Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  The Captain repeated himself. ‘I saw your carriage this afternoon by the cemetery gates, Mr Elliott. I recognized Miss Louisa by the window, and leapt to the wrong conclusion – which I’m told is a great failing of mine. My brusqueness at the door must have been most distressing for you. Please accept my apologies.’

  As Edward nodded, the other man’s gesture encompassed them all. ‘And I pray you’ll forgive my intrusion at such a time.’

  Offered tea and cake, he tactfully declined, insisting that he must return to Fulford. Gratified by Mary Elliott’s sweet smile and warm invitations, he promised to call again.

  Louisa saw him out. To Edward, the few minutes before she returned seemed an eternity. Intent upon what was going on beyond that closed door, Edward barely noticed the excited chatter and Emily’s laughter. Then suddenly Louisa was back, flushed and cross.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, be quiet!’ she declared. ‘Try to remember why you’re here.’

  He broke the guilty silence. ‘It’s all right, Louisa. We can forgive a little excitement, surely? It isn’t every day that the aristocracy drop in for tea.’ He smiled at her, but it was a taut, questioning smile.

  Flustered, Louisa began to clear the tea things.

  ‘Who’s the dark horse, then?’ Blanche asked archly as she arranged her cloak. ‘I notice it wasn’t Emily he asked for!’

  So had Edward, but he wanted to smack Blanche for her barbed remarks. ‘That’s enough, Blanche,’ he said sharply, and was immediately reminded of his mother as she eyed him coldly.

  ‘Don’t get high and mighty with me, Edward,’ she snapped back. ‘I was only teasing.’

  Louisa banged the best china onto a tray. ‘As he thought Mamma was no longer with us,’ she reminded them all, ‘I think it was quite proper that he asked for me. After all, I am the eldest!’

  But Mary Elliott had the last word. ‘Such a gentleman,’ she sighed, ‘and so charming... I do hope he calls to see us again.’

  Six

  Rain bounced off stone-flagged pavements, drenching his trouser legs. Hurrying towards the cab rank, Robert Duncannon found himself questioning his own sanity. The last half-hour, nay, the last two weeks, had been a mass of conflicting events and emotions, carrying him along like a straw in the flood. He knew he must stop and think, or be in danger of making an even bigger fool of himself.

  Sinking back against the hard leather of the hansom’s upholstery, he thought of Louisa Elliott and the rather chilly rebuff she had just administered. ‘I don’t live here,’ she had said. This after he had kissed her hand and asked if he might call again. ‘But if my mother wishes it, then of course, you must.’

  It was so at variance with the glow of pleasure she had betrayed at his entrance. Or had that been dismay? Surprised by the snub, he had barely known what to say, other than to express a wish that their paths might cross again. Not even the wit to ask where she did live.

  That sudden chilliness should have put him firmly in his place, should have damped down any sentimental notions he was tempted to entertain. Even so, he could not help but recall the intimacy of their first meeting. Unguarded warmth, and then – as though she recollected herself – a sudden withdrawing behind a veil of formality.

  Her correctness said quite plainly: ‘I am a female of inferior social rank, but I am also respectable, so take your upper-class philandering elsewhere.’ And she was quite right. If he wanted a woman for purely physical enjoyment, then there were such women to be had; clean, high-class, relatively honest whores whose favours could be bought for the right price. He had purchased more than one such moment in the last few months. But the brief sensation of physical release was merely a panacea to urgent bodily need that left him feeling hollow and dissatisfied, and lonelier than ever.

  Louisa Elliott attracted him in a different way. She radiated good health and sanity in waves that were, for him, almost tangible; mentally calming, but physically exhilarating, like swimming on a hot summer’s day. He was aware of untapped reserves of strength in her, and a corresponding need in himself, a longing to take hold of those cool, light fingers, and submerge all his pain in the peace of her arms.

  And she was as unaware of that as she was of her unconventional beauty. Surrounded by bored society women who were attracted by the uniform and the need for light-hearted diversions, he often longed for honesty. For feminine company untainted by calculation or greed.

  It seemed to him then that all he desired had been there in that small house on Gillygate. A fresh surge of relief flooded through him as he brought to mind Mary Elliott’s lively, good-humoured face. In the hour that he had thought her dead, he had suffered such agonies of guilt, believing himself responsible for her demise, his pleasure at seeing her alive and well had bubbled forth unrestrained. Had he been guilty of such a social gaffe amongst the families with whom he was more generally acquainted, he knew he would have gone unforgiven; but the Elliotts had hardly seemed to mind. The reverse, in fact.

  His thoughts were broken by the driver’s call; fumbling in his pocket for coins, Robert stepped down from the cab outside the Queen Anne house he shared with three fellow-officers and their servants. In choosing his lodgings six months previously, he had balanced the relative advantages of living as a guest with a local family against the less comfortable quarters inside the Barracks. When the opportunity of living independently had arisen, he and Tommy Fitzsimmons had been the first to apply. Both appreciated the freedom, finding the company of brother-officers less demanding than that of a family, and living out less restrictive.

  Harris, his servant, was returning a freshly-pressed tunic to Robert’s room as he walked in. Surprise at the Captain’s early return was evident on the man’s face. ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Harris, quite all right. Damnably wet out there, though. I shall have to change.’

  ‘Will you be dining in the Mess, sir?’

  Robert consulted his pocket watch and was surprised in his turn by the early hour. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He began to peel off his dark civilian clothes as Harris laid out the short red jacket, gold-frogged waistcoat and high-waisted navy trousers that constituted his Mess dress. Gold braid and insignia shone as the light caught them, but Robert pulled on the trousers and shrugged himself into the waistcoat as he would his oldest clothes. Pausing as Harris gave the jacket a final tug, he glanced into the long pier-glass to make sure all his buttons were fastened correctly, ran a hand over his damply curling hair, adjusted the eagle-crested forage cap and reached for the long, voluminous cloak which Harris held ready for him.

  ‘Will you be going out again later, sir?’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think so. An early night might be advisable – my arm aches abominably after riding out today. I doubt if I’ll need you, so get yourself off if you want to. That is, if you can abide the torrential rain. And for Heaven’s sake, don’t catch the ‘flu — I really cannot recommend it.’

  Harris gave one of his rare smiles. There was a nice little miss at the tobacconist’s up the road; he might wander up there and buy some cigarettes. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  When the Captain had gone, Harris sorted through his clothes, removing the wet things for cleaning and pressing.

  Like all his class, Robert Duncannon was dependent upon the service of others; but he was not given to abusing the privilege. He treated Harris with a natural courtesy and was respected in return. Other servants might grouse about their officers, and exchange intimate, often derogatory details and gossip, but Harris never did. Taciturn by nature, the young Kentishman was solitary and unpopular with his fellow-troopers, but he gave his master little cause for complaint.

  As an orphan who had been brought up in institutions, he regarded the army as a natural progression. While he did not much care for the life, he accepted the harshness much as anyone accepts cold winds in winter, with a shrug and a shiver. The Captain’s basic humanity within a regime which did its best to eradicate such finer feelings, was t
o Harris like the first sun of spring. He had responded to those careless kindnesses with a devotion which would have surprised Robert had he been aware of its depth.

  Familiar with the silver-framed photographs of his master’s sister and daughter, and the view of White Leigh’s south front with William and Anne in the open landau, Harris often wondered why there were no photographs of the late Mrs Duncannon. At the time of his assignment, there had been some regimental gossip to the effect that the Captain had married an heiress, who had died shortly after giving birth to their only child. Until his marriage, it seemed Captain Duncannon had been the life and soul of the Mess but, since his wife’s death, had changed dramatically. Certainly the Captain’s home leaves were invariably followed by dense moods and heavy bouts of drinking. Many were the times Harris had assisted him to bed, poured black coffee laced with brandy down his throat and prayed for the brainstorm to pass. It worried him that these bouts had not lessened during his two years of service, and he had come to the conclusion that there was more to Robert Duncannon’s heavy drinking than the memory of a motherless child left at home.

  Prepared for a very difficult week or so following his master’s return, he had been more than surprised to find him in good spirits, albeit weak from influenza. Those deep, raked gashes in his hand had been another surprise; and the explanation of a riding accident and a badly-nailed fence seemed odd. But the surgeon appeared to accept it, and it was more than Harris’s job was worth to pursue the matter. Nevertheless, he would have laid a wager with anyone that the Captain’s wounds were not caused by a fall from a horse. All in all, his master’s leave posed something of a mystery, and Harris would have given much to know what had really transpired over Christmas.

  A group of younger officers were in the Mess; sharp guffaws of laughter rang out from their corner, and as Robert glanced in their direction, one of them called a greeting. He raised his hand in acknowledgement, but sauntered across to where Tommy Fitzsimmons was sitting alone. They were particular friends, since they had joined the regiment on the same day, and of five others commissioned with them, only Robert and Tommy were left. Over the course of some twelve years, the two had acquired a reputation which owed more to their peers’ preconception of Irish temperament than had ever been proved by actual deeds, although Tommy occasionally felt himself beholden to reinforce the legend.

  Tommy came of an ancient family which could trace its line back to Norman times, a family which had collected far more genuine Irish blood along the way than ever the Duncannons could lay claim to. He was possessed of that classic, paradoxical streak which could understand the most complex problems, yet fail to find an answer to the most obvious question.

  Having been the one to introduce Robert to his future wife, Tommy found it hard to forgive himself. Since then he had taken on his friend’s welfare as a personal responsibility, and although Charlotte was rarely discussed, the truth hung between them like an attaching thread.

  The two men walked through into the Mess Room, a magnificent, oak-panelled hall whose vaulted ceiling supported the tattered standards and banners of past victories. To the newcomer, it had the awesome atmosphere of a church, coupled with the luxurious splendour of an exclusive gentleman’s club. Desultory conversation was easily swallowed by the plush hangings and tapestries, upon which artistically abridged versions of bloody battles were depicted.

  Every year, on Waterloo Day, Robert ate the food and drank the toasts, half his mind enjoying the celebration of the Royals’ most glorious victory, while his eyes dwelt on the elegantly posed dying in the paintings and tapestries. No horrible mutilations there, no pumping arteries to turn the stomach and spoil an excellent meal. He had seen men die in his own country, shot at close range, their chests shattered and bleeding; men twitching, impaled on hay forks, or dragged off their horses to be bludgeoned with any instrument that came to hand. He had heard horses screaming in agony, and if anything that was worse; but a single shot could put an end to that. Men died shrieking and cursing, or lived with the remnants of their lives. The tapestries showed nothing of that, portraying death as a wonderful attainment; perhaps rewardable, Robert often thought, by a Valhalla of 365 days’ hunting a year, society balls every week, and as much good claret as a man could drink.

  A sharp nudge from Tommy made him look up. A group of young subalterns had entered and rather noisily took their places at the foot of the long refectory table; His Serene Highness, Prince Francis of Teck, was amongst them.

  ‘I know he’s not a bad young fellow,’ Tommy remarked in an undertone, ‘but I do find the circle of sycophants rather tedious.’

  Robert smiled. ‘No doubt he’ll learn.’

  Impeccably dressed regimental servants served the first course. Salmon was followed by a thick oxtail soup, hot roast beef with attendant vegetables, and a choice of cold cuts. Robert ate well, his appetite sharpened by the afternoon’s ride and thoughts of Louisa. As he beckoned for more, Tommy’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Lost your appetite and found a horse’s?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘Must build up my strength – doctor’s orders.’

  Mellowed by the soporific effect of the meal, Robert planned a couple of drinks in the bar and an early bed; but that was not on Tommy’s agenda. With a promise to stand the drinks, he drew him into the bar, regaled him with humorous accounts of social events over the Christmas period, and finally persuaded two more officers to join them for a hand of whist. It was after eleven when they left the Mess to walk back to the house.

  The heavy rain had ceased, leaving in its place a fine drizzle that formed a jewelled patina on their dark cloaks. Trapped beneath low cloud, the river’s dank miasma spread outwards, reminding the occupants of Fulford that, despite the City Fathers’ efforts, the Ouse still carried the effluent of an overcrowded city towards the Humber and the open sea.

  Local inhabitants rather resented the influx of a new bourgeoisie between the city and the village. They struggled to retain their quasi-military status by letting as much property as possible to regimental families, and turning their backs, socially speaking, upon the incomers. It was a situation that could only be advantageous to their visitors. Invited into the homes of local people, they were quickly made to feel at home, introduced to every female relative of marriageable age, and generally treated like honoured guests. It required a great deal of tact, wiliness and diplomacy to avoid serious entanglement.

  Over the years, Tommy’s natural defences had become entrenched, while his charm increased, so that he appeared to drift in and out of amorous relationships with lighthearted ease. Badly scarred down the left side of his face, this seemed to be no detriment. In fact the scars – earned during the Royals’ last tour of duty in Ireland – seemed to exercise a peculiar attraction, so that he was never seen socially without a rapt circle of female admirers.

  That aspect of Tommy’s character afforded Robert much amusement. Sometimes he wished he could be like that himself, but he shied away from involvements. As a consequence he was often accused, though rarely to his face, of being morose and unsociable.

  ‘You’re remarkably cheerful since your return,’ Tommy commented as they reached the Queen Anne house.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘It puzzles me,’ Tommy confessed. ‘I’ve grown used to seeing you possessed of the black devils whenever you come back from White Leigh. But not this time.’ With a smile, he indicated Robert’s arm. ‘And after this little episode —?’

  ‘Don’t talk here. Come up and we’ll have a nightcap.’

  Some time and several brandies later, Robert reached the end of his tale, having waxed lyrical on the subject of Louisa Elliott.

  ‘Sure and she’s captured your heart!’ Tommy laughed, pouring himself another drink. ‘But if it makes you feel better, why worry? Enjoy yourself, have a good time. Who would blame you? Not me, that’s certain. I’ve said you should set yourself up with some accommodating lady. They do say mistresses are preferable to wive
s, and I’m bound to agree.’

  ‘You’ve never been married,’ Robert reminded him.

  ‘Ah, no, that’s true. But I’ve had several mistresses – lovely ladies, all of them.’

  Robert stared into the fire. A mistress? Light-hearted, accommodating, fond of pretty things? Somehow he could not see Miss Louisa Elliott fitting either the image or the role. He had tried to explain her, but Tommy seemed incapable of understanding the kind of person she was. And why would he? She was outside Tommy’s experience. But in explaining, Robert had seen the impossibilities for himself. She would expect courtship to lead to marriage, and his personal sense of honour forbade him to court her dishonestly. He wanted to know her, wanted her to know him; and yet once he disclosed the truth, he must expect nothing. The class to which she belonged would have no truck with mistresses.

  Abruptly, he drained his glass, and sent Tommy on his way.

  Seven

  Beneath a leaden sky which threatened a repeat of the previous week’s blizzard, Louisa returned to the Tempest residence on Blossom Street. There were squeals of joy from Victoria, a welcoming embrace from Rachel, while their father breathed several sighs of relief as he greeted her in the hallway.

  In the schoolroom, even Moira interrupted her cleaning to say how much she had been missed. ‘Miss Victoria would not let me put her to bed. She cried for you every single night you were away.’

  ‘Now, Moira, you’re exaggerating again.’

  ‘She did so! Miss Rachel could not pacify her, Mr Tempest was fit to tear his hair out at the noise she was making, and even Mrs P. was fair standing on her head, trying to distract her. Then Miss Rachel had an idea — she said Miss Victoria could sleep in her bed. So that’s where she’s been since Thursday last.’

  ‘I’d no idea she’d become so attached to me,’ Louisa said, concerned and not a little alarmed by Moira’s news.

  ‘She has that. And it’s no surprise – since you’ve been here, you’ve done wonders with that child, so you have.’