness which bound him more securely than any marriage vow. It was hard to believe that she wanted him no longer, that the passion they had shared with such abandon had become so pitifully reduced; and yet he did believe it. In slow and subtle ways it had crept upon him. Since Robin’s birth he had seen the abject misery, watched her clasp their two babies to her bosom as though the Grim Reaper himself stood on the threshold. It was as thought the whole weight of human frailty bowed her down. Trying to comfort her, he had been rejected; talked, and felt the walls had better ears.

  Recalling Louisa’s fear of gossip in York, the attitudes he had so often dismissed as bourgeois, Robert believed the doctor’s diagnosis. Equating guilt-ridden misery with sexual revulsion, he was in despair. To his mind, it was Charlotte all over again: fear and loathing, the total rejection of all that made him, in his own eyes, a man.

  He found her in the nursery with all three children. Georgina was playing with Liam, and on staggering, chubby legs he followed her around the room. Beneath a shock of thick blonde hair, his bright eyes shone with delight; seeing Robert he gurgled happily, proudly walking a few steps unaided, and, clutching his father’s knees, looked up with a broad, toothy grin.

  ‘Isn’t he clever, Daddy?’ Georgina cried. He kissed her upturned face and hoisted Liam into his arms with suitable words of praise. Over the child’s head he caught Louisa’s uncertain, tremulous smile, and his heart lurched with pain.

  Laying the baby in his crib, she came towards him, lifting her face to be kissed. With dry lips he touched her cheek, commented lightly on how well she was looking, and praised each child in turn. The nursemaid came to prepare the little ones for bed, but his daughter prattled on until he promised to hear her practice her latest piece on the piano. With discussion postponed, he felt relief and called it cowardice.

  In the drawing room, later, awkwardness descended. During dinner, Letty did her best to keep up the conversation, drawing her brother out regarding the problems at the Curragh. He answered dully, and Louisa, pushing food around her plate but barely eating, seemed tongue-tied. He wondered if she knew of his appointment with Dr Stevens. Feeling betrayed by all she must have confessed to the man, Robert knew it was not a matter he could raise.

  For a while, Letty played Schumann to them, but the romance of his music held undertones of sadness which echoed unbearably in that quiet room. Stretched out in his chair before the fire, Robert smoked a cigar and stared into the flames; Louisa held a piece of embroidery.

  Eventually, without saying goodnight, Letty simply closed the piano and went to bed.

  Having managed perhaps half a dozen stitches, Louisa folded her work and returned it to the basket. Hearing her sigh, Robert looked up, noting the heightened colour along her cheekbones. She was wearing a blue gown, one he had never seen before; and this evening her hair was particularly pretty. She looked so well, he was tempted to think the rest a nightmare from which they would all very shortly awake. But then he remembered moments like this with Charlotte, and hardened his heart. No doubt her silence was that of embarrassment, he told himself; apprehension at thoughts of having to share the same bed. Perhaps she was wondering how to say no without giving offence.

  Louisa’s fingers trembled over the work basket, arranging and rearranging its contents. ‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘it’s perhaps time we went up, too. It�
��s been a long day for me, and you look quite exhausted.’

  ‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘But I don’t think I’ll come up just now. I’ll have a nightcap first.’

  ‘You won’t be long, will you?’

  There was a plaintive quality in her voice which touched several raw nerves. Rising abruptly, he went over to the table where a decanter and glasses stood; pouring a generous measure, he said shortly: ‘I may be – I’m not sure.’

  In the silence which followed, the ticking of the clock sounded like a death knell. It seemed an eternity before she moved, and when she did, he could not believe she was coming towards him. He almost flinched at her touch, turning his eyes from that tearful, appealing gaze, wishing she would simply go to bed.

  But she slipped inside his guard. Embracing him, she whispered: ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

  For a moment, gripping her shoulders, he wanted to shake her. What was she trying to do? Was the responsibility for her well-being to be entirely his?

  With a great effort, Robert tried to compose himself. Searching for gentleness, he found only a voice which shook with frustration. ‘I’ve missed you, too.’

  ‘Then won’t you come to bed?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said hoarsely, wanting to caress her and determined not to. ‘You’ve not been well – you need your rest.’

  The arms which had held them together dropped slowly away. Her lip quivered for a moment, and then she blinked and smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said lightly, ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll go on up, and see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated, not sure whether it was gratitude or regret which brought that sudden shiver to his spine, ‘go on up now. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Next day, the household was full of different news. Harris and Moira were engaged to be married and, while the happy couple were inclined to be prosaic about that as-yet distant union, in the servants’ hall it was cause for celebration.