He had been busy, she could see that. The room’s worn, stone-flagged floor was empty and clean; part-brick, part-timber walls were freshly white-washed, as was the beamed ceiling; a new flight of wooden steps led to an upper floor, while along the wall beneath the window was a smooth new workbench and a stack of what seemed to be pine shelving, waiting to be fitted. By contrast, the vast brick fireplace on the opposite wall contained an ancient range which looked to have lain unused for years. It was the only incongruous item in what was otherwise a quaint but attractive workroom.
As she turned to meet his gaze she saw the sparkle of pride and amusement. ‘Will it do, do you think?’
‘It’s amazing!’ she confessed. ‘How ever did you keep all this to yourself? And you’ve worked so quickly – ‘
‘Well, not me, exactly,’ he interrupted, ‘I’ve had a carpenter in to do the essential jobs. And as you can see, he hasn’t finished yet.’
‘But it’s lovely,’ she sighed, taking everything in again. ‘I don’t know, Edward, you’re such a dark horse, sometimes.’
‘Perhaps it runs in the family,’ he commented.
Stabbed by that small dart, Louisa turned away. ‘What’s upstairs?’
‘Nothing much, junk that might come in handy. I got rid of the rubbish. But I haven’t got round to cleaning it properly yet. Down here was the first priority.’
‘You know, I never thought you’d leave Tempest’s,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Didn’t imagine you could afford to. But you must have been planning this for a long time.’
He denied it. ‘A few months, that’s all. I suddenly realized I was in a rut – working hard for someone else — almost carrying the place for the last few years. The bookbinding side, anyway. So I did a bit of arithmetic and decided it was just about feasible, then started looking for premises. As you can imagine,’ he laughed, ‘this place came pretty cheap!’
Fingering the new workbench, glancing round, he added softly, ‘But I wish I’d thought of it years ago. Probably couldn’t have afforded to move before my mother died, but I wish I’d planned it earlier. My only regret now is the timing. I doubt I’ll be ready to move in for a few weeks yet, but I feel bad about leaving the old man when he’s crocked up like this.’
‘Don’t be,’ Louisa said tersely. ‘He wouldn’t think twice about getting rid of you, if it suited him. No matter what the circumstances.’
For a moment Edward pursed his lips, then, with a sudden click of disapproval, said: ‘There you go again — so bitter. It was never like you to hold a grudge.’ When she did not respond, he added more gently: ‘What is it? Perhaps I’m wrong, but it seems so much more than just the child’s death.’
Avoiding his gaze, on a deep breath she nodded. When she did look up, he saw pain and guilt and sadness. Whatever the cause, he sensed it would hurt him too. For a moment, wondering at this meeting’s wisdom, Edward closed his eyes.
When he looked up she had moved closer, her hand half-extended towards him. In the black garb of mourning he thought how pale she looked, like a grieving widow; there were even tears beneath her lashes. With a deep, sad sigh, conscious that all his fine resolutions were in danger of fleeing forever, Edward reached out, folding her hands tight within his own. In that quiet place he could hear the rapid pulsing of his blood, was suddenly aware of the weeks and months and years since they had been as close as this.
Finding his voice, he said gruffly: ‘What are you so afraid of?’
On a sharp release of breath she bent her head to his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ she gulped, ‘I’m so sorry!’
For once, instinct prevailed; the sudden, fierce joy that consumed him as he drew her into his arms was almost painful in its intensity. His fingers tingled as he touched her hair, her neck, the smoothness of her back. Longing to crush that delicious softness until her body merged with his, he held her tenderly, enjoying the sweetness of the moment. Lips touched soft curls, the velvety curve of an ear, tasted the salty warmth of tears on her cheek.
‘There’s no need for tears,’ he murmured, even while he savoured the taste.
Burying her face against his shoulder she sobbed. ‘Oh but there is. You don’t know…’
‘What don’t I know?’ he whispered.
‘What happened — when I left Blossom Street.’
‘Never mind,’ he murmured soothingly, no longer really caring. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
‘Oh, but it does,’ she insisted, drawing back to look at him. While she brushed roughly at her eyes, Edward found a handkerchief and tenderly dried her tears.
‘You see, now they’re together again, they’ll talk – about the past, about what parted them in the first place. And in the making up they’ll find other people to blame – they certainly won’t blame themselves. I’ll be the scapegoat, Edward — you can count on that!’
With a sigh he drew her back into his arms. She was taut as a strung bow and he longed for her to relax. ‘I think you’d better give me this story from the beginning... ‘
Despite her agitation, he was aware of his own euphoria; felt that as long as he could go on holding her, touching her, nothing else could matter; and wondered why he had never felt like this before. The reasons for her distress confused him, but whereas once he had been desperate for those answers, now he was strangely reluctant to hear them. With a smile and a sigh he touched her forehead with his lips. ‘Now,’ he said gently, ‘begin with Albert Tempest. What’s his part in all this?’
Louisa’s shudder seemed the last vestige of her sobbing fit. Leaning against the bench, stroking her back, he listened as she began to talk about an afternoon at the Bainbridges, and a late return that set everything in motion. She said that she had not seen Robert Duncannon for months, and told him the reason why.
Recalling the wrong conclusions drawn, Edward at first felt ashamed, but shame was soon overtaken by shock. Her confession of Albert Tempest’s assault came like a blow to the stomach. He wanted to hit out, block his ears, anything but comprehend the terror and humiliation she had endured. Anger, cold and stark, broke deep inside and chilled him to the bone.
‘Oh, God,’ he swore with trembling passion, ‘he’ll pay for that! He’ll pay for all of it!’
Seventeen
Bitter wounds left no room for regret.
He had planned to wait until the worst of the present crisis was over, but the following day Edward penned a letter of resignation, stating with some satisfaction that he intended setting up in business on his own. Sealing the envelope, he went out immediately to post it on Fossgate. Albert Tempest would no doubt receive it by late afternoon, too late for any kind of action. There would be all evening and the long quiet hours of the Sabbath for him to ponder and fume and stew; Monday morning would see him back, whatever his state of health.
The chain of events Louisa had described burned in the back of his mind, but he refused to dwell on them. Determined to clear as much work as possible, he summoned his senior assistant and, ignoring the man’s pop-eyed surprise, informed him that he had given notice and would be leaving as soon as possible. He outlined his handover plans and began by showing him the orders and accounts, trying to suppress angry frustration at the younger man’s slowness.
They worked on into the afternoon, until Edward sensed his assistant could absorb no more. With a sigh he sent the man home, surprised a moment later to see that the young apprentice was still working.
‘Now then, Dick, what are you doing? I thought you’d gone.’
The lad was tall and lanky; awkwardly, he towered over Edward. ‘Well, Mr Elliott, sir. Since you said you’d be leaving, I thought maybe you could do with a bit of help. Strikes me there’s a lot to do.’
‘There is,’ Edward gruffly acknowledged, secretly wishing the boy and his absent superior could swop places. Had Dick been out of his apprenticeship, there would have been fewer anxieties. He glanced at the clock: it was already past three. ‘I’ll be here for a good while yet. You
can stay if you want. I’d appreciate it.’
The boy glowed with pleasure. ‘Right you are, sir.’ And with that he returned to his task, preparing the cut edges of unbound books with a sharp steel scraper.
At the end of each stage, Dick brought the books to Edward to be inspected. Edward ran sensitive fingers over each cut edge, cast an experienced eye at the clamps before the black lead polish was applied, and finally pronounced the edges ready for their coating of egg-white. He went to the safe for the book of gold-leaf, inspecting his hands as he did so. It pleased him to see they were steady.
Opening the book of gold-leaf, he ran his fingers through his hair several times, allowing the static to attract a single leaf of delicate tissue. Swiftly and surely, he applied it to the unbound book, pressing it into place with a piece of polished agate. When it was dry it would be burnished; he always looked forward to the moment when he could riffle the pages, watching the light catch the glitter, close it, and see a solid block of gold.
With the unbound set complete, Edward gave a satisfied sigh. ‘Covers tomorrow, I think.’ The set was for a valued customer in the East Riding; it was suddenly a matter of personal importance that the gentleman not be disappointed.
‘It’s Sunday tomorrow, Mr Elliot,’ the lad reminded him.
‘I know.’
‘Will you be coming in, then?’
‘I will.’ Automatically, he began tidying things away, and the boy followed his lead.
‘You expecting a spot of trouble on Monday, Mr Elliott?’ The apprentice’s tone was sympathetic and deferential, but Edward looked up sharply.
‘I think you know Mr Tempest well enough,’ he said wryly, ‘to know he won’t be pleased by my resignation.’
‘Aye, sir, I do.’
‘Well, he’s going to want to know why I’m resigning. And when I tell him, he’s going to be even less pleased. I rather think I shall be told to leave immediately.’
Dick’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘Place won’t be the same, sir.’
‘I was leaving anyway, Dick, a few days less are neither here nor there.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir — why are you bothered about getting this order away? I mean, if you’re leaving, why should you worry?’
‘A fair question, lad. Just call it professional pride. The gentleman’s been a good customer. I don’t want to let him down.’
At the door, the boy said, ‘If you could do with a hand tomorrow, I’ll come in, willingly.’
Touched by the gesture, Edward shook his head. ‘There’s no need. It’s the Sabbath and your only day off. Your parents won’t thank me for asking you to work.’
‘Oh, they won’t mind. Besides, I’d like to see you get them books finished in decent time. I’ll be here at eight as usual.’
Edward smiled. ‘Make it nine.’
They parted company by All Saints, and as the boy loped off up Coppergate, Edward reminded himself that the world was not only comprised of Fossgate; but there were good things, even there.
The market, filling the length and breadth of Parliament Street, was still in full swing, a noisy, colourful melee of carts and stalls, hucksters, pedlars and auctioneers all vying for attention. Farmers’ wives on the butter-stalls were crying their wares, customers walking the line with pennies at the ready, testing here and there as fancy took them. Having eaten nothing since breakfast, Edward was hungry, yet it was a pleasant evening and he was strangely averse to the idea of going home. After being shut inside all day he felt in need of air and a quiet place in which to think.
On impulse he bought a breadcake, returning to purchase a quarter each of butter and cheese. A buxom young woman with fair hair and rosy cheeks caught his attention, inviting him to try her wares. Flushing slightly, he fished in his pocket for a penny, scooped a little of the sample to his tongue and pronounced it excellent. As she weighed and patted his order into shape, he chose a small piece of cheese, shaking his head at her attempts to sell him more.
Avoiding tired children and scolding mothers, he threaded his way past bulging baskets and gawping labourers, eager for entertainment now their working day was over. Davygate was quieter, Lendal deserted. Descending the steps by the bridge, he walked along the Esplanade towards Marygate Landing, pausing to look across the park to where Louisa lived. For the moment, however, he did not even want to see her.
His anger of the day before had given way to numbness, a kind of suspended disbelief which had seen him fall into bed like a dead man, sleeping long and sound until daybreak. Dreaming of Louisa he had woken to lonely reality, to bitterness and regret and a sorrow which swept through him like sudden bereavement. He had wept then, a short burst of anguish which proved strangely cleansing. The truth was hard to accept, but only because of her pain; he did not doubt the attempted rape.
Gradually, he had pieced together the whole of it, from the events of that fateful afternoon and evening to the Captain’s attempt to exact revenge. Her omissions had revealed more than she intended about Blankney, but he had held her closer then, unwilling to exhibit his reaction.
He still burned with jealousy whenever he thought of Robert Duncannon, but found, strangely, that he could set it aside. Yesterday had changed everything, bringing him face to face with different emotions, ones he had been fighting against for longer than he cared to remember. Certainly since her return to York.
To need her touch had seemed wrong, so wrong it had never been fully acknowledged. But with Louisa in his arms, the soaring delight of those first few moments had cushioned him against later pain; and how could that be wrong? While he held her, it had seemed as though his very bones would melt in flames which licked at lips and loins and fingertips. Before, he had been ashamed, blaming her for his reactions; but yesterday, as defences fell, had come that moment of joy: a moment too intense to deny.
In retrospect it was painful and unfortunate and he wished it was not so; but at least he understood. Easier now to stand in Louisa’s place, and to grasp what Mary Elliott had been telling him months ago. Now he knew the force which bound Louisa to another man, and the conflict she had gone through in trying to defeat it. A similar conflict had been driving him mad, but recognition made it easier to bear.
Last night, at home, he had taken her Christmas gift, the illustrated Rubaiyat, and found himself reading with different eyes. Verses he had condemned as blasphemous took on fresh significance as he read and absorbed, and read again.
A scrap came back to him: ‘And if the wine you drink, the lip you press, End in the nothing all things end in...’
He sighed. The old unbeliever had something there, Edward acknowledged; begin with nothing, end with nothing, and the rest is illusion...
And yet, and yet...
Remorse crept in as he saw how nearly the bonds of love might have been his, and legitimately so. Once, she could have been his alone, but she was so young, and he… he saw things differently then. When he might have declared his love and married her, he had let her go for five long years, to live and grow and change in an alien world, so that when she returned she was no longer a girl but a self-contained woman, and he the stranger, shy in her presence.
He walked for a while, watching the river flow past on its inexorable journey to the sea. It had a long way to go, he thought, as he himself had, yet there was no hurry, only a welcome sense of peace. Tomorrow would come, and it would go; the next day similarly, and all the days thereafter. Whatever Albert Tempest said or failed to say, did or failed to do, the river would still be here. And in the distance the Minster, soaring like the visible act of faith it was.
In unconscious prayer, he left all in the hands of God.
Eighteen
Shortly before eleven, as the apprentice was applying sealing-wax to that important parcel of books, a hired carriage drew up outside Tempest’s shop. Leaving his task, the lad went quietly and unobtrusively into Edward’s office.
‘He’s here, Mr Elliott. Mr Tempest, s
ir,’ he added, as though clarification might be necessary.
‘Very well,’ Edward said evenly, although his heart began a sudden pounding. Firmly, he grasped both pen and ruler, turning his attention to the ledger on his desk. ‘Please return to what you were doing, Dick. Mr Tempest won’t like to see you idle.’
Dumbly, the boy nodded, and, leaving the door ajar, went back to the workroom.
Edward heard a shuffling, the mingled voices of his employer and the lad who served behind the counter. Albert Tempest’s office door opened and closed again; and a moment later re-opened. Clearly anxious, the shop-boy put his head round Edward’s door.
‘He wants to see you, Mr Elliott. In five minutes. I tell you what, sir, he don’t look right good. Not right good at all.’
‘If you mean Mr Tempest,’ Edward said briskly, ‘I thank you for letting me know. Meanwhile, attend to the counter, else some urchin will be away with the takings!’
‘Yes, sir!’ The door closed, loudly, it seemed, in that sudden silence. Edward looked at his pocket watch, sat back in his chair with hands clasped and tried to breathe deeply. Now the time was upon him, he felt physically sick. He loathed having to set eyes on the man, having to confront him. But, he reminded himself, Louisa had borne more than angry words. For her sake he had to see this through, to finish once and for all what Robert Duncannon had attempted a year ago.
The second hand on his watch came round for the third time. He stood up, straightened his tie and exchanged his overall for the jacket he always wore to work. Smoothing back the wayward lock of hair above his forehead, he automatically ran a hand over his beard, glad he had close-trimmed it the night before. It gave him a harder, less vulnerable aspect.
With yet a minute to go, he tapped on the inner office door, and without waiting to be bidden, walked in. The swivel chair was turned towards the clock; heavy eyebrows rose in surprise above sunken, feverish eyes. Slowly, as though it cost him effort, Albert Tempest turned to face the man who had been running his business for almost three weeks. A hand, which shook more palpably than Edward’s ever had, indicated the letter before him.
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