Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Upstairs, despite genuine and hearty congratulations, that betrothal cast long shadows ahead. To Robert it was a reminder that he was losing the best servant he had ever had; and furthermore, within the strictures of their official relationship, Harris had become a trusted friend. There was never a need to explain things to Harris: he knew and understood. The very idea of having a stranger in his quarters and in his home set Robert’s teeth on edge; it was symptomatic of change, change on every front, and he hated it.

  At first Louisa received the news with genuine pleasure. Moira was so happy, and after months in which the smallest ray of light had failed to penetrate, it was good to have something to be happy about. Good to have something to lift her spirits even a little after the bitter disappointment of Robert’s homecoming.

  The tunnel of black and terrifying despair was behind her, she knew that; but in the shadows were other anxieties, fears she was afraid to tackle alone. She needed Robert’s help to determine a path for the future, needed a hand to hold when the going was hard; needed, above all, a chance to speak honestly, in much the same way as she had spoken to Dr Stevens.

  Professional sympathy and detachment, coupled with the sure and certain knowledge that he was bound by confidentiality, had enabled Louisa to give voice to what was troubling her. After weeks in which the simplest problems had been agony to contemplate, the most banal questions impossible to answer, it had been blessed relief to talk again. Honesty, critical and sometimes shameful, did not come easily. She had become accustomed to swallowing the unpalatable and saying nothing, but having broken free she felt lighter, more optimistic. Longing to share it with Robert, to find a way through these difficulties, Louisa wondered when they would find the chance.

  But Robert was not the easiest of men to pin down, particularly when he had other things on his mind. For that reason alone, his sudden and early removal to the Curragh had been a blow. Had he been living at home, with no more pressing concern than the next day’s hunting, it would have been a simple matter of awaiting the right moment. But on short visits, with everyone wanting a piece of his time, and problems of which she knew nothing occupying his mind, the difficulty seemed insurmountable.

  The medical advice, that further children must be avoided, was a relief at first. Having had two in quick succession, and having suffered because of it, she had no desire for more; and no desire for passionate couplings either, come to that. She knew that Molloy had spoken to Robert, but until now had had neither wit nor will to discuss such potentially damaging advice. Wondering whether he had seen Stevens, Louisa’s answer had come last night.

  In retrospect, she knew she should have pressed him, overridden that hurt and angry pride of his; knew she had let one vital opportunity slip through her fingers. But in truth, she herself had been so very hurt, so cut to the heart by his rejection, that to struggle against it was quite beyond her. She had passed a bitter, sleepless night, and so, without doubt, had he.

  Resting in her room after feeding the baby, it seemed to Louisa that more than brick walls stood between them; and more distance than that between Dublin and the Curragh. Loving Robert, wanting him, how to tell him without bald words seemed to have eluded her. And the time when bald words could have been uttered without loss of grace or femininity was long gone.

  She could say: ‘I love you,’ but unless they were in bed together, touching, how could she imply that she wanted him physically? To say: ‘I want you,’ in the middle of the afternoon, over tea, was far too gross. A man could say that, and from Robert those words had always provoked a pleasurable thrill; but ladies never did. On the other hand, Louisa reflected, ladies were supposed to endure, not enjoy, so where did that leave her? Guilty of being less than the lady she imagined herself to be, and far less than the one Robert wanted her to seem in public. It left her, as always, in the company of women she invariably despised, those who were coarse, grasping, and vulgar, women with whom men could be free, because they deserved no particular respect.

  Once, such thoughts had never clouded her horizons. To love and be loved, to share the physical expression of that love, in whichever and whatever ways there were, had been all that really mattered. But in those days their love had been private, a secret between the two of them, inviting no comment, no judgements, because hardly anyone knew. Was guilt, then, a matter of public contempt — and innocence one of public approbation? The consensus of the majority? If society said: This is the way we behave, therefore this is right, was all other behaviour wrong?

  In searching for answers, she searched the innermost depths of her being, and knew it was not so. While one half of society gorged itself, the other half starved. In Ireland, the Catholic majority believed in the intercession of the saints; while the Protestant minority accused them of worshipping graven images. Always there were two sides to every argument; even Christ said to render unto Caesar what was Caesar’s, and to God what belonged to God. He did not condemn the woman taken in adultery; but He said: Go and sin no more.

  That cold, dark, terrible despair seemed eloquent of judgement; under its weight she had wept the penitent’s tears, made promises which, in the clear light of day, she had no desire to keep. She loved Robert; her body cried out for his touch, for his warmth and vitality, the reassurance that he loved her still...

  No more children, the doctor said; Go and sin no more, intoned the Gospel. Where, for Heaven’s sake, was the compromise?

  Thirteen

  After a hellish couple of days, Robert made his escape on the Sunday evening. Having booked one of his hunters on the train in advance – ‘Just in case I get the opportunity,’ he told Letty – he had one of the grooms take it over to the station to be boxed, and had Harris pack stocks, breeches, cutaway coats and boots for his trip to Kilkenny later in the week.

  Saying goodbye to Louisa he felt guilty; she clung for a moment as he kissed her cheek, and though none were shed, tears glistened in her eyes. Georgina was cross and sulky at his going, demanding to know when he would be back and wanting it to be soon. Waving him off from the steps, his sister quite simply looked grim.

  ‘Think you should have stayed a bit longer, sir,’ Harris observed as soon as the luggage was stowed and they were away.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Harris,’ Robert said shortly, ‘don’t you start that as well! If I don’t get away for a few days’ exercise, there’ll be crimes committed, I promise you.’

  With a little half-smile lifting those lugubrious features, the younger man said: ‘There’s always the Sudan, sir — crying out for officers, they are.’

  ‘Don’t imagine I haven’t thought of it,’ responded Robert, with dour humour. ‘Right at this moment, the idea of marching through the desert, knocking hell out of whoever gets in the way, has a certain perverse appeal.’

  He joked, but there was more than a grain of truth in what he said. From reports which were still coming in, it seemed the advance towards the Nile valley would be a determined, careful and lengthy campaign. As Harris so rightly said, the Egyptian Cavalry, under Kitchener’s general command, were crying out for British officers. It was tempting, very tempting indeed, but for the moment domestic and financial responsibilities were running high; to keep his finger on the pulse, Robert needed to be in Ireland, so in Ireland he must stay.

  For the time being at least, he reflected, he would have to make do with other escape-routes, however short; and close his mind to the rest.

  On the Monday he made his presence felt in stables and Mess-hall, and Tuesday on the parade ground. In between he cleared an accumulation of paperwork, sent a telegram to the Loys in Kilkenny, and set forth to join them early on Wednesday morning.

  It was a glorious spring day, the sort when even the meanest of God’s creatures feels good to be alive. Rabbits scuttled across green fields, wild primroses were in bloom along the trackside, and in the distance Kilkenny’s hills were purple against a cerulean sky. With a groom, Amelia was there to meet him, looking like a daffodil
in a green velvet habit with yellow facings. As always, she made him smile.

  ‘So the monastery did let you out, after all,’ she declared, pecking his cheek in cousinly fashion. Giving orders to the groom, she assured Robert the man was capable, and invited him to sit beside her on the driving seat of the trap.

  ‘Will I be safe, with you driving?’ he enquired, laughing.

  ‘I doubt it, but it’ll be exhilarating, at least!’

  He climbed aboard, and as though noticing for the first time, said: ‘Where’s Gerald, the lazy hound? Still lounging over breakfast?’

  ‘Gerald isn’t with us,’ she announced airily. ‘His business, as you know, takes up far too much of his time.’

  Out of sight of the station and any curious passers-by, Robert laid his hand on her knee. ‘You know,’ he said, with a slow, laconic smile, ‘I was rather hoping you might say that.’

  The affair went exceedingly well, for a while at least. It answered pressing physical needs, provided a certain spice which had been missing from Robert’s life for some time, and seemed to put a feather in Amelia’s cap.

  They saw each other frequently to begin with, usually as house-guests in the country homes of mutual friends; but as the hunting season drew to its close and the intensity of training at the Curragh increased, such opportunities were rare. They risked a hotel on a few occasions, and Amelia’s Meath estate twice, but the latter was inconvenient for the Curragh, and also rather too dangerous even for one addicted to such dangers. She loved the aura of sin and secrecy, throwing herself into every encounter like a hungry animal, almost devouring Robert in her eagerness. It was typical of everything she did, yet he often found himself wondering, especially afterwards when she lay unrelaxed beside him, whether Amelia really enjoyed sex. She seemed insatiable, and for a while that was very flattering; for a while, also, it gave him reasons why she wanted a man other than her husband.

  Quite early in their relationship he asked her: she said Gerald was boring, uninventive as a lover; accused him too of having married her for the estate, which Robert found hard to believe. In the early days of their acquaintance, he had thought his cousin very fond of her. How things stood between them now, however, was anyone’s guess. Robert was sure he was by no means the first of Amelia’s lovers; indeed, he had been convinced for a long time that Tom McNeill claimed that dubious honour, while two more had danced notable attendance since. Certainly, he saw very little of Gerald that summer, but whether his cousin was genuinely besieged by business matters, or if he knew and simply did not care, Robert had no idea.

  Occasionally, seeing him to exchange a few words in passing, Robert was aware of guilt at the betrayal of their youthful friendship; after a while he became adept at feeling nothing at all. Between himself and Gerald’s wife, love was not the currency of exchange – sex was. He imagined Amelia would tire of the game before long, as he was already beginning to; and ultimately they would part as amicably as they had come together, with no real emotion involved. If an example was needed to reinforce the theory, he had Tom McNeill to look to, still persona grata at all Amelia’s gatherings.

  As far as his home life was concerned, in Robert’s eyes the affair was equally successful. The summer drill season was a period when he was away a good deal, anyway, so the odd day or night spent elsewhere was never remarked upon. In the past he had usually taken Harris home with him, but with his leaving the regiment in May, it was a habit Robert did not begin with the new man.

  When he did go home to Fitzwilliam Square, he was in far better humour; and although there had been initial pangs of guilt, since then he had told himself it was for Louisa’s benefit in the long run, and persuaded himself into virtue. With excitement both behind him and ahead, it was easier by far to tolerate his sister’s earnestness and Louisa’s obsession with the children. Much as he adored his family, the atmosphere was too often that of quiet, middle-class sobriety; less of the Good Book than gardening catalogues, admittedly, but the women’s interests bored him to distraction.

  Louisa, however, was beginning to mystify him. She gardened with Letty, looked after the children, sat in the evening in her modest cotton gowns with her embroidery, for all the world the archetypal, respectable matron. Her conversation was sparse, on occasion sharply ironic, but never personal. Obviously, she was recovered from the deep melancholy of the winter, and showing no signs whatever of a return to that state. In fact she seemed, to all intents and purposes, little changed from the Louisa of a year ago; except that she was not pregnant. Yet subtle differences impinged upon him, changes which, while not exactly worrying, gave rise to a certain amount of reflection.

  In the spring, when reproachful tones and tears were the last things his conscience could stand, she had been very emotional on a couple of occasions. With determined brightness he had successfully talked her out of it and, as before, left her to sleep alone. Then, looking back, he recalled a period of excessive quietness, one visit at least when she had hardly spoken to him at all. That had given him cause for anxiety, thinking word of his affair was out. But with Letty more or less her usual self, he realized he was safe.

  Since then, except to discuss Georgina or the boys, she rarely asked him anything and, as though obeying a set of rules, he never mentioned his social life. The remaining topics were limited.

  At the end of August, with his period of summer manoeuvres over, Robert took a planned two weeks’ leave, joining his family at their rented villa by the sea.

  It was a necessary time for rest and recuperation. Since February, work had been intense at the Curragh, and summer had been particularly unsettling, with Harris’s departure for York in May and Darnley away to the Sudan in June. In different ways, he missed both men, particularly envying Darnley his freedom to pursue whatever course ambition dictated. Tommy said he was mad: he envied no one the harsh inconveniences of a desert campaign. Training on the lush green expanse of the Curragh was bad enough, even with the fleshpots of Dublin to look forward to; home situations were far too cushy to exchange for the hard reality of death and disease in a foreign land.

  ‘You’re getting soft, Tommy,’ Robert had said; but Tommy had laughed and delivered a dart of his own.

  ‘I can’t see why you’re so damned keen,’ he retorted, ‘with a mistress at home and another panting after your every move — you’re in clover, man! My little filly’s just thrown me over for a pansy Hussar and a gold ring. With my broken heart, I’m the one who should be volunteering for the desert, not you!’

  The strange thing was that, in spite of the jest, Robert believed his friend was upset at losing his latest love. But avoiding commitment had become such a way of life, Robert thought him incapable of any other.

  That conversation, and the reason behind it, was very much on his mind when he arrived at the villa in Dalkey. As Moira opened the door to him, he was even envying Harris the simplicity of his life. Working as a cellarman in York for the experience, and looking for the right little property, Harris was single-minded enough to achieve all he set out to do. And as Louisa had so rightly remarked on the day of the betrothal, he could not see Harris letting impetuosity get in the way of it. His old servant’s letters bore that out: there had been plenty of pubs on the market, but none of them quite what Harris wanted. They were either too expensive or not in the right quarter, and despite his eagerness to find a place, marry, and begin work, Harris would not let that come between him and better judgement.

  Miss Letty and Miss Louisa were out walking along the sea-wall, Moira told him, and the children were having their afternoon nap; but there was a letter for him, she added with twinkling brightness, sent on from Dublin that very morning.

  ‘Is it good news, then?’ he asked, recognizing Harris’s careful hand.

  ‘It is indeed, sir. He’s found a place, a bit run-down but otherwise sound — and wants to go ahead right away!’

  ‘That is good news!’ Robert smiled. ‘Not long to the wedding, then?’


  Moira blushed. ‘Well, that depends on getting the property, sir.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll soon have that sorted out, Moira, don’t you worry. A September wedding, eh?’ With a little laugh, he winked at her and went upstairs.

  Reading his mail, Robert was bound to agree with everything Harris said. The pub was on Fishergate, small, run-down and absolutely filthy — although he had never been in, Robert remembered the place — but structurally sound, and going very cheap. Dirt was no problem, hard work would cure that; but as Robert was investing his money too, Harris wanted him to see the place before agreeing to buy.

  Thinking it over, Robert’s initial reaction was to write back and tell him to go ahead anyway; but on reflection, he had two weeks’ leave and a visit to York might do Louisa the world of good. She had been critical and cutting with him recently, and a trip home might sweeten her temper. Always providing, he thought gloomily, that she could be persuaded to leave the children for a few days.

  Over dinner that evening he told them Harris’s news, and both Louisa and his sister were delighted. Almost as one, however, they remarked on losing the girl so soon.

  Robert laughed. ‘You’ve known about it since last March. How can you call that “soon”?’

  ‘Well, a betrothal isn’t a marriage, is it?’ Louisa said. ‘The date was dependent on Harris finding what he wanted, and that could have been any time. Now we know, and it’s a surprise, that’s all. We’ve been carrying on regardless of Moira going – and time’s slipped away.’

  For a moment, studying her empty plate, an ironic smile touched her lips. ‘But time does slip away, doesn’t it? I was only saying today – wasn’t I, Letty? — that it’s just three years since I came to Ireland.’

  As she looked up, Robert caught a fleeting glimpse of something — pain, mockery, accusation? — which disconcerted him.