Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘I love Edward!’

  It was Letty’s turn to be stunned. ‘You do? Then why don’t you marry him, for Heaven’s sake?’

  With eyes downcast, Louisa shook her head. ‘He hasn’t asked me. And anyway, it’s not as simple as that, Letty.’ She struggled for words to explain the tangled emotions the suggestion aroused, and failed abysmally. ‘I doubt I’ll every marry,’ she said at last, and with a negative gesture called a halt to further questions. ‘I can’t explain, I’m sorry. But do please understand that I’m going to live with Edward because I want to share my life with him — because I need him, and he needs me. And because I know he loves my children as though they were his own. He isn’t like Robert,’ she finished softly, looking away. ‘I know he’ll never let them down.’

  Sadly, Letty nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘you have a very good point there.’

  They sat without speaking for some time. Against the gathering twilight their faces were reflected in the glass, with an almost empty room behind them. A solitary waiter hovered, ready to clear their table as soon as they left. Noticing him, Louisa reluctantly rose to her feet. ‘I think we’d better go. Shall we have a walk in the grounds before it gets dark? I could do with a breath of air.’

  A gravelled walk ran between shrubs and trees before winding steeply towards the promenade below. In their winter sleep, the gardens were drab and grey, but the smell of earth and leaves was invigorating after the warm, stale air of the hotel.

  ‘You know,’ Louisa confessed, ‘I’d like a garden. That’s one of the things I really loved about the Dublin house. Not that we could afford anything like that,’ she laughed. ‘But it would be nice to find somewhere with a proper garden – little cottage perhaps – where I could grow flowers and vegetables…’

  ‘Your farming forebears again,’ Letty teased. ‘I’m sure you’re just a simple country girl at heart.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Louisa admitted. ‘But there are worse things to be.’

  Ten

  Finding a house with a garden seemed beyond their budget. Within the city such houses tended to be old, run-down, yet ridiculously expensive. On the outskirts the new purpose-built terraces had no gardens at all, and the outlying villages such as Acomb and Clifton were too far distant from Edward’s business in Piccadilly. Fulford might have been ideal, but because of the Barracks, property there was snapped up immediately by the military.

  Although Bessie had agreed to stay for the move, she was anxious to take up her new post with the Chapmans before Christmas; and for reasons of their own, both Edward and Louisa wanted to be away from Gillygate by the same date. Having chased a number of possibilities throughout the city only to be disappointed, Edward was beginning to despair of finding anything remotely suitable within their allotted time-span. He had almost made up his mind to let Bessie go and postpone the search until spring, when one of his customers mentioned a cottage for rent, across the river at Clementhorpe.

  ‘The old couple who had it have just moved into one of my new houses on Ebor Street,’ the man said. ‘Shouldn’t think you’d want it — it’s an old place, needs a lot doing to it, don’t even know if it’s got running water — but it does have a stretch of land with it. Near the old rope-walk on the riverbank, know where I mean? Liable to flood though, when the river gets up. Shouldn’t want to take it on myself.’

  Edward had been to look at his customer’s new houses. ‘I should think the bottom end of Ebor Street might be subject to the same,’ he commented mildly.

  ‘No, no, much higher ground,’ his customer protested. ‘River’d have to be damned high to flood my houses. Anyway, please yourself.’ He fished inside an inner pocket and produced a scrap of paper. ‘Here’s the landlord’s name — can’t say I know the chap. Anyway, it might be worth a look if it’s land you’re wanting.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be worth a look,’ Edward said with a smile. ‘Thank you for your trouble.’ He wrapped two new ledgers securely in brown paper and handed the parcel over.

  ‘Aye, well, let me know when you decide you want one of my new houses. You’ll not find better-built property this side of Leeds Town Hall, you know!’

  Edward laughed. ‘Give me a patch of land with one, and it’s a bargain!’

  ‘Nay, I can’t do that. I want land for building on, not making fancy gardens. I expect it’s your wife’s idea, eh? These women and their notions – I don’t know!’

  Non-committal, Edward showed him to the door, thanked him again and returned to his bench. It was very strange, he mused, how in the course of their search for a house people had simply assumed Louisa to be his wife; but Louisa had not corrected them, and he was certainly not about to. Illusion it might be, but it had its uses.

  He looked at the address on the piece of paper, studied the time and decided that, if he left early, he could ask for the keys of the cottage this evening; then, first thing tomorrow, he and Louisa could view the place in daylight.

  On Fossgate he saw his old apprentice ahead of him, carrying what appeared to be a parcel of books; by the corn dealer’s on Pavement he caught up with the young man.

  ‘Special delivery, Dick?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Elliott, sir – you’re early this evening!’

  ‘Special errand – I’m looking for another house to rent. One with a garden. You don’t know of any, do you?’

  ‘Nay,’ Dick laughed. ‘The only garden I know is George’s Field!’

  ‘Aye, well, it was worth a try,’ Edward laughed as they crossed the road in front of the church. ‘Are you walking with me? I thought your way home was up Coppergate?’

  ‘Oh, not off home yet, sir. I’ve these to take to Blossom Street, to Mrs Bainbridge. Miss Tempest, as was, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know Mrs Bainbridge. Taken up reading, has she? I didn’t know she was a bookworm.’

  ‘She never used to be,’ Dick agreed with a grin, ‘but she wants to look at these. Not just any old books, Mr Elliott – they’re the books, and I have to take them over.’

  ‘Not the manager?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Doesn’t she trust him?’

  ‘I don’t know sir,’ Dick said uncomfortably, as though suddenly aware of an indiscretion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Edward murmured. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Didn’t mean to take advantage of an old friendship.’

  The young man beamed proudly. ‘That’s all right, Mr Elliott, I know I can trust you.’

  They crested the hill of High Ousegate in companionable silence, negotiated the traffic on Nessgate Corner and headed down towards the bridge. At the foot of Micklegate, Edward began studying door-plates until he found the office he wanted. As he turned to bid his companion goodbye, the young man stopped abruptly, with the air of one who has come to a momentous decision.

  ‘I know this might sound funny, Mr Elliott, but... I wish you well in the business.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Dick. That’s most kind of you.’

  ‘No — I mean – well, what I mean is this. If you ever think of taking anybody else on, like — I mean, I wish you’d think of me first.’

  ‘I most certainly will,’ Edward said sincerely. ‘If I’m ever in a position to take someone on, I assure you your name would be the first that came to mind.’

  ‘Really?’ The broad grin of pleasure threatened to split his face in two. ‘Thanks a lot, Mr Elliott!’

  He strode away, Edward noticed, far more lightly than he had walked up Fossgate. For a moment he stood and chewed his lip, considering the information his old apprentice had so unwittingly revealed. Whether Dick realized it or not, something was wrong at Tempest’s. Since the old man’s death, Rachel had run through a succession of managers, not all of them bad, but most, like the business itself, victims of her whims and caprices. And her husband, Edward thought, the so-called sleeping-partner, slept so soundly he was never seen on Fossgate except to stand the men drinks at Christmas. He wondered w
hat made her keep the business on, when it would have been far more sensible to sell it as a going concern at her father’s death.

  Answers eluded him, but he was certain of one thing: Dick had seen the writing on the wall and wanted something better. Edward wished he were in a position to offer the lad employment now, but the time was not quite right. Perhaps in a few months, when he and Louisa were settled, when capital and income could be assessed with some degree of accuracy.

  With a slight shrug he dismissed the matter from his mind and entered the doorway on his left.

  The landlord was a chartered accountant, obviously a busy man. Edward was kept waiting, but the interview was brief enough.

  The questions of name and occupation disposed of, the accountant asked whether Edward was married; with the slightest hesitation, he nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘with three children.’

  ‘Can’t say I was keen on him,’ Edward confessed as Louisa cleared away the remains of their meal. ‘Youngish chap — probably inherited the property, and now he’s got rid of the old couple he’s putting up the rent. Old Clayton said it was run-down — so don’t get excited, Louisa, it doesn’t sound very promising.’

  ‘It’s on the right side of town,’ she commented. ‘Probably nearer work than you are already. And the rent’s only half what we’re paying here.’

  ‘But this house is sound, and we have gas and running water. The cottage might have neither. And don’t forget the river,’ he added. ‘It probably floods down there every winter.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a pessimist,’ she said affectionately. ‘We haven’t even seen it yet. Maybe it’s delightful!’

  ‘And maybe it isn’t,’ Edward insisted, but he smiled nevertheless.

  The sky was heavy with unshed rain as they set out the following morning. To save the toll they crossed the river by the old bridge and turned down Skeldergate, a narrow thoroughfare of ancient warehouses fronting the river. It was busy at that hour, with drays and carts of every description loading coal and grain and bonded goods, men shouting instructions to one another and horses straining in their shafts. Barefoot children mingled with men who waited at gates and doorways in the hope of employment.

  Disturbed by idly curious eyes, Louisa kept her veiled eyes down, carefully gathering her skirts over puddles and broken pavements. Skeldergate reminded her of Dublin, of the wharves and warehouses beside the Liffey. The musty smells of grain stores and flour mills, the dankness of the river and the unmistakable smell of poverty: cabbage and offal, inadequate privies and unwashed, overcrowded humanity. But at the end of the street, where a new bridge spanned the River Ouse, Dublin receded and York became itself again. On the Clementhorpe shore, musty, throat-catching odours gave way to the much sweeter, more cloying smell of chocolate.

  Terry’s confectionery works lay across the road, and along the wharf barges containing cocoa-beans and sugar were steadily being relieved of their cargoes. Like the sections of a giant, endless caterpillar, heavy sacks swung up and across the cobbled road on a gantry, disappearing into the open maw of the factory warehouse on their right. Beyond was a boatyard with a metal bridge over the slipway; beyond that a glassworks and the new houses built by Edward’s customer.

  There, the riverside began to open out. On the far side of the ropewalk with its conglomeration of sheds and machinery was a stretch of cultivated land and a small house. At first, Louisa thought all the land was attached to it, then she saw it was divided into small allotment gardens. By far the largest plot lay beside and behind the cottage’s rusty brick walls.

  As though stayed by a common hand, the two halted by the iron railings, taking in the pan-tiled roof, the slightly off-centre front door, two empty ground-floor windows, and dormers more or less in line above.

  ‘Roses round the door,’ Louisa said.

  ‘And at least two tiles off the roof,’ Edward laughed. With an effort he pushed open the gate; it squeaked on rusty hinges and left red dust on his black leather glove. With an air of martyred resignation he followed Louisa up the uneven brick path.

  ‘Winter jasmine,’ Louisa breathed, ‘and that looks like honeysuckle. Oh, and look — fruit trees. What a wonderful garden this will make, Edward. We could grow our own vegetables, maybe even sell them!’

  The key was large and the lock in need of attention. ‘Can we just look inside first?’ he begged as he struggled to open the door. ‘This place,’ he muttered darkly, ‘looks about as good as my workshop before I moved in…’

  The floors were stone and the walls roughly plastered and whitewashed. It was clean, but there was a suspicion of damp in the air, as though it had been empty for months. Evidence of past flooding lay in a grey tidemark several inches above the floor.

  ‘What did I tell you,’ he said triumphantly, but Louisa had already found the kitchen, a large low room with windows front and back and an old-fashioned range filling most of the chimney breast. Filling each alcove were long painted cupboards in crazed dark brown. Mentally she saw them stripped of old paint and finished in fresh bright green, with yellow gingham curtains fluttering at the windows and the scrubbed deal table from Gillygate as a centre to the room.

  There was a scullery and pantry built on at the back, and what looked like an earth closet at the foot of the garden; she wrinkled her nose at the thought of cleaning it out, then brightened again as her eyes caught the new sink with its lead piping and only slightly dulled brass tap.

  ‘Look!’ she exclaimed to Edward, but he was there behind her. ‘Running water!’

  ‘No gas!’ he countered, laughing.

  ‘I don’t care —we’ve plenty of oil lamps. Let’s look upstairs,’ she said eagerly, but Edward insisted on seeing the other room first.

  Whereas the kitchen was almost square, the parlour was oblong, with a larger window overlooking the garden at the back. The fireplace was tiled with blue and white Delft, stained and crazed around the old grate, but the hardwood mantelpiece was in good condition. White patches on the walls revealed the size and placings of several pictures, and a bigger patch told of a cupboard or dresser which had recently stood in the alcove. Despite its unfortunate proximity to the river, the house had a certain appeal to which Edward was not immune. He thought of the elderly couple who had possibly spent their entire married lives there. Could smooth square walls and the brightness of gaslight replace the memories of a lifetime?

  Aware that he was drifting into sentiment, Edward shook himself and looked up at the beamed ceiling. ‘A nasty thought occurs to me,’ he said suddenly, interrupting Louisa’s declamation on the joys of gardening. ‘There are probably only two bedrooms. You see, there are no supporting walls down here.’

  With an exclamation, she gathered her skirts and dashed back into the narrow hall. He followed her more carefully up the steeply winding stairs, but at the top, off an equally narrow landing, were four small bedrooms, their dividing walls, as he eventually established, constructed of lathe and plaster. Less than solid, and certainly not soundproof, but they were adequate. He could hardly believe it. Determined to show no enthusiasm, Edward cast a jaundiced eye into several damp corners and commented on the cost of heating a house with ill-fitting doors and rotting window-frames, but Louisa was overjoyed.

  ‘If the landlord won’t put things right,’ she pleaded, ‘we can afford to do it, surely?’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, please say yes, Edward – it’s lovely, really lovely!’

  ‘Even though you’re shivering with cold and it’s started to rain, and the river will probably flood us out?’

  ‘Yes, oh, yes!’

  ‘We’ll have to get rid of a lot of furniture – ‘

  ‘Send it to the salerooms!’

  ‘And that so-called garden,’ he added, glancing back at the overgrown wilderness beyond the window, ‘will take a month of Sundays to clear. And I won’t have time to do it.’ He shook his head and tried to control the smile which threatened to give him away. ‘I really don�
�t – ‘

  ‘Oh, I’ll find a boy — a couple of boys — to help me. It’s what I’ve dreamed about, that garden, and in a few months’ time, Edward, you won’t even recognize it! Is it yes?’

  As he looked into her bright, excited eyes, his smile escaped him; the look on her face was what he had longed to see for two weary years, and he could keep up the pretence no longer. ‘How could I say no?’ he laughed.

  With a little moan of delight she kissed him, hard and full on the mouth, her gloved hands cupping his face between them. ‘Oh, I do love you,’ she said with gay spontaneity, but both the words and the kiss were what she might have bestowed on any of the children. While his heart thudded out a crazy tattoo, he was glad she had given him no chance to respond.

  In the next second she was standing by the window, identifying shrubs and trees, eagerly planning what she would do first. ‘You must find out where those people are living now, and I’ll call on them, ask what’s worth keeping and what’s past its best.’

  Unable to trust his voice, he went up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders; she leaned back against him and touched her cheek to his. ‘Will you do that?’ she asked.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ he said softly. He wanted to tell her that he loved her too, and again the memory of what he had said in the accountant’s office came back to him. But the time was not right, he felt, to apprise her of that.

  They were both trembling with cold and excitement; his fingers tightened. ‘Come on, love,’ he sighed, ‘it’s too cold to linger. And I must try to get some work done.’

  ‘What about the keys?’

  ‘I’ll call at the office this evening and tell them what we’ve decided. Then,’ he said with mock enthusiasm, ‘it’s just a question of work, work, work! There’s an awful lot to do, and we won’t be ready to move in before Christmas. Yes, I know,’ he added as she turned to face him, ‘I know we wanted to be out of Gillygate before then, but I don’t think it’s going to be possible.’ At her crestfallen expression, he made what he felt was probably a rash promise: ‘We’ll be in for New Year — how’s that?’