Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Smiling then, her face lit up with happiness. ‘Do you, Robert? It doesn’t matter?’

  He shook his head. ‘How could it?’ he asked, and reached for her hand, entwining her fingers with his. Aware of that small physical contact, they breasted the hill; Robert’s reasons for being there quite forgotten.

  Her face was largely hidden from him by the cotton sunbonnet she had swept onto her head as they left the cottage, but the neck of her plain cotton dress was still undone, revealing several inches of white throat, and, as he looked down at her, the softly shadowed hollow beneath. She kept pace with him, the rise and fall of her skirt revealing a lace-edged petticoat, and feet which were bare inside their thin leather slippers.

  There was an unusual softness and fluidity of movement about her which mystified as much as tantalized him, until he realized that she had abandoned those severely structured undergarments which were as harsh in this heat as they were restrictive. His grip on her hand tightened, but he looked away, suddenly aware that the village with its white ribbon of road was out of sight, that fields and woods were all that lay ahead. He paused to peel off his jacket. ‘We may as well look as though we match,’ he said with a grin. Unfastening cufflinks and collar-studs, he rolled back his sleeves and removed his tie.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he breathed, relishing the cooler air on his skin. ‘Takes me back to my mis-spent youth. I loathed formal clothes — was the despair of my mother — so what did I do? Joined the army, and have hardly been out of stiff collars since!’

  Louisa laughed and pulled at his collar, which he stuffed into his pocket. There was a crackle of paper, a crackle which brought his reasons for this visit abruptly to mind.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked, alarmed by the sudden change in his expression.

  After a moment’s pause, he withdrew an envelope and gave it to her. ‘I could have posted this — but I didn’t know how to explain it. There was too much chance of misunderstanding. Before you open it,’ he added tautly, ‘say you forgive me.’

  ‘For what, Robert?’

  ‘For my crass stupidity.’

  Disturbed, she opened the envelope clumsily; when she saw Albert Tempest’s handwriting, her fingers shook so that she could barely discern the words. She was silent for some time, her face such a blank mask that Robert could not tolerate it. He looked away, torn by self-recrimination.

  ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘Louisa, I’m sorry –’

  She backed away from him, out of reach of his imploring arms. ‘How did you get it, Robert?’

  He shrugged, at a loss. ‘On a calculated guess, I had him followed. He had a guilty secret with which I blackmailed him. Not very pleasant, is it? I’m sorry.’

  ‘He can’t have given in easily,’ she observed, her mind racing over all the things Albert Tempest might have said.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ The murmured admission was revealing.

  ‘He told you, didn’t he?’ she cried. ‘You knew what I was before I said anything: that’s why you weren’t even surprised!’ Angrily, she thrust the letter back at him. ‘Keep it, I don’t want it. It isn’t important any more.’ She turned on her heel and ran, down the side of the hill, towards the stream and the lane which ran beyond it.

  He caught her as she hesitated on the bank, but she shook herself free. ‘How could you?’ she demanded. ‘How could you go there after what he did to me, and listen to the dreadful things he must have said?’

  ‘If it’s any consolation to you, I nearly knocked his head off for that. He has at least one broken tooth to remind him to watch his tongue!’ As she gathered her skirts to cross the stream, he pulled her back and into his arms. ‘Don’t be so damn silly – it doesn’t matter now. Believe me, Louisa, it doesn’t matter!’

  She continued to struggle against him, and through the fine linen of his shirt he could feel the angry heaving of her breasts. The veneer of self-control broke apart. His mouth closed on hers almost roughly, silencing her protests; his tongue traced the outline of her lips beneath his own, parting, probing, setting fire to his blood. Pressing down on the hollow of her back, he drew her hard against him until her striving ceased, until he felt again that passionate response which had surprised him all those months ago. Anguish, guilt, longing, the reasons for that brief display of fury, burned up like kindling in the hot desire which surged through both of them. Overwhelmed by its raw intensity, Louisa barely heard his whispered: ‘Not here, my love, not here,’ and was aware only that his kisses were more tender, the pressure of his fingers lighter.

  ‘There’s a gate further up,’ she said breathlessly as his eyes scanned the impenetrable thorn hedge beyond the stream. She led him towards it, to where the trees of an ancient wood overhung the lane.

  At its heart stood a massive oak, a place of magic and slanting sunlight and easy, pagan charm; an old trysting place for lovers which John Elliott had once known well.

  Robert dropped down on the soft, springy grass, pulling Louisa with him. He lay on his side, not quite touching her. From the unfathomable depths of his eyes surfaced a flicker of amusement, and he released the bow of her sunbonnet, casting the offending article aside.

  ‘I very much want to kiss you,’ he said at last.

  Remembering the words, she gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think you ought?’

  Slowly, he shook his head. ‘I’m sure I should not, for I want to make love to you.’

  Momentarily, she closed her eyes as warmth spread throughout her body. He was giving her every chance to back away, to say no; yet refusal was beyond her. Nothing mattered, as he said; the past was irrelevant, the future a haze of uncertainty. All that was important was here, in this moment, and she ached with longing for him. Her fingers trembled as she raised them to his lips, marking the lines of mouth and jaw, sliding up and around his neck, and, with gentle pressure, bringing his head down to hers.

  Not knowing that he thought of Charlotte, she sensed his reticence, attributing the curb he put on his passion to a fear of hurting or frightening her, a fear she was powerless to alleviate. Knowing what the ultimate act of love entailed was not the same as experiencing it; she gasped with surprise so many times as his hands gently explored her awakening body, that she was aware of adding to his nervousness, and wished for his sake to be more knowing in the ways of love. On another indrawn breath, his fingers touched her bare thighs, and for the first time he smiled, whispering teasing words of love at her lack of proper underthings, cutting short her murmured excuses with another kiss. She shivered as he found the soft warmth of her, his touch rousing emotions so intense, all thought ceased to be.

  For a moment, the pleasure was withdrawn; she opened her eyes and he was above her, his face intense, almost afraid.

  There was pain. Sharp and severe, so that she stifled a cry as he entered her, holding him tight, and still. In the fleeting seconds which followed, she remembered all the whispered horrors she had ever heard, the pursed lips, the knowing eyes, the savagery to which men subjected their wives, and almost gave way to panic. But then that lilting, loving voice soothed her, and as she relaxed the shock abated. He began to move slowly, until deep inside her rose a strange, languorous pleasure, erasing pain and drowning memory, rising like a floodtide within. She wanted it to go on forever, was afraid she might die of it; but in those seconds before death he pulled sharply away, shuddering, crushing her against him with almost unbearable force.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ he whispered at last, and she clung to him desperately, burying her face against his shoulder. ‘I couldn’t, just couldn’t wait for you.’ Cradling her in his arms, he kissed her gently. ‘Next time, I promise, will be much, much better...’

  With returning calm came awareness and understanding. She was suddenly conscious of the sun on her face, birds singing in the silence, dry twigs sticking into her back, and Robert’s weight, which threatened to crush the breath from her body. But she was happy, ridiculously so. She kissed his eyes and mo
uth and tasted salt on her lips; smoothed rough waves back from his brow and saw the beads of sweat which clustered there; felt his shirt, damp and crumpled, clinging to her breast, and regretted nothing.

  With a tender smile she touched his cheek, eager to dispel the concern which clung to him like a shroud. ‘I love you, Robert,’ she whispered, and the words were like magic; the shadows fled.

  An air of normality, delicately precarious and constantly threatened by John Elliott’s knowing smile, was somehow maintained throughout the meal. Louisa had hurried upstairs to wash and change the moment they returned, and, in an effort to preserve the secrets of the afternoon, kept her eyes modestly downcast. But her expression was overly demure and her cousin not deceived. The Captain’s unmistakable air of relaxed well-being added confirmation to John’s suspicions, and his pagan spirit was exultant.

  Louisa felt, not guilty, but embarrassed, although Jenny affected ignorance and treated her with the usual kindly deference. It was something of a relief when the meal was over and Robert insisted that he must leave for his return train for Lincoln. She walked with him as far as the fields.

  The men who had begun their task that afternoon were toiling still, far enough away and too engrossed to notice a pair of lovers standing in the shadows of the hedge. Above the western horizon the sky was streaked with red, Blankney’s Gothic chimneys stark silhouettes between the trees.

  Caught again by the magic of the place, Robert sighed, a sigh of such depth and contentment it brought a smile to Louisa’s lips. He pulled her closer, delighted by the feel of her in his arms. ‘No regrets?’

  ‘No, Robert, none.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  Neither of them spoke again for some time. The violet evening deepened to indigo, and in the fields the men called their farewells.

  ‘Till tomorrow then,’ Robert whispered against her lips. As she murmured her assent, he took her hand, and, feeling for the third finger, slipped onto it the warm gold of his own signet ring. ‘I wish it could be different,’ he said earnestly, ‘that I could be meeting you in that little church we passed this afternoon, making my vows to you publicly and legally... Without benefit of Church or State, my love — nevertheless, with this ring I thee wed, and with my body I thee worship...’

  Gently, he touched his lips to hers, and for a moment she was too moved to speak. As she stared at the heavy gold ring, at the scratched but clearly distinguishable initials on the face, he said: ‘It will have to do for the time being — we can choose a proper one later.’

  It was too big, and hung heavy on her slender finger, but Louisa shook her head. ‘If you don’t mind, Robert, I’d rather keep this one. It’s all the wedding ring I want or need. I shall treasure it always.’

  Although Robert had assured her there was no need to worry about the hotel, Louisa paid minute attention to her appearance before setting off for Lincoln. She was terrified of letting him down in some way, very much afraid that even the best of her summer clothes lacked the style and expense befitting a cavalry officer’s wife.

  She arrived on the first train of the afternoon, wearing her newest dress, a cool blue and white print which enhanced the colour of her eyes. In her lace-gloved hands she carried a parasol, and perched atop her freshly washed and curled hair sat a tiny straw hat trimmed with blue silk roses and lilies of the valley.

  Waiting for her on the platform, Robert bent to kiss her cheek as she stepped down. ‘How dare you tell me you don’t look the part?’ he breathed. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  The porter he had appropriated took care of Louisa’s trunk, escorting the couple the short distance to the hotel. She took Robert’s arm, answering his desultory questions regarding her journey in monosyllables, praying that to onlookers, her nervousness might seem to be boredom. In the foyer of the hotel, she unconsciously raised her chin, looking, as Robert laughingly said later, as though the place was less elegant than she expected.

  With the servant tipped, the door of their room closed and locked, Robert swept her gaily into his arms, spinning her round in an excess of happiness. ‘I hardly dared believe you’d come,’ he laughed. ‘I was convinced you’d change your mind at the last moment, or that your cousins would forcibly detain you!’

  Remembering John’s face, Louisa laughed with him. ‘My cousin is a wicked and devious man. You know he sent us off towards that wood on purpose?’

  With a wry smile, Robert removed his jacket and tie and tossed them onto a chair. ‘I rather thought he did. Does it bother you? That he tried to engineer things between us?’ He grinned as she shook her head. ‘And what about the good Jenny? What did she have to say?’

  Louisa shrugged her shoulders, but her cheeks were suddenly a deeper pink as she remembered the conversation they had had, the advice she had given Jenny so artlessly. ‘Nothing. I doubt she approved, but I said I was going home to York, and she didn’t question it.’

  ‘How long dare you stay? Three, four days, perhaps?’

  ‘What about Ireland?’ she asked.

  ‘Ireland can wait,’ he said, and pulled her down beside him onto the bed. Ireland held no more terrors for him. His wife’s rejection and denigration, her madness, the wrongs to which she had once driven him, were now laid to rest beside the oak in that unnamed wood.

  With a confidence which had not been his the day before, he slowly began to unfasten the tiny buttons of Louisa’s dress, teasing her all the while, this time for the amount of underthings she wore. Naked, she was lovelier than he had imagined, full-breasted and long-legged, her skin smooth and creamy-fair, warm and receptive to his touch. In spite of her diffidence, and the modesty which drove her to seek the cover of the sheets, she did not flinch at his nakedness, and he loved her the more for that.

  Relaxed in the knowledge that she both wanted and trusted him, Robert was content to take his time. He learned ways of pleasing her, and taught her with gentleness the secrets of his own body. His patience was rewarded, for he discovered in Louisa a sensual nature which more than matched his own.

  In the days that followed, they woke early, made love and breakfasted, going out to enjoy the pleasure of walking in a place where they were strangers. Arm in arm, they climbed the hill towards the Cathedral, browsed in shops, bought mementoes, and talked. About Ireland, about White Leigh and the past; about York and more recent upheavals. Robert told her of Rachel Tempest’s elopement, almost forgotten in the heat of all that had happened since. The news distressed Louisa, but she was more concerned for Victoria, knowing the fretting and nightmares to which the child was subject. Rachel would survive, and Louisa felt sure her father would swallow his antipathy to the Bainbridges, given time. Robert was not so confident that they would forgive him for that intemperate display the night the young couple disappeared.

  But their concern regarding these matters was distant, muffled by the increasingly sultry weather and their obsession with each other.

  Late in the evening of the third day, the heavens opened. Amidst a thunderous, flashing storm, they lay side by side, watching lightning rip jagged rents in the night sky. They talked about John Elliott with affection, and wondered about the harvest at Blankney, although, from the warmth and safety of their little haven, even the importance of the harvest seemed remote.

  After some minutes of companionable silence, Robert reached for his cigars and padded over to the window, watching the rain and hail beat a steady tattoo on the glass. ‘And your other cousin?’ he asked quietly, for the reality of life in York was beginning to impinge upon his present happiness.

  The cigar glowed, and as the lightning leapt again, his chest and thighs gleamed palely in the grey darkness. Louisa watched him, her thoughts uncomfortably echoing his. ‘Edward?’

  ‘And your mother and sisters. What about them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘But we must. Tomorrow you have to face them, and I won’t be with you.’ She did not reply, and after a moment, he added: ‘
I have to be able to go on seeing you, Louisa, which means they’re going to find out sooner or later. Wouldn’t it be better to be truthful from the beginning?’

  Still there was no answer, and he went on, searching for words he would much rather not have had to say. ‘How will your mother react to me as — well, as your lover? She virtually saved my life. She might think this a poor way to repay that kindness.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t tell her you were married.’ She sighed and, with a shiver, pulled the sheets up to her chin. ‘My mother’s attitude does concern me, but not half so much as Edward’s. I dread to think...’ But Louisa could not complete the sentence; it was impossible for her to frame Edward’s disapproval into coherent thought. All her life she had been his favourite, and together they had shared so much. How would he react if she told him, baldly, that she was Robert Duncannon’s mistress? He was so unworldly, how could he understand the kind of love that refused to be denied, the deep and overmastering passion she shared with this man? She saw Edward’s face, eyes hurt beyond enduring, with perhaps a twist of contempt to that sensitive mouth, and thrust the vision away, unwilling to acknowledge just how much her cousin’s opinion meant, how barren life would be without the security of his affection.

  For a fleeting second, she sensed the void surrounding her, knew the awful truth of Robert’s words, that he could not be with her, that he would never be with her when she needed him most. Because she was frightened, and even more afraid that Robert would sense her fear and mistake it for regret, she took refuge in bravado. ‘As for Emily and Blanche... Well, dearest, to use one of your more eloquent phrases — I really don’t give a damn what they think.’

  He laughed and came back to her. ‘Nor do I. So you’ll tell them?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t, Robert. They’ll just have to find out in their own good time.’

  Staring down at her through the gloom, he gently laid a hand against her cheek. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  Seeking the comfort of his arms, she pulled him down beside her. ‘Perhaps not, but I’ll have plenty of time to think things over while you’re in Ireland.’