Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  In the silence, something stirred. Listening, she thought she heard the sound of bells and went to the window to open it. On the still, crisp air, across that frozen blanket of snow, came the sound of the Minster bells chiming the last of the Old Year, and on a sudden, joyful peal, heralding the New.

  Suddenly, missing her mother, Louisa wept.

  Eleven

  Edward remained convinced that Louisa had turned down his proposal because at heart she still wanted Robert Duncannon. Even though she had agreed next day to pretend they were married for the children’s sake, he felt it was a poor compromise.

  Most of that winter, he was anxious about her. The strength and determination she had possessed since childhood were at such a low ebb, she reminded him of something stranded and defenceless. She suffered a string of petty illnesses, and as he nursed her through the worst of them he watched her covertly, wondering whether the cottage would prove to be the permanent haven Louisa needed, or only a temporary resting place. There was sadness behind those large, expressive eyes, and a downward turn to her mouth which may have been the result of natural grief for her mother, or a longing for things which could never be.

  Nevertheless, the warmth of her welcome when he returned each evening was genuine, and her pleasure in their new home was equally unfeigned. Each small improvement was proudly shown, and her enthusiasm for every carpentry job he completed was touching. The string of coughs and colds she suffered seemed to pass the children by; they thrived in every way, playing outside in all weathers, as noisy and boisterous as only happy, healthy children can be. That, at least, was reassuring. He liked the cottage too, but after the noise and bustle of Gillygate it took him some time to grow used to its quietness and sense of isolation. And he could not ignore the fact that apart from the children, he and Louisa were quite alone.

  With only a fragile partition between them, a thin plaster wall through which he could hear her moving about, hanging up her clothes or climbing into the big bed with its myriad, torturing little squeaks, Edward was disturbingly aware of her. Often awake after midnight, mortifying his soul, he prayed for sleep to claim him. Several times he thought he heard her crying, a low, muffled sound which might have been the sobs of wind and rain beneath the eaves, and immediately pictured her face pressed to the pillow, heart breaking in secret anguish. He left his bed, stopping once halfway to the door, another time with fingers on the latch, knowing that the new rules of this household, unwritten and unspoken though they were, forbade him to go and comfort her.

  But as the short winter days began to lengthen, as February’s frosts gave way to a blustery March, he began to notice changes as subtle and welcome as the burgeoning spring.

  Inspired by the first daffodils, Louisa started work in the garden, and Edward soon found a strong-looking boy to help with the heavy digging. Her appetite began to improve, and the healthy outdoor exercise put colour into cheeks which had for too long been drawn and pale. There was even a new spring to her step, and her smiles at the end of each day had the happy glow of achievement.

  Watching her in the garden or with the children, he could not recall a time when she had been more relaxed or more beautiful; and when she looked up and smiled at him, Edward’s heart swelled with love. It was impossible to speak of, so he wrote it in his poetry; and meanwhile savoured each precious, fragile moment, the silly things which amused them both, the minor problems they solved together. As tension and anxiety receded, so the little noises beyond the wall took on the nature of a nightly ritual to be listened for in the surrounding quietness. Gradually, more comforted than disturbed, he grew to love the isolation, and slept.

  As weeds and thick, tussocky grass were dug out and burned, and shrubs and trees pruned into shape, Louisa’s correspondence with Letty increased; before long, plots for different vegetables were cleared and marked, and the beds of hardy perennials near the house severely disciplined. Letty suggested coming over to York for a few days with Georgina, and the visit was fixed for the beginning of May.

  Then, just after Easter there was a letter from Robert to say he had been passed fit for service again, and that he would be rejoining his old regiment at Hounslow; he said he would like to visit them once he was settled.

  That caused Edward a sleepless night or two, but it was soon settled. Whether from tact or a reluctance to have him at the cottage alone, Louisa referred him to his sister, and Edward was inordinately glad that the three would be coming together. And staying in town, as lack of space absolved Louisa from offering accommodation. He hoped that would set the pattern for any-future visits. He liked Letty, but he was aware of an irrational need to keep the cottage and his relationship with Louisa inviolate. If he could, in conscience, have prevented Robert from visiting them at all, he knew he would have done so.

  Letty and Georgina arrived on the Thursday, and Robert joined them the following evening. Torn between a desire to watch Louisa’s reactions, and a deep-seated reluctance to be drawn into the Duncannons’ joint and very powerful Irish charm, Edward was moody and morose, unable to summon his usual shield of calm detachment. Aware that he was putting up a very poor front, he made the excuse of pressing work on the Saturday, telling Louisa he would not be back until evening. When he did return at five, he found himself quite unreasonably furious that they were all out.

  It had been a clear, beautiful day, and it was natural that the adults should have taken the children out to enjoy themselves. Nevertheless, the image of a happy, carefree family group which excluded him wormed its way under Edward’s skin and bit deep. Jealous and bitter resentment shocked him even as it grew in strength.

  He went upstairs to wash and change, came down again to await their return. He tried reading, but the words danced before his eyes; was hungry and made himself a sandwich; thirsty, and poured a glass of water. He paced the house, then, with anxiety dogging him like a crouching beast, went out into the chill and gathering dusk to look for them along the riverbank.

  On the still evening air, the children’s piping voices were instantly recognizable above the steady thud of horses’ hooves. As a small wagonette appeared along the path, he saw the driver was Robert. A moment later he was reining in.

  ‘So, you’re here at last,’ Edward called, his voice taut with suppressed anger. ‘I’ve been wondering where on earth you’d got to.’

  Ignoring Robert’s reply, he went to where Louisa was sitting in the back of the wagonette, looking directly up at her as she leaned out to speak. ‘Where have you been? Don’t you know what time it is?’

  With laughter still in her voice, she said: ‘About seven, I suppose. Why?’

  ‘Why?’ he echoed. ‘Why? Because I didn’t know where you were, and, rather foolishly, I suppose, I was anxious about you!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Edward, I didn’t think – ‘

  His glance took in the children’s faces, serious now and pale in the twilight, their shoulders wrapped in shawls against the chill evening air. Swallowing further recriminations, he said: ‘It’s time those children were home and in bed.’

  ‘We travelled further than we intended,’ Robert said, with quiet emphasis. ‘And we were returning as fast as decently possible in this light. I’m sorry, we should have left a note, I suppose. It’s my fault — didn’t think.’ There was a momentary pause. ‘Won’t you hop in? Then we can get the children home.’

  Edward shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ll see you back at the cottage.’

  When he arrived, lamps were lit in kitchen and parlour, and the horse, hitched to the iron railings, was cropping patiently at grass along the verge. As he walked up the path, Robert came out to meet him, leaving his sister and daughter saying their farewells.

  ‘Sorry about that – sheer carelessness on my part,’ he insisted. ‘It was very spur of the moment, and I did think we’d be back before you.’

  Still irritated, Edward simply nodded his acknowledgement of the apology. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’

  �
�No, I have to get back to London. Although I imagine Letty is making some arrangements. Look,’ he added tersely, ‘can we talk a moment?’

  Outside the gate, Robert turned to the horse, making a pretence of adjusting its bridle. ‘You’re angry, and I think I know why. It’s because I’m here. Don’t bother to deny it,’ he added with a sharp sideways glance, ‘because I’d feel the same in your shoes. But remember—you did agree.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Edward said stiffly.

  ‘Good, because I shall want to see the children as often as possible while I’m able to do so.’

  Something in his voice made Edward glance keenly through the gloom. ‘You’re going away again?’

  ‘Perhaps, I don’t know. It’s a feeling I have, a suspicion. No,’ he added, ‘it’s more than that —it’s a calculated guess.’ He ran his fingers down the horse’s neck and it turned and nudged him, whickering gently as though reminding him that it was well past supper and time to be off. ‘This trouble with Kruger in the Transvaal – it may be nothing, but I have a feeling it could develop. I haven’t said anything to Letty or Louisa, so I’d rather you kept it to yourself. But, the point remains that I could be gone before the summer’s out.’

  As a follower of world events in daily newspapers, Edward knew the suspicion was not unfounded; and Robert Duncannon could well be privy to more direct information. But the biting quality of his next words soon dispelled the glow of satisfaction.

  ‘So — about the children. Louisa informs me that she does not want them confused by the intricacies of our relationship. They don’t remember me, and they seem to be under the impression that you are their father.’

  Eyes glittering in the dusk, Robert paused to let his words sink in. ‘I want you to know,’ he went on, with that same menacing restraint, ‘that the only reason I’m prepared to give in to her blackmail – and it is blackmail, no matter what you prefer to call it — is because I cannot see them as often as I would wish. And, of course, I may not be in the country very much longer.’

  ‘Blackmail? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Robert demanded. ‘Then I suggest you ask Louisa.’

  Tension crackled between them for a moment. Through frozen lips, Edward said, ‘I will, but I’d prefer an explanation from you.’

  ‘Well, you’re not getting one.’

  Abruptly, Edward turned on his heel.

  Passing the women in the doorway, he was forced to make some civil remark. But as Georgina hugged Louisa with passionate affection, he shot her a furious glance above the child’s head. Going inside, he bade them all goodnight.

  When she had put the children to bed, Louisa came into the parlour to ask whether he would like something to eat, but he was reading determinedly and gave no more than a non-committal reply. A short while later she returned and touched his shoulder, reminding him that it was warmer in the kitchen, and supper was ready. With a show of reluctance he followed her, suddenly finding himself too hungry to ignore the spread she set before him.

  With one basic need satisfied, and residual warmth from the range taking the chill from his bones, he felt more able to tackle the subject at hand.

  ‘It’s not like you to sulk,’ she observed.

  He regarded her gravely. ‘I was angry. I still am.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, lowering her eyes. ‘It’s my fault. I should have known better than to keep them out so long.’

  ‘Never mind that. What happened this afternoon? I gather there was a difference of opinion.’

  Guiltily, she coloured to the roots of her hair. ‘Oh, I see – Robert said, did he? Yes, there was – before we set off.’

  She was silent for so long, he waited with bated breath. ‘It didn’t arise before, you see – but today I thought it might, so I asked him whether... I asked him,’ she repeated, ‘if he would mind the children calling him Uncle.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He did mind. Very much. But I told him the truth would only confuse them — and it would, Edward,’ she said with direct and forceful appeal, ‘you know it would. Now Liam’s at school – can you imagine what he might say?’

  ‘Only too well, but go on. There’s more, I believe?’

  ‘No, that’s it. I said it must be so, whether he liked it or not.’

  ‘And he accepted your argument, just like that?’

  Again, her colour deepened. ‘Well, no. Not exactly. In fact he argued the point — so much so I eventually said that if he wanted to go on seeing the children at all, then he must accept my terms.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he said quietly. ‘You had no right…’

  ‘I have every right.’

  ‘We agreed, Louisa. At Christmas you said he could see them. You imposed no conditions…’

  ‘I wasn’t fit to think straight at Christmas!’ she said angrily. ‘What with Mamma’s death – him turning up — moving house – my God! What do you think I am? They’re my children, Edward. I’m not going to have their lives disrupted and made hell just because their father’s taken a sudden interest in them! They don’t even know him — they hardly saw him in Dublin, never mind here.’

  Thinking of his own father, and the relationship which had become precious to them both, Edward shook his head. If he embarked on that, he knew he would plead like a prisoner at the bar for the rights of another man. With a bitter sigh, he said: ‘They’ll have to know one day, Louisa. You can’t in all honesty keep it from them.’

  ‘Then one day I’ll tell them – but not now.’

  ‘The longer you leave it,’ he said softly, ‘the harder it will be.’

  Without answering she stood up and began to clear the table; he noticed her hands were shaking, and, when he looked up, that she was crying.

  His anger evaporated. Distressed for her, for the situation, for himself who must always stand by as an observer, Edward took the tray from her hands and put his arms round her. ‘Oh, God,’ he whispered as he held her close, ‘What are we doing to ourselves?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel wicked – evil — but what else could I do?’

  ‘Hush, don’t say that. Don’t even think it. You’re not wicked – it’s just a mad, ridiculous, terrible situation.’

  With his cheek against hers, he inhaled the scents of lavender and warm skin. Her arms tightened across his shoulders, and for a second, guilt fled; there was nothing else, only the two of them. We should put things straight, he thought; marry and make things right; give love and share it.

  ‘Louisa…’ he whispered, but she stiffened at once, listening for something else, something his bemused senses had failed to catch. It came again, a small cry from above; then Liam’s voice, clearer, shouting for his mother.

  She leaned her forehead against his cheek and sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured shakily, ‘I shouldn’t…’ Breaking off, she left whatever it was unsaid, and patted his arm. ‘I’d better go and see what’s wrong.’

  Alone, Edward leaned heavily against the table, breathing deeply and pondering the irony of that little voice. Again, he had been about to mention marriage; perhaps he had been saved from making a fool of himself a second time. Despite that racing of the blood, the fleeting illusion of youth and excitement, he reminded himself with bitter stoicism that he was neither more nor less than a middle-aged bachelor of entrenched habits; far too old a dog to start jumping through hoops, whatever the provocation.

  Twelve

  Just five weeks later, on a balmy summer evening, Robert stepped off the London train, gathered his single piece of luggage and checked into the Royal Station Hotel. It had been a tedious, sticky journey from Hounslow that afternoon, and he was eager to bathe and change before walking down to Clementhorpe to see Louisa and the children.

  With a thick white towel wrapped round his waist he stood before the mirror, splashing the remains of shaving-soap from his chin and jaw; his eyes caught the tail-end of that l
ong, puckered scar and he turned to look at it, flexing the muscle with an ease that brought a small, satisfied smile to his lips. It would never be less than ugly, but his determination with those painful exercises had ensured he was not disabled by it.

  In fact he felt very fit, and since his return to the regiment was aware of a pleasurable sense of fulfilment. The training season was well underway and he was enjoying every minute of it, his sense of discipline and eye for detail sharpened by the thought of impending war. As in the Sudan, training now had purpose to it, potentially a matter of life and death for each man in the field. Despite the wound and his extended absence from the regiment, there were whispers that his field experience and the medal awarded for bravery had put him in line for promotion. Soon the rank of Major would no longer be honorary, but permanent, and that thought provided the necessary balance for all that was missing in his private life.

  When he looked back to those miserable November days, Robert realized that his motives in trying to put things right had been less than altruistic. Physical pain and a crushing sense of failure had driven him to make whatever peace he could, more as a salve for his own conscience than out of true regard for the consequences. At a six-month distance from that time, he was not at all sure he had done the right thing, although room for manoeuvre had been desperately limited. With talk of Louisa and Edward moving from Gillygate to set up home together, Letty had assumed marriage was afoot. And in fact he would not have been surprised to find it so.

  But they were not married yet. He often wondered why, and in wondering had begun to think that perhaps it was because Louisa loved him still. Just a little bit, beneath the anger and the bitterness and that blistering resentment. She was not indifferent, that was clear, and to Robert that was what mattered.

  On the day of the picnic he had asked what her intentions were, and with one sharp negative she had dismissed the idea that she and Edward might one day marry, but had given no explanation. In the midst of the row about the children, it was perhaps not surprising. But he did wonder whether she was playing games with him, deliberately humiliating him in revenge for past sins. If so, he reasoned, then she was using Edward to further those same ends, and he was surprised by her callousness. Now he asked himself whether any man could plumb the depths of a woman’s mind, or thread the maze of twisted logic towards what they liked to call poetic justice. He was certain of only one thing: a man’s sense of honour meant nothing to the average woman.