Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Each time he passed the cottage, his younger children dashed to the gate, demanding a ride beside him on the trip to and from the fields. Sometimes he said yes, but only if Louisa would come; he was too afraid of the little ones being hurt without a guardian. William, who was six, and Johnnie, the eldest at seven, were already busy with the other village children, gathering gleanings from the shorn fields. He was sorry that Louisa had lost her job, but glad that her misfortune meant a longer stay, for her help and assistance eased the burden on his wife.

  Making another trip to the fields with Tom and little Beth, Louisa glanced sideways at her cousin; the role of husband and father suited him. He was gentler and more considerate than she had imagined. He adored his Jenny, her patently pregnant state such a source of great joy to him that Louisa wondered how he behaved when she was not pregnant. After much initial embarrassment, she had come to accept this unselfconscious behaviour, even envying their easy, affectionate relationship.

  Jenny seemed to find almost as much delight in her happy brood of children as did her husband, although she looked worn out by the heat.

  ‘Don’t you worry about her?’ she asked John, as he negotiated a sharp bend in the lane.

  ‘Who? Jenny?’ Louisa nodded, and he was silent for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. At times like this, I worry. We could do with you living here for good!’

  Louisa smiled. ‘I can’t do that, John. The money I’ve saved won’t last forever, nor even very long.’ Remembering the children at her side, she chose her next words carefully. ‘She can’t go on indefinitely, you know. Like this every year, I mean – it will destroy her health. Don’t you see that?’

  His sun-bleached brows drew together in a frown.

  Louisa cleared her throat. ‘There are ways, John – means of preventing — these situations.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ he exclaimed. ‘Old wives’ tales, indecent, too. I’m surprised at you, Louisa.’

  ‘They are not old wives’ tales, John. Don’t you ever read a book? No, I don’t suppose you have books like that. But believe me, there are means – proven, if not necessarily approved of. Perhaps they’re not totally foolproof, but they lessen the risk. Oh, dear, I’m not explaining this very well,’ she said distractedly, blushing furiously at her own temerity in introducing such a forbidden topic. ‘I wish I knew Jenny better, I’d be able to explain what I’ve read to her.’

  Her cousin turned and looked at her, his light blue eyes screwed up against the sun. ‘Are you serious? You’re not fooling me?’

  ‘No, of course not. I wouldn’t have spoken, were I not so anxious about Jenny.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ he said decisively. ‘I’ll get her to speak to you about it. She hasn’t been so well this time, and I have been worried about her. I suppose anything’s worth a try,’ he conceded. With that, he turned the horses into the field, and further discussion was impossible.

  On Saturday evening, which was John’s night out at the pub in Metheringham, Jenny tentatively brought up the subject with Louisa. After a few false starts, Louisa explained what she’d read in an expensive ladies’ magazine two or three years earlier. A doctor in Leeds was still giving advice and selling these devices, despite being struck off the Medical Register for his beliefs. He had made certain modifications, she said, to a female method of protection, which was considered to be the safest and least harmful way of ensuring freedom from pregnancy.

  ‘It was a kind of cone-shaped device,’ she went on, ‘which you can send for for, together with a full set of instructions for use.

  ‘I don’t pretend to know how it works, Jenny, but I do recall being very impressed by what I read. You see,’ she explained hesitantly, ‘it seems very wrong to me that women should have no say in these things. I’m not married, I know, and perhaps I should not be talking to you like this — but if I were married, I should hate to face the prospect of bearing a child every year, until either my health or my sanity gave out. I do love children, and it saddens me to think I may never marry and have babies of my own... But still,’ she added with a smile, ‘I wouldn’t want one every year.’

  With a rueful grin, Jenny patted her bulging pinafore. ‘I’d like to think that this one would be my last — and not because I may die before I conceive another. Oh, don’t look so anxious!’ she said. ‘There’s a lot of life in me yet! But we all of us face that thought every time...

  ‘I think I shall persuade John to take me to see that doctor in Leeds. I love the children dearly, as you know, but they do wear me out. And I love John too much to…’ She broke off, afraid that she was being indiscreet. ‘Perhaps Emily would advise me?’

  Louisa gave a wry smile. ‘I don’t know. We don’t discuss these matters, I’m afraid. I think she would be shocked.’

  ‘Well, I’m grateful,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘We are cut off here, and the old wives’ methods are a bit hit and miss to say the least, although every wife I know seems to have a method she swears by.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘I’ve tried them all, believe me.’

  When Jenny had gone to bed, Louisa sat on for a while, reluctant to go upstairs. All the heat of the day would be contained in the tiny bedroom under the eaves, and she was afraid of disturbing the little ones if she could not sleep.

  The kitchen door stood open and she looked out into the moonlit garden, wondering how life would have been if her mother and Aunt Elizabeth had stayed here. Either or both might have married, and brought a dozen children into the world, all tied to the land as her cousins were. It was a slower, simpler way of life, as full of unremitting toil and beset by as much poverty in its way as the city, but at least the air was clean, and the children, though poor, were healthy.

  And behind the times though Blankney was, at least its people knew who they were. She imagined they knew who and what she was, too; for here, memories were long and parentage accepted. Truth was honoured and modesty was not false; respect was something to be earned, not donned like a cloak to cover actions that would not bear the light of day. Here, you were either a land-owner or a land-tender: the Squire owned the land, and the Squire was next to God; everyone else was more or less equal.

  Perhaps it was a rosy view, Louisa thought, burnished by the sun; but for now that view was comforting and healing. She went out into the cool garden, knowing it was good to be here, even if her journey had been in the nature of flight. With each passing day she felt markedly better, although it was impossible to think of her employer by name. At odd moments she was overwhelmed by revulsion, and would never understand what had driven that assault. But as the marks beneath her dress faded, so the horror of it lessened.

  In the five days that she had been here, she had tried to come to terms with other emotions, and found it oddly more difficult. That revolting man was less than nothing, hating him was simple. But Robert Duncannon was different and infinitely more disturbing.

  Coming so close on the heels of Albert Tempest’s attack, the rawness of Robert’s emotions had had a stunning effect. You came to me: I love you for that. Did he mean it? Was it possible that he could love her? That his desire was not just a quest for adventure, but something deeper, more lasting?

  In the days since, she had scrutinized her face in the glass, but her features seemed just as ordinary as they had always been. A little more refined perhaps, with the loss of weight, and less like a dairymaid’s, perhaps.

  She sighed, remembering Robert, how feminine he made her feel, how, when he looked at her, she could almost pretend that she was beautiful. He was such a joy to behold, everything she was not; even his voice, lilting and musical at times, was like a caress. With all that charm, and the warmth which enveloped her, it was easy to explain why she had fallen in love with him; less easy to understand what such a man saw in her.

  He seemed relaxed with her, and for some strange reason, she felt easy with him: his status never over-awed her. Had he regarded her simply as a friend, she would have been honoured; but the rest was a mystery. And y
et, she thought, those feelings had been real enough that night. Unwittingly, she had presented herself to him, almost on a plate, as her mother would have said, and she blanched at the recollection. He had proved himself a gentleman, but was she a lady?

  In the seclusion of the orchard, with the harvest moon coming to fullness in the warm night sky, she was very much afraid that she was not.

  The click of the gate rescued her from these disturbing thoughts; expecting it to be John, she turned as he came round the corner of the cottage.

  ‘It’s only me,’ she assured him, afraid that her pale dress among the trees would startle him.

  ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ he asked, and she could smell the aroma of beer and tobacco which clung to his clothes. Against his tanned face, bleached hair and eyebrows shone white in the moonlight; his eyes were bright, too. She was suddenly wary of him; he was not drunk, but sufficiently intoxicated to make her recall Emily’s wedding.

  ‘It was too warm, earlier, but I think I’ll go up now.’

  ‘Don’t go just yet,’ he said persuasively. ‘I haven’t had a chance to ask since you arrived, and I’ve been wondering how things went. Did you see your dashing Dragoon?’

  A rueful smile touched her lips. ‘Yes, I did. Last week, oddly enough.’

  ‘And did you take my advice?’ he asked with a twinkling grin.

  ‘No, I did not,’ she said on an indrawn breath.

  ‘Don’t go.’ John caught her arm, sighing as he saw the alarm in her eyes. ‘All right, all right,’ he murmured gently, but he cupped her face in his large brown hands. ‘Remember what I said – you’re too lovely to go to waste, sweetheart.’

  ‘Do you know something John? I would swear you think every woman’s sole purpose in life is the bearing of children. Now, just let me go on up. You’ve had too much to drink and it’s gone to your head.’

  Laughing, he dropped his hands. ‘That dashing Dragoon of yours ought to be horsewhipped, Louisa – he doesn’t know what he’s about. If I ever meet him, I shall tell him so.’

  ‘That’s hardly likely!’

  ‘Ah, you never know,’ he called after her as she went inside.

  Twenty-four

  ‘Irish, are you?’

  From his superior height, Robert looked down on Albert Tempest and smiled. ‘I would say so, but your maid might disagree with me.’

  Disconcerted, the older man glanced again at the engraved visiting card. ‘Well, you’d better state your business quickly. Some of us do observe the Lord’s day,’ he said with heavy sarcasm, ‘and I must be at chapel in half an hour. If it’s about my daughter Rachel, I’ll tell you now, you’re wasting both my time and yours. That little madam ought to be thrashed – she’ll not darken my door again.’

  ‘I haven’t come about your daughter,’ Robert said evenly. ‘You may not have noticed, but my regiment is the Royal Dragoons. I believe your daughter ran off with a Lieutenant of the Yorkshire Hussars.’ Noting his adversary’s expression, Robert added: ‘Yes, it’s a small world — these things get around.’

  Swallowing hard, Albert Tempest stared first into the hard eyes of the man in front of him, and then at the portrait of his late wife, as though for inspiration. He took refuge in a display of temper. ‘Well then, tell me your business – I haven’t too much time.’

  Robert stared back, his eyes glacial. ‘I want you to write a reference – an exceedingly good reference – for Miss Elliott.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you heard me.’

  ‘Oh, I heard you all right. What’s she got to do with you?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ Robert said coldly. ‘But I happen to be a friend of the family.’

  ‘You?’ Albert Tempest laughed. ‘A friend of the Elliotts?’ He snorted derisively. ‘Now I’ve heard it all. Her fancy-man, more like!’

  Robert clenched his ebony walking stick. Moira had taken his hat and gloves, but he had insisted on keeping the stick with him. It was an antique, a curiosity which his late grandfather, George Duncannon, had carried in days when Dublin was even less safe for Englishmen than now. ‘Just write the reference.’

  ‘Or else what? You don’t frighten me, Captain—whatever your army rank, you’ve no jurisdiction here. I’ve no intention whatsoever of writing a reference for a woman I dismissed.’

  ‘Tell me why you dismissed her.’

  ‘Because she was inadequate. Because she failed to chaperone my daughter, allowing her to dally with the type of person she knew I disapproved of.’

  ‘You knew where they were going,’ Robert pointed out. ‘Why didn’t you put a stop to it yourself?’

  Tempest blustered at that, eventually denying the accusation but without much conviction. Robert stared at him, taking in the well-fed paunch beneath that cleverly tailored suit, noting the belligerent jowls and crafty eyes. He remembered Louisa, and knew his anger burned on a short fuse. It was time to stop playing, to come to the point.

  ‘You dismissed Louisa Elliott because she would not submit to your advances. Which, as I understand it, are somewhat perverted.’ He paused for breath, his nostrils flaring at the sudden memory of her bruised flesh. ‘You will write that reference,’ he insisted coldly, ‘because if you do not, I shall send to the Elders of your Church a list of dates and times when you visited Mrs Dodsworth’s brothel, and availed yourself of the services of one particularly talkative Miss Leonie.’

  Like a deflated balloon, Albert Tempest gaped, and sank into the nearest chair. ‘Blackmail,’ he whispered. ‘That’s blackmail.’

  Robert nodded, his lips a grimly compressed line. ‘But more effective than yours, I think.’ Before Albert Tempest could recover himself, Robert raised his hand to the bell-pull, and a moment later Moira appeared, her eyes flickering nervously before she addressed herself to her employer.

  ‘Mr Tempest would like a pen and ink, and some paper,’ Robert said quietly, but the unexpected order startled her. For a brief moment, she stood and stared, then hurried to the study. The two men said nothing until her return. Robert thanked her; Albert Tempest dismissed her with a vague nod, and when the door had closed once more, he moved slowly across to the table.

  Unbuttoning his jacket, Robert reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. ‘To save time and effort, I have already made out a suitable letter of recommendation. A fair copy, in your usual hand, will suffice.’

  The reference was short and to the point; avoiding excessive praise, it simply said that Louisa Elliott was honest and diligent, that she had performed her duties as companion and governess to the signatory’s children for a period of eleven months, and that he had regretfully released her from her employment at her own request.

  There was something approaching a sneer on Albert Tempest’s face as he added his careful, copperplate signature. ‘I wish you well of her,’ he said, holding the paper up to dry. ‘Of course she’s no better than she should be, you know that?’ When Robert did not reply, he added: ‘Like mother, like daughter, don’t they say? And the old woman was a bit of a whore in her day. Kept a Temperance Hotel, you know — pretty good cover, eh?’

  Robert was stunned. For a moment he could neither move nor speak. He had expected unpleasantness, but he had not expected... Had he heard correctly? Albert Tempest’s gloating chuckle assured him that he had.

  ‘Shocked you, have I? The old woman never married, and nor did her sister. There’s a whole family of ‘em,’ he said with obscene relish. ‘No wonder young Elliott keeps his head down.’

  The short fuse reached the tightly-corked keg of his rage, and exploded. Robert’s fist smashed into that foul mouth with such force that Albert Tempest spun round before he fell against the table, bringing the mahogany top off the central pillar in a splintering crash.

  Rubbing his knuckles, Robert kicked the man’s legs aside. In one smooth movement, he unsheathed the sword. As Albert Tempest rolled over, clutching his face, the slender blade was hovering
over his heart.

  ‘I could have killed you with my bare hands,’ Robert ground out. ‘I could kill you now, but you’re not worth it.’

  Gasping, Tempest tried to back away. ‘You’re – you’re mad!’

  ‘Indeed, but you’ll withdraw that statement.’ Robert stepped in close, flicking off a waistcoat button with the ease of a scalpel.

  With bulging eyes, Tempest watched that deadly edge withdraw, saw it hover again, this time over his private parts.

  ‘Yes, yes – all right,’ he mumbled through bloodied lips. ‘Maybe I did – overstate — the case.’

  ‘You lied,’ Robert insisted, bringing the point nearer.

  ‘No,’ he moaned, ‘I didn’t lie. Louisa Elliott and her sister are…’ he hesitated, ‘base-born. And their cousin. It’s the truth!’ he cried desperately.

  Robert’s hand shook. For a moment pain and anger fused: he pressed home, splitting the heavy broadcloth below the waist. As a line of white appeared, he stepped back. Enough.

  Retrieving the two pieces of paper, he secreted them inside his jacket. As he sheathed the sword inside its slender ebony scabbard, it made an ominous, hissing sound in the silence, becoming what it had seemed before: an old-fashioned walking stick.

  He turned sharply away towards the door. The girl was waiting in the hall. As she handed him his hat and gloves he said: ‘Mr Tempest may need some assistance.’