‘Yes. I have some business to attend to, and I refuse to waste precious days with you by going alone. Besides, I want you to see the place, Louisa. It’s where I was born, for heaven’s sake – where I spent the best years of my life – I want you to see it.’
Splashing his face with cold water he dabbed himself dry. ‘We’ve usually spent Christmas there, you know, but I’ve no intention of doing so this year. Christmas is going to be the four of us — just you and me, Georgie and Letty. And we’re going to spend it here, not at White Leigh. My brother will be disappointed, and offended if we stay away completely — which is why I feel we should go now, rather than leaving it till spring.’
‘If I were your brother, I’d be offended by your letter,’ she said as Robert went through to collect the clothes Harris had laid out for him.
‘Nonsense!’ he laughed. ‘Will and I understand each other.’
On the threshold of that other room, feeling the presence of Charlotte’s ghost as surely as if she stood there, Louisa said: ‘And what about the real fly in the ointment, as you put it? What about… ‘ With no wish to destroy his good temper, she hesitated. ‘What about Charlotte?’
‘There’s no need to worry about her,’ he said evenly, returning to her side. ‘Don’t look so stricken – you won’t even see Charlotte.’
But Louisa was frightened. Slipping her arms round his neck, she clung to him, feeling the dampness of his skin after the bath, his reassuring warmth and strength. ‘I love you,’ she whispered passionately. Kissing the curve of his shoulder, she bit back the fear.
‘And I love you.’ With a tender kiss, he extricated himself. ‘Trust me,’ he said.
In the misty, fading light of a November afternoon they drove up the straight, single street of a village as plain and unremarkable as any in Ireland; it was the third they had passed since leaving the railway station in Waterford, and Louisa was amazed by the similarity of one with another.
Dublin, with its elegant Georgian streets, was a place with which she could identify: a city bearing, on the surface at least, a recognizably English stamp. But these villages were nothing like those of Lincolnshire or the Yorkshire Wolds. There was nothing pretty about them, no gardens to soften rough walls, no endearing quaintness to relieve the harsh reality of poverty in its barest, bleakest form. In England, to be poor in the country was infinitely preferable to poverty in the city; here there seemed little to choose between the two. The most she could say for this particular street was that it was tidy, and the cottages along the roadside seemed in better repair than most.
She expected open country at the end of those twin rows, to pass through this place as they had passed through others; but as the carriage slowed, she saw the darkness of forested land ahead, and the village street became a broad driveway. Between open gates stood an avenue of huge, foreign-looking trees.
The darkness was sudden. Alarmed, she gripped Robert’s hand, feeling, rather than hearing, his little hiss of laughter against her cheek.
‘Araucarias, my darling – also known as monkey-puzzle trees, which sounds far less frightening and reduces them, don’t you think, to the ridiculousness they deserve.’
‘I’ve never seen so many, or so tall.’
‘Yes, our great-grandfather had rather a passion for specimen trees: they had to be bigger and better than everyone else’s. It shows an appalling lack of taste, I feel.’
‘They always frightened you as a child, Robert,’ Letty said wickedly.
‘Did they? I really don’t recall.’
She laughed, while Georgina said firmly: ‘Horrid trees, Daddy, I hate them.’
‘I can’t say I’m very fond of them,’ Louisa admitted, inordinately glad when they came out into the open.
Ahead, standing on a slight elevation, through swirls of mist she saw the house, grey and somewhat spectral in the half-light, as insubstantial as a dream – or nightmare. With its pediments and pillars, balustrades and tall windows, there was an illusion of vastness about it, an illusion which was both impressive and chilling on that dank November afternoon.
‘Not the best light in which to see the ancestral home,’ Letty observed with irony, ‘especially for the first time. Let’s pray for a little sun tomorrow.’
‘And a good warm fire tonight,’ Robert muttered.
‘Oh, yes, indeed, do let’s hope that Anne’s little economies haven’t extended that far!’
Letty laughed at the private joke, but Louisa’s heart sank. She found herself thinking of the Gillygate house with a longing which brought a lump to her throat; a small town house it might be, with no pretensions to elegance, but at least it was warm and welcoming, even on the coldest night. This house looked cold and grand, like an ice-palace without a heart. Wondering how Robert could love it, she returned the pressure of his hand and tried to summon a smile.
The carriage drew up before a broad flight of steps, and Louisa’s saw that close to, White Leigh House was smaller than it appeared at a distance. Less the spectral palace and more an elegant and imposing country residence, quite solidly built of limestone. Nevertheless, Letty’s instruction to pack warm clothes rang in her ears, together with the truth that it was cold and draughty, and that the east wing’s roof leaked like a sieve.
As the steps were let down, Georgina leapt out and ran up the broad flight to where her cousin Harry was waiting with his parents. At least she’s pleased, Louisa thought, following Letty and shaking out the skirts of her travelling clothes. The skirt and jacket were plain and dark and very expensive, but she was glad of the confidence they gave. Lady Anne Duncannon could not accuse her of being cheap and flashy, whatever other criticisms she might make. Nor could she sigh over Letty’s appearance today, for Robert’s sister had given way to persuasion and indulged in two new winter outfits. Louisa thought she looked very distinguished in heathery tweeds.
On a deep breath Louisa mounted the steps, hanging back with the right amount of tact as Robert and Letty were briefly embraced. Without waiting to be introduced, however, Sir William came forward and shook her hand, welcoming Louisa with such genuine warmth, she had no difficulty finding a responding smile. Grateful for that small kindness, she knew she would like this big bear of a man, whatever Robert said about his weaknesses. Broad, bearded, with a florid complexion and unruly red hair, she could see little in the way of family resemblance; except perhaps in warmth and charm, Louisa thought, that essence the Duncannons seemed to possess in abundance.
Not so his wife. Her clipped, very English way of speaking contrasted sharply with her husband’s soft, meandering phrases, while her eyes swept up and down Louisa’s form – so like Blanche! – taking in every detail of her looks and appearance.
‘So this is Miss Elliott,’ she murmured, barely touching the tips of Louisa’s outstretched fingers, ‘of whom we have heard so much.’ The slight stress on the final word made her greeting sound like an insult, and Louisa felt the colour mounting in her cheeks. Robert’s sudden indrawn breath was audible. Afraid to meet his eyes, she looked down, thankful for Letty’s intervention, her over-bright tones and inconsequential chatter as she ushered her sister-in-law into the house.
Glaring at Anne’s retreating back, Robert gripped Louisa’s elbow with a firmness that hurt, and steered her inside.
There was more trouble later. When he saw Louisa’s room in the ill-famed east wing, Robert was furious. Whipping back the bedclothes, he ran his hand between the sheets.
‘This bed is damp,’ he said. ‘You can’t possibly sleep here.’
He was almost out of the door before she could call him back. ‘Robert, please don’t make a fuss. At least there’s a fire, and with a couple of hot water bottles I’ll be all right.’
‘You’ll have pneumonia,’ he declared.
Determined to rectify matters, he went in search of his sister-in-law. Louisa shivered. Despite the fire, the room was cold and gloomy, the carpet sadly worn, the window-hangings dusty and frayed. In the
corner amongst the shadows, black mildew spotted the silk-covered wall. She touched it with her fingers, finding it loose and damp, and as she raised the lamp above her head, noticed a whole section peeling away below the cornice. It was a sad sight. The eighteenth-century Chinese silk had been very beautiful once, she could see that, but those exotic birds in spiky foliage were faded now, the whole room ruined beyond repair by the damp seeping in from above.
She sneezed, and the sound seemed unnaturally loud. Apart from the crackle of logs in the grate, the silence was total, almost uncanny. She might have been all alone in the house. It certainly seemed she was alone in this part of it. Or was she? With another shiver, this time of nerves, Louisa thought of Charlotte, and wondered where her quarters were. If Anne Duncannon would place a guest in this wing, how did the mad relative fare?
Louisa moved back to the fire and set her eyes upon the door. So tense was she that Robert’s return startled her, and, trembling with sudden relief, she sat down.
‘Don’t be making yourself comfortable here,’ he said abruptly, ‘you’re moving to the west wing – a little closer, thank God, to me.’
Swallowing hard, standing up, Louisa began to gather her things.
‘No, no, no – leave that – a maid will see to it. Come on, let’s get downstairs for a drink.’
‘But what about…?’ She indicated her travelling clothes. ‘I haven’t changed.’
‘Nor can you until your room’s prepared. You can change later for dinner.’
With a backward glance, Louisa followed him out of the room. Dreading the thought of another confrontation with Anne Duncannon, she enquired tentatively: ‘What did you say, or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Robert growled. Suddenly protective, he stopped before the doors which led into the main body of the house, and squeezed her shoulders. ‘Don’t let her upset you, Louisa. And if she does,’ he advised, ‘don’t show it. Raise that pretty little chin of yours, my darling, and look down your nose at her — it’s no more than she deserves. And remember, you’re my guest.’
‘But this is her house, Robert.’
‘My brother’s house,’ he corrected. ‘And also my childhood home.’ Dropping a light kiss on the end of her nose, he smiled suddenly. ‘Come on, let’s go down and give her a run for her money!’
Not for the first time, Louisa thought how well he thrived on conflict, on a challenge, on the chance to thumb his nose at an adversary and get away with it. As a soldier, she supposed he needed that, but she found the trait disquieting. As some kind of camp-follower, which was perhaps how Anne Duncannon chose to see her, there was danger in being dragged along in Robert’s wake.
With a wry twist of her lips, Louisa nodded. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she whispered. Before he could open the doors, however, she tugged at his arm. ‘Tell me something first – where are Charlotte’s rooms? I only want to know,’ she added quickly, ‘so I can avoid the area. I don’t particularly want to run into her, or her nurse.’
‘But you won’t,’ he said. ‘Did I not say? She hasn’t lived in the house for a long time — not since that last little debacle a couple of years ago. William had a cottage built for her in the grounds. She has her nurse and a couple of servants, and the change has done her good. Or so they tell me,’ he added dryly. A moment later, searching her face, he said: ‘You haven’t been worrying about her, have you?’
‘Well, yes, actually, I have,’ she admitted tersely, allowing anger and disappointment to show. ‘Silly of me, no doubt, but you didn’t say, Robert. Or I would have remembered.’
With a heavy sigh, he apologized. ‘She’s not a subject we discuss every day, is she? And there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then…’
Her new room was at the far end of the west wing, smaller but also warmer, with the furnishings in better repair. It was next to the servants’ staircase, the fifth door along, with an empty room between herself and young Harry’s tutor, and another between him and Robert.
‘A matter of discretion,’ Robert explained as he escorted her upstairs to change. ‘Anne did not wish to embarrass you — she said—by making you the only woman in this part of the house. So she very kindly gave you a grand room in the other wing.’
‘It seems a shame to let it go. It must have been beautiful, once…’
‘It was,’ he agreed tersely. ‘That wing’s deteriorated badly in the last few years. But contrary to popular misconception, Charlotte’s fortune isn’t a bottomless pit. We did this roof first – then the main house – and then there was the cottage to build. And after that, damn me if the Dublin house didn’t need a new bloody roof along with everything else.’
‘Quite a drain on finances, then?’ Louisa wondered why she was so surprised. Robert never discussed money with her, nor did she expect him to; but she had assumed that Charlotte’s subsidies were restricted to White Leigh. Assumed that a sharp sense of integrity prevented Robert from diverting her income to his own use.
The maid had laid out Louisa’s russet velvet, always one of her favourite gowns; now, however, she eyed it with prickling suspicion, wondering whose money had paid for it. When Robert first told her about Charlotte, he had said he was not a wealthy man; but wealth was a matter of degree, and to Louisa, a hundred pounds a year was untold riches. Horrified by the cost of even one such gown, she had long ago stopped asking the price. Now she wondered. The clothes she wore, the bed she slept in, even pictures she had chosen to adorn the walls of her rooms in Dublin, could have been paid for with Charlotte’s money. She shuddered at the thought.
For a moment she simply regarded the gown, wondering what she should do. It was impossible, here and now, to have the matter out with Robert; and she could not refuse to dress for dinner. But it seemed likely that Charlotte had paid for her travelling clothes too. Furious, humiliated, hating both herself and Robert, Louisa stripped off the jacket and skirt, the ruffled silk blouse, and shrugged herself into the rich velvet with hardly a care for its seams and folds.
Tight-lipped, clutching a fine paisley shawl against the chill of those dark corridors, Louisa went down to dinner.
At his sister-in-law’s direction, Robert took a seat next to her, with Letty and Louisa opposite; Sir William, as always, at the head, and a single, three-branched candelabra between them at one end of that vast table. A couple of oil lamps glowed on the sideboard, but the silent footman was simply a darker shape in that shadow-vaulted room. In the distant grate logs crackled cheerfully, making little impression on the group at the table.
Remarking on the distance, Robert shivered in the chill. ‘Lord, but it’s cold in here. Do we have to sit so far from the fire? I’m sure we used to be much nearer.’
‘That was years ago, Robert, to accommodate your ailing father,’ Anne murmured. ‘This is the correct position for the table— a room must have balance.’
‘Balance, you call it? I call it cold. And who can tell the difference in the dark? If the chandeliers were lit, I could understand your argument.’
His sister-in-law sighed dramatically, touching her napkin delicately to her lips as the soup plates were removed. ‘The cost of candles, Robert, quite extortionate these days. You’ve no idea how we try to economize.’
Beside her, Louisa felt Letty twitch with suppressed laughter; less amused, Robert gritted his teeth. In clipped tones, he said: ‘Obviously not.’
Lady Anne seemed not to notice the dangerous ground she trod; or was she, Louisa wondered, being deliberately provocative? With the arrival of the fish, which was surprisingly hot, Anne said languidly, ‘The Blamires have had electricity installed at the Castle – so much more convenient — light at the flick of a switch.’
At that, Letty’s foot nudged Louisa’s, threatening to release hours of tension in a burst of unseemly giggles. Her napkin firmly covering her mouth, she stared hard at the innocent salmon on her plate.
With just the hint of a quiver, Letty said: ‘How are the horses coming on thi
s season, William? Robert was saying – weren’t you, Robert? – that he hoped to ride out with you one day.’
Thankfully rescued, the conversation continued along Sir William’s favourite lines for some time. Only after dinner, when they were briefly alone, did Letty and Louisa relive that moment, chuckling and giggling like schoolgirls. It was a much-needed tonic, boosting flagging spirits and placing Anne Duncannon’s daunting presence in its proper perspective.
‘May anyone share the joke?’ Robert enquired as he and William rejoined them.
‘It’s an old one, Robert dear,’ Letty said lightly as William helped himself to coffee. ‘I’ve told it many times and you never laugh, so I’ll not repeat it now.’
He looked hard at his sister, and then at Louisa, thawing under her twinkling smile; for a few minutes they were all relaxed, chatting pleasantly of nothing in particular; then Anne Duncannon rejoined them. Louisa’s amusement quickly faded, for those barbed remarks, ostensibly so innocent, were this time directed at herself.
Apart from the smile, Louisa thought, and the bantering tone, Lady Anne might have been interviewing a servant. She asked Louisa’s experience, the names of her previous employers, and whether it was through those North Riding gentry that she had been introduced to Robert.
Annoyed, he answered for her. ‘No. In fact we met in York. We were both guests at a small birthday celebration in the home of Major and Mrs Bainbridge, whose names I’m sure you’ve never heard before, Anne, so why the intense interest?’
‘I was educated in England, Robert, as you are well aware. It merely occurred to me that I might be personally acquainted with some of Miss Elliott’s former employers.’ Quite smoothly, almost without pause, she went on: ‘I suppose your father was a Minister of Religion, Miss Elliott? Just about every governess I ever heard of claimed to be a Vicar’s daughter, I can’t imagine why...’ Both tone and glance managed to imply that most governesses were inveterate liars.
For a moment, Louisa simply held that poisonous look with her own cold stare; it seemed they all hung on her reply. Then, with a tight little smile, she said evenly: ‘That’s probably because most of them are clergymen’s daughters. And as you’re probably aware, Lady Duncannon, so many of the Anglican clergy these days are younger sons of impoverished gentry.’
Louisa Elliott Page 46