Next morning, as he waited for the service to begin, he took surreptitious glances at the newcomers. Several prosperous-looking farmers, surrounded by wives and offspring, took named pews, while labourers with weatherbeaten faces, and dairymaids in their Sunday finery slipped in beside their fellows. Gradually the church filled, but still the family pew remained empty.
Aware of disappointment, Edward stood to let two young women file past him into the pew. Each of them blushed; the prettier one, nearest him, sucked in her cheeks to suppress a wayward smile, and he felt his own mouth twitch a little as he stole covert glances at them on their knees. They were farm girls by the look of them, with heavy boots beneath their best serge skirts, and their hands, clasped in spurious prayer, were coarse and red. But the curve of the pretty one’s cheek, her full mouth and firm chin, reminded him of Louisa; he found it hard to drag his eyes away.
When he looked again, the pew he had been watching so carefully was filled. For a second, his heart seemed to halt in his breast, and with a sudden rush began to beat fiercely. Quickly he glanced down, fiddled with his prayer book, found the relevant page, and then he looked again.
A rather bloated, elderly man sat farthest away from him. He had prominent eyes and thick white hair; the yellow stains on his heavy moustache proclaimed an addiction to tobacco and, judging by his red face, to good port also. Edward viewed him with a mixture of distaste and disappointment. As the eldest son, a well-placed marriage would have been most important to him, an inconvenient liaison something to dispose of quickly and effectively. Viewing the desiccated and haughty woman at his side, Edward wondered if he had been happy in the years since. In the same pew was a young couple, the girl a haughtier version of her mother, the man remarkable only for his fine clothes.
With his eyes upon his prayer book once more, Edward reflected that his mother had also been haughty and proud; perhaps Sir Oswald was attracted to that kind of woman? Imagining this man as his father filled him with instant dismay; surely there was nothing of that man in him? At once he regretted making this journey; wished he had stayed in York with fantasies intact.
The congregation rose. The Reverend George Crispin Gregory, vicar of this parish, followed by his curate, entered the body of the church and took his place on the right of the chancel. Edward barely glanced at his book. The opening hymn was a well-known one and he knew most of the words by heart. His eyes were transfixed upon Sir Oswald’s youngest brother.
The Vicar was a small, spare man, on paper eight years younger than his eldest brother, yet to look at them it could have been almost twenty. He was balding, his nose high-bridged and narrow; he wore no beard or moustache, and his eyes and skin were parchment pale. So many years had passed since Edward had seen himself clean-shaven, he could hardly recall the shape of his own jaw, but there was a distinct familiarity about the Vicar’s face. Edward felt he was looking at an older version of himself.
Suddenly, without warning, knowledge hit him; chills ran up his spine and his knees seemed about to give way. It was pure, unreasoned instinct, but Edward knew, with every fibre of his being, that the man who stood at the head of this congregation was his father.
Grasping the ledge in front of him for support, he questioned it, examined it, and thrust the knowledge away as ridiculous. It seemed incredible that a young man, who must even then have had strongly religious inclinations, should consort with a servant, a woman so much older than himself. It was easy to imagine Sir Oswald deflowering housemaids almost as a matter of course, but that image refused to fit the priest.
On his knees, Edward forced himself to concentrate on the words of the confession, but his own sins were far from his thoughts; as that light, dry voice pronounced the absolution, he remembered Mary Elliott’s words, her repetition of his mother’s insistence that her lover had promised to marry her. In his anger and frustration that night, he had thought it simply a trite excuse for wrongdoing. Faced with the man himself, for the first time Edward wondered if it might be true.
Edward recalled parallels in his own life. He had proposed marriage to dear, sweet Maud, but despite his broken heart, in the end had accepted her parents’ refusal with little protest. Maud had wept, but for her to defy them was unthinkable. In this man’s case, Edward reasoned, he must have had so much more to lose than mere parental regard.
Framing the words of hymns, uttering automatic responses to the prayers, Edward paid attention only to his father’s face and voice. The sermon was based upon the lesson for the twenty-first Sunday after Trinity, the theme faith and the rejection of false gods. The content was not particularly inspired, nor was it delivered in tones of ringing conviction; instead the Vicar gently exhorted his flock to set less store by earthly possessions, to reject temptation in the form of an easy life, and to have faith in God alone.
Privately, Edward thought such choices could hardly apply to half the congregation. Judging by their poor clothes and honest faces, faith in God was about all they had; and as for the rest, the area’s comfortable middle class, to them social position was all, and faith a very abstract concept. He noted Sir Oswald’s bowed head and closed eyes, and his wife’s glazed expression. They’ve heard it all before, he thought, and was suddenly sorry for the man in the pulpit.
Too soon, it seemed, the service was over, and the Baronet’s wife, daughter and son-in-law were sweeping out after the barest few words with their relative. Sir Oswald, however, stood beside his younger brother at the door, affably shaking hands with the most worthy, nodding pleasantly to the rest, generally presenting a united front of beneficent Church and State.
Edward waited for the crowd to thin; standing to let the farm girls leave, he followed them out. The Vicar acknowledged their brief curtseys with a smile, but his eyes lingered on the stranger. Edward inclined his head at that kindly curiosity, but before he could make his escape, the now familiar voice addressed him.
‘How pleasant to see a new face in our congregation! Will you be with us long, Mr –?’
It was a moment Edward had not envisaged. Yet as he grasped the extended hand and gave his name, he knew he could not have prevaricated had his life depended on it. ‘Elliott,’ he said. ‘Edward Elliott.’
He wondered if he imagined the flicker in those calm grey eyes, but in the following momentary silence, the hand that held his tightened perceptibly.
‘A short visit only, I’m afraid – I came to see the church,’ he said abruptly, aware of warmth in cheeks and brow. He withdrew his hand from the other man’s grasp, but those eyes still held his, searching now, and more than merely curious.
‘Yes — people do. It’s quite famous. Have you seen all the monuments?’ he asked, gesturing towards the north wall. ‘Quite fascinating – the older ones in Latin, of course, and not very good Latin at that!’ He smiled, glancing at his fidgeting brother, who was obviously keen to be gone. The church was empty but for the three of them. ‘If you have time, perhaps you’d care to call at the Vicarage tomorrow, Mr Elliott?’ he suggested. ‘Then I could show you round. It’s no trouble, I assure you – the church and its monuments are one of my enthusiasms.’
Momentarily overcome, Edward bit his lip. ‘I wish I could take you up on that kind offer, sir, but I must be back in York this evening. Nevertheless, I thank you most sincerely.’
The older man seemed disappointed. ‘How unfortunate. But perhaps you’ll visit us again?’
‘I certainly will,’ Edward promised warmly, and, with a polite bow, bade the two men good morning.
As his footsteps echoed in the stone-flagged porch, he heard Sir Oswald say: ‘Deuce take it, George! D’you have to befriend every waif and stray that admires this heap of old stones? I’m off before Hermione has me hung. Will we see you for dinner?’
The reply was inaudible, but Edward could verify the Baronet’s words as he passed the carriage beyond the gate. Lady Hermione watched with gimlet eyes; and in part-apology for having kept her waiting, Edward smiled and tipped his h
at. So exultant was his mood, it seemed his heart performed somersaults; he had no proof beyond that wild surge of instinct, but he was convinced that the invitation had more to do with his name and who he was than any ancient monument. But his reasons for refusing had a double foundation.
It was true Albert Tempest had been severely put out by Edward’s sudden request for two and a half days of absence, and in the end he had had to explain that he was called away on family business which was impossible to deal with on a Sunday. The series of half-truths had caused Edward no compunction, and even now he was tempted to ignore his promise to be back on Monday morning. It was less the promise that put a brake on his inclinations than a fear of things going too fast. He felt he needed time to digest what he had learnt, time to arrange his thoughts and emotions in suitable order; time, if necessary, to prepare himself for disappointment.
Eight
On a wooden tray covered by a starched white cloth, Harris brought the usual pot of tea, together with the morning’s mail. There were two slim, buff envelopes with York postmarks, which looked like bills, and a heavy white one, postmarked Lincolnshire, addressed to the Captain in a neat hand. That should cheer him up, Harris thought as he laid the tray down; in a week’s absence, this was her first letter, and the Captain had been crusty as an old Colonel for the past four days.
Pushing back the curtains, Harris announced that it was a fine morning. ‘A bit of mist lingering, sir, but that should soon clear. Chilly, though — should I light the fire?’
With his eyes still closed, Robert murmured his assent. He listened to the rattling and scraping sounds for a minute or so before pulling himself into a sitting position. The cold air on his skin woke him fully; with a shiver he hitched the quilt round his shoulders, reached for the tea, and suddenly noticed the letters.
‘Good God, Harris, there’s mail. Why did you not say? Pass me the paperknife, will you?’ He cast the two bills aside and weighed Louisa’s letter in his hand. ‘Well, she might not write as often as one would wish, but...’
Eagerly, he slit the envelope open and extracted half a dozen pages of close-written script. The first page, dated Sunday evening, described the chaos of her cousins’ house, with children running wild, Jenny fretting herself into a fever, and enough laundry to keep a washerwoman busy for a week. Robert smiled at the image conjured up by her description of John Elliott’s misery, his evident relief at Louisa’s capable management of household and willing but disorganized neighbours.
There was a break, occasioned by a sudden crisis, the narrative not resumed until Tuesday. Having sung the praises of her cousin’s eldest daughter, an adorable five-year-old, Louisa was prompted to ask after Victoria Tempest.
With a heavy sigh, Robert turned the page and read on. ‘Did you see anything of the Bainbridges or Rachel in the last week? I do hope so. The thought of Victoria nags at me dreadfully, but Rachel is the only one who can do anything, and I am afraid she may be too taken up with her recent success in society to bother.
‘Thinking of home reminds me of how much I am missing you. This week has been so busy, I have hardly had time to think, and have fallen into bed each night utterly exhausted! Together, the older children are like a barrel of monkeys, they try my patience dreadfully, but the baby is a little cherub. He sleeps all night and hardly ever cries, which is quite remarkable. I must confess you now have a rival, Robert, as I have fallen in love with my little cousin! Jenny says she is afraid I may take him home with me when I go!
‘I am pleased to say that she seems much improved even in the last few days, although the doctor said yesterday that he hoped I would stay at least until the end of the month.
‘Hopefully, I shall be back with you by the first week in December, and by then we shall be thinking of Christmas, which I can hardly believe, the year has gone so quickly. How strange it seems that this time last year I did not know you, nor had any inkling that you were about to enter my life and my heart. Now, I cannot imagine a time when I did not love you. How strange, yet how wonderful it is.
‘I hope you have not missed me too much, and that there has been some good hunting weather in Yorkshire. It has been ideal here. I saw the Blankney pack one frosty morning last week, and they are indeed a most stirring sight. Sometimes I wish I had learned to ride, but other than plod around a field on somebody’s old mare when I was a child, I never had the opportunity. One day, perhaps when we go to Ireland, you might teach me?
‘I really must close now and take this letter to the post in the morning. My eyes will barely stay open, but I go to bed in hopes to dream of you. Until we are together again – from your ever-loving Louisa.’
At the bottom of the page was a hastily scribbled postscript: ‘Thanks for your note which arrived just now. I’m sorry you were worried, but there was no need. Glad you’ve seen Mamma. If you go again, give her my love and any news as I may not have time to write again for a while. P.P.S. – do not tell her this, however – I have had a letter this morning from Edward. His few days in Lincolnshire proved most worthwhile — more about that when I see you. Love, Louisa.’
Robert frowned, wondering at that last cryptic comment. Shaking his head, he turned to the beginning and read the letter through again. It was so typical of her, revealing in ways she did not dream of, ways he loved, even while part of him disapproved. It was hard work she was doing, servants’ work, and he regretted the somewhat reproachful note he had sent the other day, instructing her to write as soon as possible.
In seven days he had missed her intensely, and because she was so out of reach, he longed for her both mentally and physically, was prey to a restlessness which had little to do with the idleness of winter.
Sighing again, he returned the closely-written pages to their envelope, and leaning back, allowed himself the luxury of a prolonged, tendon-cracking stretch.
‘Well, Harris,’ he said at last, ‘it’s about time I moved. I think an appearance on the parade-ground is required this morning.’
Naked, he stepped out of bed and thrust his arms into the robe his servant held ready. ‘Wish I’d known it was going to be fine today – could’ve made arrangements to go out with the York and Ainsty. Will it last, do you think?’ he enquired, peering at the high arc of blue above the low-lying mist.
‘Might be foggy tonight, sir, but it should be clear in the country.’
‘Hmm. Well, we can try it tomorrow. I could do with a spot of exercise. I’ll see what the Duty Roster has in store and fix something up with Tommy.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Having brought up the hot water for his master’s bath, Harris checked each item of uniform for the morning’s mounted parade: frock coat, pantaloons, knee boots and jack spurs; sword with sabretache, white sword-sling and belt, white gloves, and last but not least, the round pill-box hat. From separate drawers he took out freshly-laundered underclothes, found fresh white towels and set them to warm by the fire.
While the Captain took his bath in the dressing room, Harris proceeded to strip the narrow bed, smiling to himself as he recalled that warm summer’s evening, the night she had slept here, and the curious train of events which followed.
He continued to smile as he remade it, squaring the ends of each sheet and blanket, laying the eiderdown and counterpane with exact precision. He and the Captain had an understanding about Miss Elliott. In case of emergency, he had the apartment’s address, he knew how often the Captain visited her, and for how long; and despite that one meeting, Harris felt he knew Louisa Elliott intimately, simply because his master reflected her every mood. In her own very original way, she had the man dangling from her finger as neatly as any courtesan. The situation afforded Harris much private amusement.
He pushed the bed back into place, then took two warmed towels through into the dressing room. Picking up the tray from the bedside table, he winked and nodded at Louisa’s photograph in its silver frame; as always, he could have sworn those long eyelashes dipped slyly, and t
hat enigmatic mouth broadened into a conspiratorial smile. Still grinning, Harris turned, tray in hand, and saw his master was already out of the bath, watching him. His name was spoken with deceptive softness.
‘Sir?’
Robert tucked one towel around his waist and slowly rubbed his arms and chest with the other. ‘Do you make a habit of leering at that particular portrait?’
‘No, sir!’
‘Good. I’m relieved to hear it. I should so hate to lose you to the Drill Sergeant.’
With tray in hand, Harris endeavoured to come to attention. ‘Sir!’
As his servant stiffly left the room, Robert picked up the guilty picture, a half-smile on his lips. One afternoon they had gone to the studio on Lendal, and quite deliberately he had stood behind the photographer as he worked. The result had been three quite delightful portraits.
She often looked like that: amused, secretive, slightly challenging, wearing that ladylike reserve as she would a high-necked gown. It was part of her charm, he decided, and felt again the familiar response within himself. Firmly, he set the frame down in its usual place and strode back into the dressing room, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘Blast Harris!’ he muttered, and reached for his clothes.
He returned at six, having turned out for the mounted parade at ten that morning, performed a stables’ inspection at twelve, and a spot-check of the men’s victuals an hour later. Following his own meal, there had been an interview with the Adjutant regarding Christmas leave, after which he had been relatively free, choosing to spend the rest of the afternoon in the Riding School, watching half a dozen recruits and two new subalterns being put through a form of purgatory by the Riding Master.
As a diversion on free afternoons, it was generally entertaining and often very revealing. The riders cantered round and round the ring, with saddles, without saddles, without harness, over jumps, hands clasped behind their backs. Robert had watched and smiled grimly, knowing at once who could be relied upon, who must be curbed, and who encouraged. The Riding School was no place for vanity or pride; with each sickening thud to the sawdust, reality was hammered home; and in the end, most of those men would sit a horse as though born to it, controlling the animal instinctively. In the fray of battle, that was vital.
Louisa Elliott Page 30