‘And there was I, thinking you cared for the man. It seems I was wrong,’ he said flatly, and began to walk away, his patience apparently exhausted.
Louisa hurried after him. ‘Wait, please!’
‘No, it hardly matters. Forget what I said – indeed, I should not have mentioned it.’
Suddenly within excellent earshot of the terrace, Louisa bit back her reply. Cross and frustrated, she hung back, trying to smile at the teasing comments directed at them both.
Laughing, sipping lemonade, the ladies looked so coolly at ease in their pretty pastel dresses and wide-brimmed summer hats; even the men, in high-necked uniforms, seemed unconcerned by the heat as they lounged in the shade. Louisa hated them all. Tommy Fitzsimmons had made her look foolish, but that was nothing compared to the feeling of stupidity which burned inside. He had tried to impart a warning, a warning so wreathed about in obscurity that it left only anguish and frustration. His hasty assumptions were so bitterly unfair, she longed to hit out at him, to wipe the smiles from all their faces.
She was saved by the insistent pulling of a small hand at her sleeve. Victoria had grown tired of the other child’s dolls, and wanted to go home.
Nineteen
Walking up Micklegate hill that same Friday evening, Albert Tempest cursed inwardly. The hot pavements made his feet ache abominably, and after a day spent cooped in his airless office, he longed for a cool breeze to restore his temper. For the umpteenth time, he considered his lonely estate, and self-pity welled like a spring within him.
He had his regular appointment to keep this evening, but she was damned expensive. He could do what he liked, as long as he paid extra for it, and the house charged enough for her usual services. There were times when he was tempted to pick up a cheap street-walker, but he was too afraid of the consequences.
Recently, his desires seemed constantly at boiling point, furnaced, he was sure, by the presence of Louisa Elliott. Perspiration oozed wetly beneath his hat brim as he thought of her, always so damnably cool and self-contained these days, and impossible to provoke. He despised docile women, but she had spirit, and on occasion had even outfaced him. He liked that, but recently none of his attempts to rile her seemed to work. In his daughters’ company, she said little; on the rare occasions when he was alone with her, she refused to rise either to his baiting or to his veiled suggestiveness. Her cool detachment had become unbearable, provoking some absurd desires. He wanted Louisa Elliott. He wanted her so much he almost hated her.
It was well past the hour of their evening meal when she arrived back with Rachel and Victoria. Meanwhile he had fumed and fretted, wondering where they were. Finally, he had demanded his tea, an entirely unsuitable meal of cold mutton and greasy fried potatoes, and a heavy pudding which sat uncomfortably on his stomach. The windows in the dining room stood open, but it was still unbearably hot. Hardly a breath of air, and his temper was dangerously high.
Before Moira could open the door, he was in the hall. ‘Send them into the drawing room,’ he abruptly ordered. ‘And take Victoria upstairs.’
He took up his usual stance before the hearth, legs straddled, hands clasped behind his back and chin thrust forward, ready for the attack.
Having marched first into the room, Rachel took a step back on seeing her father’s face, and almost cowered behind Louisa’s shoulder. As Moira closed the door behind them, Louisa glanced back in alarm.
‘I really do apologise, Mr Tempest,’ she began, but he cut her off and turned to his daughter, demanding the explanations from her.
Rachel’s stammering reply that they had taken tea with the Bainbridges and forgotten the time, set fire to a smouldering fuse. Cursing the Bainbridges and all they stood for, spitting his contempt of their patronage, he allowed his rage to feed upon itself and grow. Until he mentioned Arthur’s name, Rachel cowered and wept; that sparked a reckless defiance, however, and she straightened at once.
‘He’s not a useless fop!’ she cried angrily. ‘And neither is he stupid. He knows more about horses than you’ll ever know or care about, and he has good manners. What’s more, he loves me and wants to marry me. And when he does, I shall leave this house with the greatest of pleasure, and never — ever – come back!’
There was a stunned silence as each of them digested what Rachel had said so impetuously. Horrified, the girl bit her knuckles and stared like a frightened rabbit.
‘If you think,’ he ground out, ‘that I would allow a daughter of mine to marry into a family of idle, posturing, thick-witted military clods, then you are very much mistaken!
‘I blame myself. I should never have allowed you to mix with such people — but that can fast be rectified. You’ll stay within the four walls of this house until we go on holiday, Miss, and afterwards, a protracted visit to your aunt and uncle in Bradford might enable you to cool your heels. You’ll find dashing Hussars a little thin on the ground over there!’
‘I won’t! I won’t go to Bradford!’ Rachel screamed at him. ‘And if you make me, he’ll come after me, and take me away!’
At that, his rage broke all bounds. As he started across the room Rachel fled. He wrenched at the door, knocking Louisa aside in his haste. Making but four steps on the stairs, he caught his daughter on the landing, smacked her face hard and could have gone on beating her. Only her terrified scream stopped him. With an effort, he brought himself under control. Shoving her roughly into her room, he locked the door on her.
She could starve, he thought furiously, before he would let her out.
Hurrying downstairs, he caught his daughter’s so-called chaperone before she could scamper into the kitchen. ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he muttered, grabbing her arm, ‘I want a word with you, Miss Elliott!’
As she backed into the drawing room, he shut the door and locked it.
Rage burned: strong, just and overpowering. His body throbbed with it, from the palm which had cracked across Rachel’s face, through ears and eyes and chest and limbs. How dare they defy him? He was a man, and master not only in this house; he could make or break lives as and when he wished.
But this one would spit before she would beg, and the knowledge excited him. It was time, he thought, that she saw her true position.
She knew: he could see it in her eyes.
As she began to back away, power surged through every muscle, centring at his loins. Exultant in that thrusting hardness, past impotence was forgotten; he almost laughed at her shaky demand to open the door.
In the gloom, her foot caught against a low stool and she grasped at the arm of a nearby chair for support; too late did she see her wrong direction. As she twisted towards the shrouded window, he was on her, wrenching her round and against the table. She cried out; he silenced her with hands and mouth, brutally gripping her jaw. She fought and he pinioned her against him, tearing at the front of her gown. The material held, but threads which caught buttons and seams gave way, exposing vulnerable flesh beneath. He sank his teeth into the soft curve of her shoulder and squeezed her breast hard, immune to cries of pain, and violent kicks and blows aimed at shoulders and shins. Far from hurting him, her struggles acted like a goad, till thought was lost and mastery was all, centred on the need to dominate and degrade, to have her sobbing and quivering as he thrust deep and ever deeper...
Yanking at her skirt, he pushed her backwards across the table, fumbling in haste at his fly-buttons; for a second she resisted, kicking frantically at his thighs; then, panting and gasping for breath, she suddenly lay back, wide-eyed.
Smiling, glad of that acquiescence and the close-curtained, twilit gloom, Albert Tempest released the last button, thrusting her skirts high and clear. With his hand at her waist, even as he pulled at the fine batiste of her underthings, she twisted round, kicking out at his stomach. As he doubled over, she fell to the floor, heavily, but before he could recover she was on her feet, behind the table, dragging at the heavy curtain.
Light flooded the room, fine net drapery fluttering
in the slight breeze from the open window. In horror he noticed the little group of onlookers beyond the glass, already retreating like eavesdroppers disturbed, and with panic-stricken haste rapidly covered the already wilting thing which hung from his trousers.
Shielded from their gaze, gathering the tattered remains of her bodice together, she turned her wild eyes upon him. She was shuddering convulsively, but between gritted teeth she swore at him, spitting her hatred and contempt.
‘Let me go – now! Else I swear to God I’ll stand before this window and show the world what you’ve done to me!’
Trembling with shock and revulsion, her first thought was to get home to Gillygate, to weep and sob and tear her hair, to call a thousand curses upon the name of Albert Tempest; to be cossetted and comforted, soak in a hot bath for hours, anything to cleanse away the feel of those ugly, defiling hands. When she thought of his intent, felt the horror sweep through her at what he had so nearly done, Louisa shuddered and moaned, hardly crediting her escape.
Had it been conscious, that instinct to relax? Or sheer, animal terror? What reserve of courage had fuelled that gesture of defiance by the window?
There was no answer, and it frightened her. Staying here, in this house, terrified her; she could think of one thing only: to get home, home to the comfort of her mother’s arms and Bessie’s fuss and sympathy, to the safe, calm security of Edward’s protection. He wouldn’t let her be hurt; he had always defended her; he would show Albert Tempest he couldn’t get away with that; he’d tackle him face to face.
And be dismissed.
That hit like ice-cold water; and, with dreadful clarity, Albert Tempest’s words came back to her. ‘Tell one living soul,’ he had rapidly threatened before that door was unlocked, ‘just one – and I’ll drag your name through every bit of mud I can find. I’ll tell anybody who listens – you begged for it – you’ve shared my bed for months — I kicked you out because you threatened to blackmail me. And whose word will they take, eh?’
She closed her mind to the rest.
Edward, Edward, she cried in silent anguish, knowing her cousin could never keep silent on this. Quiet and unassuming he might be; but he was also an honourable man. What Albert Tempest had done ran against every precept of Edward’s life. It would be dragged into the open and the resulting scandal would be ugly, dirty and resounding. It was too terrible to contemplate. And would he ever find another job? She doubted it. Could the hotel support them both, when it was barely supporting itself? A scandal would drive even the regulars away.
For several minutes the sheer iniquity of her position crushed her. But even while she muffled her sobs, from the other room a small girl’s voice called out to her, like some pathetic echo of her own childhood.
Her name, called over and over with desperate persistence, eventually roused Louisa to action. Bathing her face and pulling off what remained of her best summer dress, she clothed herself afresh and flung a few essentials into an overnight bag.
About to go to Victoria, she met Moira on the landing.
‘Dear Mother of God!’ the girl whispered, wringing her hands. ‘What did he do to you? I heard the noise and went to Mrs Petty for the key, but she wouldn’t give it up, the old witch. Said it was none of our business, and locked me in the kitchen. What happened to you?’
Louisa shook her head, afraid that if she started to speak the tears would come again. Dumbly, she led Moira into her room.
‘Are you leaving?’ she asked, noticing the bag, the scattered things on the bed. ‘Did he sack you?’
Louisa’s mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. ‘Oh, yes, he sacked me. I’m leaving. I won’t be back. I shall have to send for my trunk, although it’s not packed,’ she added distractedly. ‘Would you do it for me?’
‘Sure I will. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ she exclaimed, sinking onto the bed. ‘If this isn’t a cue for me to leave, I don’t know what is! Sure and he’s mad, locking Miss Rachel up like that, doing what he did to you. Dear God, he shouldn’t have touched you!’
‘No, he shouldn’t,’ Louisa shakily agreed. Finding Moira’s well-meant sympathy unbearable, she turned to the door. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. I must get out of here before he comes upstairs. And I want to see Victoria – she’s crying her heart out, she doesn’t understand… ’
‘I’ll see to her,’ Moira said firmly. ‘You get yourself gone, now.’
‘Keep your eye on them, won’t you? Especially Victoria —’
‘Sure, and I’ll keep in touch as best I can — promise.’ She turned to Victoria’s door and, with a sad little wave, watched Louisa creep quietly down the stairs.
Not quietly enough, however; Rachel banged several times upon her door, calling shrilly to be let out. For a moment, as a final act of defiance, Louisa contemplated doing just that; then decided against it. In her present mood, Rachel was liable to do something stupid, like flying to the Bainbridges for help. What she needed was time to calm down.
Halfway down she hesitated; with her eyes firmly fixed on the closed drawing-room door she descended the last few steps at a run. A shudder of relief, and she was across the hall and out, slamming the heavy door behind her.
She turned to the left simply for fear of passing the drawing-room window.
Twenty
The early evening air was like velvet, but it felt fresh after the stifling atmosphere of the house, Without a backward glance, Louisa walked on, limbs shaky and weak, chest aching as though she had run for miles. Uncertain what to do or where to go, she was aware only of a need for distance, a place to sit and think, before she returned home to a barrage of questions.
There were seats on The Mount, and plenty of people about, enjoying a walk after the almost intolerable heat of the day. Suddenly exhausted, she dropped her bag and sat down, thinking not of Albert Tempest, but earlier events. It seemed an age since Tommy Fitzsimmons had spoken to her that afternoon. Recalling her anger and frustration she sighed and shook her head. What had he meant? Why had he spoken? It had puzzled her all the way back to Blossom Street, and now the anxiety returned. She thought of Robert – his tenderness, honesty and respect – and regretted turning him away. But what could she do to stop him going to Ireland? She was too tired to think clearly, and the questions buzzed around her mind like trapped flies.
A man’s voice jerked her back to the present. Alarmed, she stood up, feeling sick and faint. Aware that she had dozed, she glanced up at the sky, trying hard to assess the time. Eight? Half-past? The sun had set, the sky was in flames.
An empty hansom pulled out of the turning ahead, and, without thinking, she hailed it, regardless of the few coins in her purse. The driver asked where she wanted to be dropped, and she paused, her mind a blank. Where was she going? Gillygate? No, not there, not yet; her mind baulked at the thought of the lies she would have to tell.
After a moment of silence, she said: ‘The Cavalry Barracks,’ and the driver looked surprised, his eyes taking in her neat, dark dress, her lack of flamboyance. With a shrug and a click of encouragement to his tired horse, he turned the vehicle and headed in the direction he was bidden.
Hazily, Louisa sought to justify her decision. A vague idea that it was imperative to see Robert before he went to Ireland presented itself. No more than that. She was beyond coherent thought, beyond realizing that Robert Duncannon was the only person she trusted not to stand in judgement, not to make trouble for her family.
Robert was in the Mess. He had been out on the Stray for over an hour, trying to calm down. Tommy’s story about Louisa and a croquet lesson had sparked his anger, setting fire to emotions he had all but conquered. Accusing Tommy of meddling in things that were no concern of his, Robert had left abruptly after his meal, returning for just one drink before going home to bed.
He was on the point of leaving when the servant handed him an old envelope, folded over, on a silver salver. He was startled to see Louisa’s name and address, in his own hand, crossed out in penc
il on the back. Inside was a message: ‘Please come to the gate if you are able to do so. L.E.’
Shattered by the unexpectedness of it, he left the Mess at once.
To one side of the main gate there was a hansom waiting, its occupant seated well back, out of sight of casual passers-by.
‘Louisa?’
The deep, familiar voice roused her at once. She heard him give directions to the cabbie, and then he was beside her.
‘What on earth brings you here?’ Robert asked, but then he saw her face. ‘For God’s sake, tell me – what’s happened? Are you ill?’
She opened her eyes, took in the fact of his presence, and smiled wanly. ‘No, I — I was worried about you…’
The incongruity of her words alarmed him. Frowning, he asked no more questions, contenting himself with the possession of her hand, so chilled between his own warm palms. A moment later, the cab pulled up beside the Queen Anne house. Pressing Louisa’s arm, he told her to stay there, he had to find Harris.
The front door was open, the house quiet, its usual occupants still in the Mess. He walked through to the servants’ quarters, where Harris was sitting outside the kitchen door, polishing a pair of riding boots. Surprised, he came raggedly to attention, reaching hastily for his jacket.
‘Money, Harris. Quickly. Enough to pay a cab from the far side of town – a shilling should do it. There’s no time for me to go upstairs.’
‘Anything wrong, sir? Harris asked, as he fished in his pocket for the remains of last week’s pay.
‘I rather think there is. I’m about to bring a young lady in, so get yourself into the hall and make sure the coast’s clear, will you? I don’t want her presence broadcast throughout the town.’
The house was empty, but Harris scanned the street anxiously as his master escorted Louisa inside. She moved like a sleepwalker, giving him excellent opportunity to be surprised. The Captain was not given to entertaining ladies in his rooms, and the Kentishman had certainly not thought to see a plain, sombrely dressed young woman who looked more suited to the classroom than either ballroom or bordello. As he relieved Robert of the one small piece of luggage, Harris noticed that there were fresh bruises along her jaw, and, judging by the Captain’s grim expression, he had noted them too. Harris decided he would not care to be the person who had caused them.
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