People were hurrying as he neared the scene of the accident, horses stamping and whinnying, tossing about in the confines of shafts and traces. Several policemen ran past him, and a man in heavy tweeds and gaiters; then Robert heard the high-pitched screams of a horse in agony. Pure instinct made him push his way through the crowd, but a few seconds later a shot rang out and the screaming stopped.
Human voices dispelled the silence which followed, but with his view of the roadway obscured by the chaos of carts and carriages, he was unable to see what had happened or where. Only as he crossed at the far junction, was the dreadful scene laid out before him.
Two burly policemen were trying to calm a massive dray-horse with an open wound in its side, while the shaken driver fumbled with snarled traces and a broken, blood-stained shaft. The vet in tweeds and gaiters was still crouched beside the other horse, lying at an ugly angle amidst the shattered remains of a light trap. A young man knelt in the gutter, head in hands, a middle-aged woman comforting him.
But the young fool’s horse was out of its misery, Robert thought, and liable to cause no more problems, other than the removal of its carcass. The dray was terrified and dangerous, its massive hooves lifting as it tossed and reared, the load of heavy grain sacks about to fall at any moment. Angrily, Robert pushed his way past a restraining blue uniform, and with a few choice words prevented the carter from releasing his horse.
‘Can’t you see he’ll run amok? Give me the feed-bag and don’t release those traces until I say!’
Instructing the nearest bobby to hold the horse’s head down, Robert gently ran his hands over its muzzle and sweating neck, and, murmuring softly, slipped the feed bag over its nose to mask the smell of blood. He coaxed the huge head down until it was against his chest and the blinkered eyes were unable to see. Comforted by the smell of food and persuaded by those confident hands, the big dray calmed sufficiently to be led out of its own mangled shafts and into a narrow alley behind the church. There, in the comparative peace of that ill-lit walkway, the horse shook and shivered while sweat dripped off its belly like water from a leaking faucet. It stood still while Robert examined its wound and the carter stammered his thanks.
With the arrival of the vet, Robert continued on his way. The accident had shaken him, and he was reluctant to pass the other animal with the gaping holes in its head and chest. He felt his way along the smooth stone of the church wall, and through a covered passage which brought him out at the end of fashionable Coney Street.
Brightly-lit shops made it easier to see, and the warm press of bustling humanity had to some extent dissipated the fog. But his assistance with the dray had cost both time and energy. Renewed pain in his shoulder made it impossible to hurry, yet he was all too conscious of the passing time. Edward could well be on his way home, and he preferred not to meet him. Passing a florist’s, he went in to purchase a bouquet of red and gold chrysanthemums, and armed with that excuse for calling, continued into Gillygate.
Shrouded by linen blinds, the windows of Elliott’s Commercial Hotel showed no chink of light. With his hand halfway to the doorbell, Robert paused and looked up, searching for the cheerful sign which had caught his attention once, a lifetime ago. But the fog was thick and he could barely distinguish the first-floor windows; the sign, he was sure, had been above them. The door’s brave green paint was dull now, the window boxes inhabited by sad little skeletons of summer flowers. The whole house seemed so unnaturally quiet and dark he was suddenly afraid he was too late, that even while he hurried to see her, Mary Elliott had passed out of reach.
Daunted, he turned away, glad of the cover the weather afforded. In the shelter of a haberdasher’s doorway he stopped to gather his courage. He shivered, longing suddenly for the harsh dry heat of Egypt and the Sudan; the irony made him smile. Latterly, with dust and grief and exhaustion stinging his eyes, he had dreamed of York, of misty days and falling leaves and the peaceful sound of church bells. The taste of those dreams, like the fog, was bitter on his tongue.
Easing her aching back, Louisa paced the stretch of carpet between bed and window, trying to block the moans and cries of pain which issued from her mother’s lips. She parted the heavy curtains and raised the blind, trying to see through the fog, willing Dr Mackenzie to hurry. For perhaps the twentieth time in less than half an hour she glanced at the clock and returned to the bed, bending once more to hold those frail, wasted hands between her own. Exhausted, feeling her own life force ebbing in seemingly direct ratio to her mother’s fight to survive, she prayed with desperation for that indomitable spirit to falter, to release its hold on the husk of a body to which it clung.
Ashamed, she shook her head, summoning the dregs of her courage. Gradually, the fevered movements subsided, the cries became mere whimpers, and Mary Elliott seemed to sleep. Afraid to let go, afraid, almost, to look away, Louisa prayed for the doctor to come; and as though in answer to that prayer, the faint tinkle of the doorbell reached her ears.
Silence followed, then the low murmur of voices. Anxious at first, then furious that Bessie was keeping him, Louisa released her mother’s hands and headed for the stairs.
‘If that’s the doctor, Bessie,’ she softly hissed, leaning over the banister, ‘don’t keep him talking. Bring him up.’
The older woman puffed her way up to the first landing. ‘It’s the Captain, ma’am. Does he come in or not?’
‘Who?’ Louisa demanded as her legs buckled suddenly. Sitting down, she asked faintly: ‘Who did you say?’
In the shadows at the foot of the staircase, a tall figure appeared. ‘It’s me, Louisa – Robert.’
For a moment she saw only the flowers. Those enormous hothouse blooms, red and gold, gold and red, seemed to surge and fill the hall. Gripping the banister, she took a deep breath, willing herself not to pass out. Edward, she reminded herself, had said Robert would come, and here he was.
‘It’s all right, Bessie,’ she said, summoning strength from somewhere. Under no circumstances would she break down; under no circumstances give Robert Duncannon an excuse to show sympathy. ‘Show the Captain into the parlour — I’ll be down shortly.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Bessie muttered, her footsteps heavy with disapproval as she went down.
Retreating into her mother’s room, Louisa stood with her back to the door, shaking like an aspen. With military eloquence she cursed him under her breath, cursed him for coming back, cursed him for going away, cursed him for all his sins, both real and imaginary. And when her trembling abated, she went to the mirror and swore again. Her hair was lusterless and flat. She had lost so much weight recently it seemed an elf’s face looked back at her from the glass, all cheekbones and pointed chin.
Angrily, she splashed her face with water from the ewer, pinched her pale lips and cheeks and quickly bent to the fire. With a smear of soot on her fingertips, Louisa touched her brows and eyelashes, washed her hands and donned a clean starched apron. Brushing her hair vigorously, she checked her appearance, and, with the feeling of going into battle, went downstairs.
Her heart leapt, even so. The shape of him, those familiar features, touched memories her will could not control.
He still wore his heavy overcoat and scarf. With a little dart of satisfaction, she saw the twitch of muscles along his jaw, either from nerves or a determination not to shiver. But if he was trembling, so was she.
‘Louisa…’
Her breath caught at the sound of his voice. She struggled to find her own; apologized for the chill; heard the quaver as words fell over themselves.
Her eyes never left his face, and his raked hers more hungrily than ever. If she had lost weight, then he was thin to the point of gauntness. Without the softening of flesh, those strong bones stood out harshly. Even so, his presence could still fill that little room, still make her heart race with a single glance.
She moved, and so did he, but with a stiffness which was clearly painful. For a moment, under the influence of that pleading gaze,
Louisa longed to comfort him. Seized by the desire to touch him, hold him, forgive him, she looked away. The long-stemmed chrysanthemums were on the table, wreathed in tissue. Red and gold, the colours of his tunic.
With a deep breath she hardened her heart. If he had suffered, then so had she; in payment for their sins they were even. Almost.
‘This is a surprise,’ she managed, her voice sounding hollow.
‘Letty tells me your mother is very ill. I had some business to conduct with Harris, so I decided to call. How is she?’
How we pretend, she thought: so mannerly, he sounds like an acquaintance.
Feeling the lurch and flutter of panic, Louisa forced it down. ‘She’s been in pain for a few days, but it’s worse today. Much worse,’ she repeated, aware of tears in her voice and hating them.
Swallowing hard, she went to the window and raised the blind. ‘We’re awaiting the doctor, but I expect he’s held up with the fog.’
‘It’s very bad near the river,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s been an accident on Nessgate, and a terrible jam of traffic at the bottom of the street here. He could be caught up in either.’
Hesitantly, he reached out. ‘I’d like to see your mother, if I may?’ As he touched her, she jerked away as though stung.
‘I’d rather you waited until the doctor’s been. Anyway, she’s in so much pain, I doubt she’d know you.’ Shivering suddenly, Louisa rubbed the backs of her arms and moved towards the empty fireplace. ‘It’s cold in here. I’d better light the fire.’
In the kitchen, taking the shovel with which she usually cleaned out the ashes, Louisa thrust it into the fire and scooped up the top layer of burning coals. ‘Move the fire-screen, please,’ she called, ‘and don’t get in my way!’
Aghast as she hurried past him, Robert stepped back and swore. ‘What a bloody stupid thing to do! You’ll set yourself on fire!’
Setting fresh coal to the blaze, Louisa gritted her teeth. ‘Saves time, though.’
The doorbell rang, silencing further comment. As Louisa scrambled to her feet, the stocky little doctor marched in and through the hall with no preamble. Louisa followed him up the stairs.
With his coat still on, warming his hands at the crackling, fitful fire, Robert wondered why he had come, and whether he should leave. Clearly it was a difficult time; although under present circumstances no time could have been good. Imagining, over the years, a dozen different reunions, he had never pictured waiting alone in this cold, unlived-in room. The old air of welcome was gone; indeed, the atmosphere of the whole house had changed. He felt like an intruder, awkward and unwelcome, a stranger for whom Louisa must don a polite, company face, when grief and worry had clearly stripped her resources bare.
Pain and death; he had seen enough of both to realize that pain, real pain, was always ugly. To experience it personally was bad enough; to watch another’s agony even worse. For Louisa’s sake as much as her mother’s, he hoped the little doctor carried morphia with him.
The darkness of his thoughts oppressed him. On the point of gathering his things and going, Robert heard footsteps on the stairs.
‘Now mind what I’ve told you,’ the Scots voice said emphatically. ‘Get some rest! Let Bessie sit with her tonight – or Edward. And when he comes in, tell him I want to see him. I’m away home now for my tea.’
The door closed. In the narrow hallway Robert found Louisa leaning against the wall, hands pressed to her mouth.
‘I’ve come at a very bad time,’ he said gently. ‘Should I go?’
She shook her head, but he was unsure whether she wanted him to stay, or was simply unable to speak. Her distress was so apparent, his heart broke for her; he wanted to take her in his arms and let her weep, but after that flinching away only moments ago, was afraid to touch her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, and there was all the regret of two long years in those words.
‘And so you should be,’ she said with low, angry force. ‘Why have you come back? Why couldn’t you just stay away!’
It was a vicious blow, and he flinched. ‘It wasn’t easy. I came because I wanted to see your mother – you know I’m fond of her. And,’ he continued, struggling to keep his voice from breaking, ‘because I need to talk to you—sometime, whenever you have time to listen — about the children.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss. They’re my children, and they bear my name. You have no legal claim to them — none whatsoever.’
‘I don’t want,’ he said tersely, ‘a legal claim to them. I’m their father. I’d like to see them. I want to be sure that they, and you, are well and adequately provided for.’
‘They’re well. I’m well. We are adequately provided for. Does that satisfy you?’
‘No, not entirely. I’d like to see them.’ Taking his courage in both hands, Robert added unsteadily: ‘Especially my baby daughter — the one you never saw fit to tell me about.’
In a choked voice, with her back turned rigidly to him, she said, ‘My daughter, not yours.’
In the silence which followed, above the sound of his own breathing, he thought he heard a voice which could have been Liam’s.
‘Please. Might I see them?’
‘No, not just now.’ Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, Louisa wiped her eyes and nose; tears were pouring down her face. ‘They’re in bed. If you want to see my mother, you’d better come up now. She’ll no doubt be asleep soon.’
She had not said no, he realized as his heart leapt. He followed her into the hall.
‘Did the doctor give her something?’ he asked as they mounted the stairs.
‘Yes. And he’s left a prescription. I don’t know why he wants to see Edward,’ she remarked wearily, ‘he must think I can’t read. It’s morphia. Here,’ she said, opening a door, ‘Mamma’s in here…’
On the threshold of the room where they had first set eyes on one another, both paused. He wondered whether the same memories caught at her; and, listening for the sound of children’s voices, thought how strange it was, coming back to the beginning after all these years.
But the children, wherever they were, were quiet now; Louisa whispered to Bessie, and let Robert go in alone.
He heard the sudden swish of her skirts and realized she had gone. With a sigh he blinked hard, allowing his eyes to register reality. He braced himself for the shock of seeing Mary Elliott on the verge of death; but death as he had witnessed it already, in cleft skulls and severed limbs and hoards of devouring flies, bore no relation to what was happening here. In that quiet, familiar, fire-lit room, he was reminded of a more distant time when, tossing and turning with fever, a motherly, rosy-faced woman had insisted on keeping him alive.
The shock was greater than he had expected. The tiny figure in that enormous bed seemed less substantial than an autumn leaf. Asleep, she could have been a stranger. Only when she opened her eyes at his gently whispered bidding did he recognize the woman he had known.
As he reached the foot of the stairs, intending to take his leave as unobtrusively as possible, Edward came in, fog clinging to his clothes like a shroud.
For a moment Robert tensed, but even in the poor light of the hallway, he could see the other man’s expression was troubled rather than hostile. Edward did not offer his hand, but after regarding him steadily, managed a sad, rather quizzical smile.
‘So,’ he murmured as he unwound a long woollen scarf and removed his hat, ‘you finally arrived.’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘Not at all. I’ve been expecting you.’ He led the way through into the parlour. ‘Won’t you sit down, Captain? And let me get you something to drink. This household doesn’t run to spirits, but the elderberry wine is very warming.’ From a cupboard in the corner he produced a dark bottle with a handwritten label, and held it up to the light.
‘How did you know I was coming? I didn’t know myself until a few days ago.’
Edward smiled as he poured two glasses of the ric
h, ruby-red wine. ‘Well, it stands to reason you were going to turn up sooner or later. Your letter was another clue, of course. And Louisa confirmed your arrival a little while ago when I came in for my dinner. I’ve just been to see Dr Mackenzie.’
‘I see.’
Silently, Edward raised his glass, and for a few moments the two men regarded each other.
Robert was astonished, not only by the other’s serene control of a difficult situation, but by the change in him. Clean-shaven, fine-featured, he seemed at least ten years younger. The anguished poet had gone, replaced by an adversary confident of his position.
Edward weighed and examined, seeing a face much older than he remembered. There were deep-etched lines around eyes and mouth; touches of frost in the crisp black hair. Where once those eyes had challenged, now they questioned. Recalling his recent injury, Edward could identify its place from the way Robert held himself. He did not refer to it. He waited, quite deliberately, for Robert to break the silence.
‘I gather the good doctor wanted to see you about Mrs Elliott?’
With the release of tension, Edward looked away. ‘Yes. It’s the beginning of the end, he thinks. A matter of hours, if she’s lucky – days if not.’ Overwhelmed suddenly, he stared into the fire’s leaping flames, contemplating what was yet to be faced. ‘But he’s concerned about Louisa, too. She’s been doing so much, she’s exhausted. When my aunt’s awake and in pain, it’s Louisa she asks for.’
‘I can understand that,’ Robert said, recalling insignificant aches and pains Louisa had soothed in the past. It was a gift she had. Aware of the nagging ache in his shoulder, he shifted position and sighed. ‘I wish,’ he added hesitantly, ‘I wish there were something I could do. Your aunt was kind to me — beyond anything I deserved.’
‘She understood people,’ Edward said. ‘And human nature.’
Louisa Elliott Page 62
