He stirred as Louisa rose to her feet to close the curtains. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, drinking the last of his cooling tea. ‘I’m not much company, am I? We’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘It’s Sunday,’ she averred, ‘we’ve got all day.’ Her hand reached out to touch his hair; quite unexpectedly she leaned over the chair back and hugged him, laying her cheek next to his. ‘I’ve missed you,’ Louisa whispered. ‘The house felt so strange at night, I hardly slept a wink.’
‘And I’ve done nothing but sleep,’ Edward said dryly. Her skin felt soft and warm against his own. He was conscious one moment that his jaw was rough and needed a shave, and in the next that he wanted to be in bed with her, wrapped around and inside all that warmth and silkiness. Her hand lay over his heart; afraid she would feel its frantic pounding, he lifted it, slowly, to his lips and held it there. For what seemed an inordinate length of time Edward fumbled in his mind for every mental switch used over the years; none worked. He wanted her, needed her so badly he ached with it.
‘Dearest,’ Louisa whispered, ‘you’re hurting my hand.’
Abruptly, he released her fingers. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, kneeling in front of him, looking up with such tender appeal into his face that he had to close his eyes. ‘What is it? Your father?’
‘No,’ he replied, more sharply than intended, ‘I’m just tired.’ The celibacy he had embraced rose in his mind to mock him. In that moment he envied Robert Duncannon and every philanderer he had ever despised; envied their physical knowledge, that easy familiarity which began, he was sure, with some basic instinct he did not possess. He wanted her, but did not know how to say so, even less how to show what he felt. He knew not how to begin, nor where to end; he was afraid of rejection, but most of all he was frightened of his own inadequacy.
Leaning forward, Edward took the hands which rested so trustingly across his knees; for a moment he held them tight within his own.
‘Go to bed,’ he said tersely. ‘We’ll talk about it some other time.’
Fourteen
During the following few weeks, he was busier than ever.
With Dick’s departure, Tempest’s ceased to operate the bookbinding side of their business, while old customers, recalling Edward Elliott’s expertise and good service, flocked in with fresh orders. It meant late hours and full Saturdays for both men; while Louisa, with little to do in the garden at that time of year except sit and watch it grow, pulled her weight by keeping the accounts up to date.
The early heat-wave which had descended in June gave way the following month to electric storms and days of continuous, torrential rain. It was chilly and damp even in the house, and Louisa was glad to sit at the kitchen table with her pile of ledgers in the quiet hour after lunch. She often thought about Edward’s strangeness that evening of his return, and his tense, uncommunicative silence since, attributing it in generous moments to natural anxiety and sheer pressure of work.
During the week he was generally too tired to talk, and his Sundays were taken up with the usual trips to Sunday school with the boys, Evening Service at the new church on Scarcroft Road, and afternoon walks when the weather was fine. Sometimes they went downriver, through meadows and fields towards Bishopthorpe, and sometimes to the cemetery with flowers for the family grave. Louisa always saved a single bloom for little Victoria Tempest, placing it on that neglected plot in the Nonconformist section with a short prayer for her innocent soul. She tried to be Christian about the other occupant mentioned on that tall granite obelisk, but other than a bare acknowledgement of his need for a lifetime’s prayer, Louisa could barely bring herself to look at his name.
Whichever way they walked to the cemetery, through St George’s Field and over the Blue Bridge, guarded by its massive Crimean guns, or along the main road, Louisa’s past caught up with her in other ways.
Blue Bridge and New Walk were always littered with splendidly-attired young soldiers out on Sunday leave, soldiers whose popularity with local girls increased noticeably as talk of war touched everyone’s lips. Louisa would look at the laughing groups, hear the flirtatious, sometimes ribald comments; see the tender looks which passed between isolated couples on the riverbank, and think of herself and Robert, and all the others who had frequented the Bainbridge house just a few short years before. Although these were a new generation and a different class, the situation was not so far removed from her experience; she often wondered why that year seemed a whole lifetime past. Remembering Tommy Fitzsimmons and Hugh, and the party where Robert had kissed her that very first time; recalling Rachel and Arthur, and gauche, tactless Sophie, still unmarried, but perhaps the only one with illusions still intact. It made her feel tender and bitter at the same time, while Edward knew none of it, simply steering her and the children round boisterous groups, taking her arm with proprietary care.
Walking the main road, by Castle Mills and along Fishergate, Louisa was dogged by memories of Dublin, her eyes drawn to the little public house owned by Moira and Harris. In some ways she would have liked to see them, but a deep sense of embarrassment prevented her from going in.
She was thinking of Moira one damp and windy afternoon while Tisha and Robin were resting, thoughts prompted by a midday letter from Robert in which she and Harris were mentioned. The letter lay open on the kitchen table beside a stack of Edward’s invoices; and even as she worked Louisa was distracted by its contents. Her mind strayed towards Moira and those ever-present threatenings of war, like thunder in the distance.
Disturbed by the squeak of the garden gate, Louisa automatically glanced out of the window; surprise at an unexpected caller intensified to sheer amazement when she saw who it was. Armed with an umbrella, dressed in smart maroon and black, and a matching, beribboned hat, Moira was approaching the front door in the manner of a wary recalcitrant bearing a flag of truce.
It was a strange interview, Louisa thought afterwards as she washed the china cups and plates of their token afternoon tea, although less awkward than their previous meeting in Gillygate. The gap of almost two and a half years had given both a chance to consolidate their altered roles, to approach each other with some semblance of ease. Moira’s arrival this time as a kind of supplicant went some way towards redressing a most uneven balance.
The first time they had both been aware of Moira’s great change in status, of the leap from servant to wife of established property-owner; most of all were they aware of her new and unassailable respectability. In the face of Louisa’s fall it had created a barrier that neither was able to surmount. It was not that Moira was unsympathetic, rather that she was used to looking out for her own interests, and had had no practice at defending others. Louisa understood that, even while it saddened her. She had not expected to see Moira again.
At that time, Louisa recalled, she had been pregnant but not obviously so. Now it amused her, as she replaced cups and saucers to the dresser, to recall her expression at seeing Tisha for the first time. Robin had shouted, as he tended to do when he thought he had been upstairs long enough, and she had gone unthinkingly to bring both children down. Moira’s first reaction to the little boy was to remark upon his likeness to his father; then, noticing the baby in Louisa’s arms, her eyes and mouth had formed three round ‘O’s of astonishment.
Tisha was so round and fair and perfect, she could have been anyone’s child, and Louisa quite deliberately left the unspoken questions hanging in the air. She fielded all references to Edward and their relationship with consummate ease, actually enjoying the younger woman’s consternation, the recently acquired manners which prevented her from asking outright. She was happily sure that Moira had gone away with the impression that Louisa was now respectably married. Honour had been in some small measure avenged. Louisa thought that she might return the call after a decent interval.
In fact, she would definitely return it. If war was declared, which seemed increasingly likely, Harris would be recalled to the colours, le
aving Moira to fend alone. That she would do so quite capably Louisa had no doubt; nevertheless, she felt sorry for her, understanding the motive which had driven Moira to call and ask such a small and unnecessary favour.
If Harris was going to war, Moira said, then she wanted to be sure he was in the best and safest place. In her opinion that place was by Major Duncannon’s side. She knew him and trusted him: nobody else would do. The trouble was, as Moira explained, Harris himself was too proud to write and ask for his old position. He said it wasn’t right to trade on old comradeship; if the Major wanted him he would ask for him, and that was that.
Knowing Robert as she did, Louisa felt there was hardly need to ask; he had always trusted Harris implicitly, and would pull every string imaginable to get him back. Louisa promised to pass on the request, and did not elaborate upon their present relationship.
Later, idly watching the boys at play while she prepared vegetables for their evening meal, Louisa wondered whether Moira regretted her own lack of children. It could have been imagination, but while they talked, Louisa thought she had detected envy in the younger woman’s glance; the irony of it made her sigh.
For Edward the weeks continued to come and go with frightening speed. His intention to return to Lincolnshire was put off, first from necessity, and then, as work began to even out, from a half-acknowledged reluctance to relive what he had gone through before. Almost as an antidote to reflection, he concentrated on the business and talked of little else. Appeasing his conscience in regular, weekly letters, it did not occur to him that he rarely mentioned Louisa until in one reply his father remarked on it.
Folding the letter back into its envelope, Edward sighed. Since that last visit, with its disturbing aftermath, he knew he had been neglecting her, deliberately putting pressure of work between them. Although she had not complained, he suddenly felt guilty. After all, he reasoned, his present conflict was not of her making.
He went outside to where she was half-sitting, half-lying along the seat Robert had ordered for her on his last visit. Edward was so used to seeing her there on fine evenings that it surprised him to recall what a length of time had elapsed since then. Although, as a somewhat costly present, the seat still annoyed him, he had to admit that it was comfortable, and a fitting match for the bronze wire rosary he had bought. The mass of blooms it carried over the path were fading now, their scent slightly musty after a late-afternoon shower of rain.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down at her; and as she laid aside her book, her gentle, enquiring smile caught most painfully at his heart. Wanting to kiss those soft lips, Edward tore his eyes away, knowing full well why he had been devoting so much time elsewhere.
‘Sorry? What on earth for?’
‘I seem to have been neglecting you,’ he said gruffly, seating himself as far away from her as possible.
‘Oh, don’t be silly – I know you’ve been busy.’
‘I’ll take the day off on Saturday,’ he promised. ‘We’ll go somewhere, take the children to the coast for the day. It will do us all good.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Louisa said with a sudden, dimpling smile. ‘But what about your father? I thought you were keen to get back to Lincolnshire?’
‘He’s much better — taking services again, so he must be feeling stronger. I’ll go down later.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. I don’t mind waiting...’
‘No, we’ll have our day this week. See if you can get to the station and find out what day-trips are on. The children will enjoy it.’
Louisa patted his hand as she rose to her feet. ‘Me too,’ she said softly.
It surprised her to realize how much she was looking forward to that day out. Spirits which had been somewhat jaded bloomed into song; she found herself humming as she washed and ironed, scrubbed and cleaned; even the task of Edward’s accounts, which had become less of a challenge as time went by, suddenly became interesting again.
Children came and went, friends Liam had made at school, all home for the holidays and delighted to find a garden in which to play. They made a lot of noise, but Louisa tried to be benevolent, reminding herself that the orchard must be paradise compared to the streets in which they usually acted out their games. Only one thing really rankled: Liam had begun to object to his name, which had apparently caused unfavourable comment at school. It was different and ‘foreign’. In front of his friends he wanted them to use his proper name, he said, which was not too hard for Louisa to remember to do, but impossible for Robin. They had several fights over the matter.
Saturday dawned in debateable English-summer fashion; jerseys were packed as well as towels, and, armed with a couple of large umbrellas, they set out for Scarborough. It was the first Saturday in August and the train was crowded with trippers, all determined to brave the weather and enjoy themselves. At the coast an east wind was blowing off the sea; it made for a clear sky and plenty of sun, but it was sneakily chill, like unexpected blobs of ice in fizzy lemonade. They were glad of shawls and jerseys, and Louisa employed one of the umbrellas to shade her already freckled face from the sun. But it was a lovely day in every sense; Edward was more relaxed than she had seen him for a long time, stripping off his jacket and making sandcastles for the boys, rolling his trouser legs and paddling barefoot with Tisha in the shallow, retreating waves.
With tired eyes and tingling skin they sank gratefully into their second-class compartment, the rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels soon soothing any latent fractiousness; within a very short time, all three children were fast asleep. An hour later, as the train slowed down in preparation for the long curving entrance into York, Edward began to wake them; but crossing Scarborough Bridge Louisa’s eyes looked back to the little apartment she had once shared with Robert. In the excitement of setting off she had forgotten it, and suddenly she wished she had not looked at all; the sight of that small bedroom window kindled violent memories.
As Louisa turned her head she caught Edward’s still and steady gaze; it was as though he read her mind. Blushing furiously, she bent to gather the children’s things, fussing unnecessarily with all the paraphernalia of their day out.
Edward was remarkably quiet, she thought, on the way home.
The following Saturday he set off early for Lincoln, leaving Louisa feeling as though she had been deserted.
Determined not to dwell on it, she cooked breakfast for the children, getting them washed and changed, deliberately choosing a favourite dress for herself, one which was smart in an austere way, its puffed sleeves a concession to current fashion.
During the week, she did her shopping locally, but on Saturdays she looked forward to the bustle of the market, keeping an eye open for bargains in linen or crockery. Thanks to the garden, she no longer needed to carry heavy bags of vegetables, but she bought fresh fruit, butter and eggs, and soft, crumbly farmhouse cheese. The children enjoyed the antics of peddlars and hucksters, and the promise of oranges and apples, and a bag of sweets if they were good.
It was a warm, hazy morning, lovely along the towpath with its trees in shady summer leaf, uplifting to all but the most jaded spirit; within minutes of setting forth she began to feel better. The river was still and low, keel-boats and sailing barges moored well out, gangplanks stretching precariously over the mud-flats like so many skeletal fingers. Ahead, the iron span of Skeldergate Bridge was beginning to open for a tall-masted boat coming slowly downstream. The two halves of the bridge parted and rose, and the boys ran on to see it, clapping their hands delightedly as the boat sailed majestically through. The helmsman waved to them as he passed, which sent their spirits even higher. They were disappointed then to be ushered on up Skeldergate, to cross by the free bridge higher up.
On Parliament Street the market was dusty and noisy, busy with carriers’ carts coming in from the country, farm wagons full of produce and townsfolk elbowing their way up and down the long rows. At one end were second-hand stalls overflowing with clothes and boots and sho
es; old books, cheap jewellery, glassware and tattered furniture. Further on a full dinner service was being auctioned before a laughing, gaping crowd. The huckster tossed plates and cups into the air like a juggler, catching each piece deftly and throwing it on to his lugubrious assistant with the instructions to ‘Wrap it up, George!’
The boys loved it so much she had difficulty tearing them away. And when she did they kept shouting in imitation, dissolving into fits of giggles at the grins of passers-by. She quieted them with a bag of luscious red cherries, and the promise that if they were good, they could share them when they got home.
After the broad, sunny expanse of the market, it was dark and shady in the Shambles, jettied buildings almost meeting overhead. The unglazed windows of the butchers’ shops were open to the street as they had been since medieval times, sectioned carcasses hanging from blackened oak lintels, cuts of pork and beef and lamb displayed across every broad window-ledge. It was warm and crowded, the smell of raw meat pervasive. Standing in a queue, waiting to be served, the boys pulled faces and fidgeted to escape.
Giving them small parcels to carry, Louisa steered Tisha’s perambulator towards High Ousegate and home. She paused at the crest of the hill to peer into a shop window at the price of children’s boots and shoes, and setting off again almost ran into a couple coming sharply out of the high-class tailor’s next door.
‘Well, that’s that one settled,’ the plump, elegant woman said. ‘I promise Father and Rachel won’t hear a word of it, but don’t let’s have any more silly talk of leaving.’
Astonished, Louisa stopped, studying the man’s profile, the sheepish, sideways glance at his companion before he took her arm to cross the road. Louisa turned sharply back to the shop window, not daring to look again until they were safely ahead. It was definitely Arthur Bainbridge; hangdog and dissipated, but undoubtedly him. And the woman was Sophie, less recognizable with her deep bosom and comfortable seat, but still sounding like a breathless little girl. By the look of her as she steered her brother into Coney Street, Sophie was delivering some well-intentioned advice, probably about his gambling. But that comment about leaving made Louisa wonder if Arthur was planning to resume his military career.
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