At Anne’s raised eyebrow, she said: ‘However, I’ve met quite a few governesses who claimed to be the daughters of country doctors. I myself claim to be the daughter of a Bradford wool merchant – which is original, I suppose, if nothing else. And now,’ she added, rising to her feet, ‘if you’ll all excuse me, I simply must retire: it’s been an exhausting day.’
Glad of the chance to escape, Letty offered to show Louisa to her room; on the stairs, however, Robert caught up with them. Having bidden his sister goodnight, he whispered to Louisa, ‘Shall I come to you, or you to me?’
‘Neither,’ she responded tartly. ‘I’m not going to be caught out, wandering round the corridors at dead of night, like somebody in a music-hall farce! And neither are you.’
‘I see. And who, may I ask, is likely to catch either of us?’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, a certain Mr Crabtree rooms between us.’
‘I doubt he’d notice if the roof fell in.’
‘No, and that’s an end of it.’
‘Very well. I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning. Eight-thirty.’
Four
As always, dragged as though by a magnet, Robert rode out early. The cottage, well-sheltered by trees, stood not very far from the east gate. A simple place, like those in the village, it had two chimneys and a tiled roof, and also a small garden. With no intention of entering, Robert sat astride his horse for a few minutes, peering through trees and the grey, clinging mist.
Thin spirals of smoke rose from the chimneys, and through the kitchen window he could see someone moving, probably the general servant who lived in, making breakfast for the household. Later, a woman from the village would come, as she did each day, to do the heavy work. It was a good arrangement, and one he wished had been thought of earlier. Now, isolated with her nurse and the two servants, Charlotte seemed better than she had been for years.
Harness jangled as the horse shook its head and stamped, and in that freezing air the sudden snort of impatience became a cloud of denser fog. With a sudden shiver, Robert touched the reins and guided his mount carefully through the trees. Back on the path, with space before them, he urged the horse forward, keeping its eagerness to a steady trot across the hard earth.
He was out for the best part of an hour, making a circuit of the grounds and returning at a canter up the long avenue of araucarias. The sun had risen, dispersing much of the mist, but it clung stubbornly to groups of trees in the shallow bowl which surrounded White Leigh, leaving a silvered rime everywhere. Vast lawns glittered in the ellipse of gravel drive, and the simple, classical lines of the great south front shone like a stage-set against a backdrop of cedars and conifers beyond.
Its beauty touched him as it always did, and he reined the horse into a walk, determined to bring Louisa out immediately after breakfast, to see White Leigh as it should be seen. A view such as this, he thought, was worth all it cost to preserve; and despite William’s name on the title deeds, it would always belong to him, in his heart.
Plagued by anxiety, Louisa had barely slept. Aware of the bed’s strangeness and every creak and groan of an old and unfamiliar house, she regretted most bitterly her refusal of Robert’s companionship. But while pride might have buckled, integrity would not. She could not forget that Robert’s wife had been granted refuge here, however unwillingly; and as a tolerated though hardly welcome guest, she could not abuse that. But the most disturbing aspect was Charlotte’s proximity: the shadowy figure which stood between herself and Robert was no longer mythical.
With the arrival of early-morning tea, and the making up of the fire, she forced herself awake. A little later, shivering in the chill, she dressed in her warmest clothes and prepared to face the day.
There was no reply to her tap at Robert’s door, and when she looked inside, no sign of him. Put out by that desertion, and feeling more than a little sorry for herself, she wandered disconsolately in search of breakfast.
Despite the maid’s directions, or perhaps because of them, she missed the breakfast room entirely, opening elaborate double doors on a large blue salon. At the far end, a small figure in white cap and apron was opening the last of the window-shutters, letting a soft, diffused light reveal the portrait which dominated the room. About to retreat, Louisa found her attention arrested. The painting was so very different from the formal and rather dull collection of forebears above the staircase that she moved slowly towards it, intrigued by the identity of the sitter.
The raven-haired woman was a beauty, her flamboyant crinoline of deep, vibrant blue underlining all the room’s lighter tones. Or it had done once, Louisa thought; for the salon, by comparison with the painting, was now somewhat faded and shabby. Seated, half-reclining against the curved end of a chaise-longue, the informal pose and décolleté gown suggested warmth and femininity. It was echoed in the soft curves of shoulders and bosom, in the round white arms of the artist’s sitter. There was amusement in her eyes and a pretty blush to her cheeks, as though the painter had paid a too-extravagant compliment. She had the bloom of youth and the freshness of yesterday, Louisa thought; although by the style of her gown she had been painted many years before.
There was no need to wonder who she was: from colouring and bone-structure Louisa could see which side of the family Letty and Robert favoured. But even as she considered, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and Robert, in boots and breeches, was at her shoulder, his cheeks ruddy with fresh air and exercise.
Bestowing a proud and happy smile, he glanced between Louisa and the portrait. ‘My mother, Elizabeth Devereux. Or had you already deduced it?’
‘Yes, I think I had,’ she smiled, touched by his regard. ‘She’s very beautiful.’
‘She was, wasn’t she? Painted before I was born, of course. I suppose she’d have been in her mid-twenties then. Still,’ he added wistfully, ‘she was very lovely, even as an older woman.’
For a long moment, they were both silent. ‘What age was she, when she died?’
‘Not very old, forty-five or six, I think. I remember William was just twenty-one, and Letty a couple of years older.’ He paused and sighed. ‘I was fifteen, and away at school.’
In that succinct utterance was a wealth of sorrow. A moment later, he said, ‘She loved this room. I always think of it as it was when she was here—full of light and laughter and people.’ Slowly, he looked around. ‘It doesn’t seem so long ago, yet how things change.’
His sadness banished all her silent recriminations. Touching his arm, she said gently: ‘Things do change, dearest: nothing ever stays the same.’
‘No, more’s the pity.’ He smiled suddenly, but it was forced, his eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Come on, let’s find breakfast. I’ve been up and out for the last hour, and I’m starving!’
That night, after a day spent touring both house and grounds, Louisa slept more soundly. As planned, Robert and William were out soon after breakfast, riding to join their neighbours, the Blamires, for a day’s hunting.
Left to their own devices, the women were having a quiet morning, Georgina having elected to join Harry for his morning’s lessons with Mr Crabtree.
‘Elected to disrupt them,’ Letty said, laughing, as she poured their mid-morning coffee.
‘No,’ Louisa said thoughtfully, ‘she has a natural love of learning, I’m sure of it. She wants to know about things. For a child her age, I find some of her questions quite profound.’
‘Oh, Miss Elliott, you don’t need to tell us that!’ Anne Duncannon exclaimed. ‘The child is quite infamous for her questions — far too precocious for her age. Answer one of her enquiries, Miss Elliott, and I guarantee you’ll be there all day. It’s a most unfortunate trait, and in my opinion should be quashed. Letty, of course,’ she added with a challenging glance, ‘does not agree!’
‘But questions are the sign of an enquiring mind, Lady Duncannon, and as a teacher I feel they should be encouraged.’
‘In the classroom, perhaps,’ came
the frosty reply, ‘but it’s hardly fitting for society, is it? But as you’re not of society, perhaps that doesn’t matter to you. Still,’ she added, ‘I imagine you know the epithet: well-bred children should be seen and not heard?’
‘Convenient from an adult point of view,’ Louisa responded, ‘and – as I’m sure you will agree – designed to separate a child’s world totally from the world in which we adults live.’ As her adversary nodded, and Letty suppressed a smile over the coffee-pot, Louisa went on: ‘It seems to me to preserve innocence – and ignorance – at the expense of so much else.’
‘I’m not sure I follow your argument, Miss Elliott...’
‘How many young women — ladies — of your acquaintance are at all prepared for the pitfalls of the real world? Even in the rather rarefied atmosphere of society, Lady Duncannon, all is not sweetness and light. Surely you agree? Men inhabit that world — yet how many young girls understand that good looks and good manners often cover a multitude of darker sins? They walk into marriage knowing nothing, bear children in ignorance, express horror when they encounter real illness or real poverty for the first time. They are not equipped to understand, nor to cope. And yet they go on rearing their own daughters in much the same way.’
With a cold and dangerous smile, Anne Duncannon nodded. ‘Ah, yes, I think I know the argument now. My sister-in-law holds similar beliefs, don’t you, Letty? No wonder the two of you are such bosom friends! Though I dread to think,’ she added as she rose to her feet, ‘what you’ll do to that child between you, with your free-thinking views!
‘And since we’re enjoying a frank exchange of views,’ she went on, ‘let me say this. Despite this pretence of being Georgina’s governess, I am aware of your true position in my brother-in-law’s establishment. What do you say to that?’
Louisa flushed under her contempt. With a proud lift of her chin, she said: ‘I didn’t think Robert had tried to pass me off as anything other than his mistress.’
‘I’m afraid that was my fault,’ Letty said, wincing as Anne’s strident voice cut across them both.
‘Precisely! And what an insult – to insist that I should receive you – when the last five years of my life have been ruined by having to look after his wife!’ Ignoring Letty’s remonstrations, she went on: ‘He simply dumped her here – did you know that? – when she was pregnant. “Until she has the child,” I said, “No longer.” But he left her here, twisted William round his little finger until he agreed, and simply walked away.
‘So we had two babies to care for — Harry was barely two — and a madwoman hell-bent on suicide. Murder, too, for all we knew — we hardly dared sleep for what might happen. Harry still has nightmares, poor lamb, still asks whether that mad creature has gone away for good. So don’t preach to me about enquiring minds and preparation for the great, wide world — I’d rather have my child brought up in happy ignorance!’
‘I’m sorry – I…’
‘Sorry? You haven’t an inkling, Miss Elliott, not an inkling of what we’ve endured! And let me ask you this, if you’re so concerned about Georgina — what sort of a girl is she going to be? Even supposing she’s inherited nothing of her mother’s blood — and if you ask me, that would be a miracle! – how is all this going to affect her future? Her mother mad — and she knows it, thanks to Letty – and her father living quite openly with his mistress? What will she think? What will she say, in unguarded moments? And, more to the point, who will want to marry her?’
Into the ensuing silence, Anne Duncannon dropped more vitriol. ‘My brother-in-law, Miss Elliott, will ruin his daughter’s life – and yours — as thoughtlessly as he’s ruined everyone else’s. If I were you, I’d go back to England while you can, while you still have a scrap of reputation to cling to.’
‘Desert him, you mean? Let you think you’ve won?’
‘Won?’ Anne Duncannon repeated with a low, bitter laugh. ‘This isn’t a game, Miss Elliott. And if you think it is, then I suggest you take a walk to the east gate before you leave White Leigh. Talk to Mrs Hanrahan – take a look at what he married – and then try preaching to Robert.
‘And I sincerely hope,’ she added as she swept out, ‘that he doesn’t tell you what he so frequently tells me – that you have that demented creature to thank for the roof over your head and the clothes on your back…’
The silence which followed her departure was thick and suffocating. Nausea threatened. In need of air, Louisa walked unsteadily to the window and raised the sash, drawing great draughts of cold, damp air deep into her lungs.
‘I’m sorry,’ Letty said quietly. ‘I expected a lot of things from Anne, but not that. You mustn’t mind her: she’s very bitter.’
‘I’d say she has a lot to be bitter about — wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, and no.’ With a long sigh, the older woman came to Louisa’s side. ‘The trouble with people like Anne – and Robert, I admit – is that they only ever see their own side of things. Much of what she says is true, but – ‘
‘Is it true that Charlotte supports us, too?’
‘No, of course not. Robert has other means – from our mother’s side.’
But Louisa did not believe her.
That afternoon, greatly subdued, they took the children for a long walk through the woods, while Anne went off to her dressmaker in Waterford. Letty maintained that her sister-in-law’s attack was part of a strategy: a means of sowing dissension in Robert’s camp. She hoped Louisa would refuse to visit White Leigh again, and thus put a dent in Robert’s happiness. Louisa felt she had succeeded, since she would not willingly subject herself to such attacks again. Robert might be upset by that, but he would have to accept it.
The worst part – Anne’s bitter description of what they had endured at White Leigh in recent times – remained clear and indelible.
On the way back, with Charlotte at the forefront of her mind, she said: ‘Will you take me to see her?’
It was cold and drawing dusk, and in her heathery tweeds the older woman shivered. ‘My dear, Robert would have my hide!’
They were by the gate into the enclosed kitchen garden; eager for tea, the children had dashed ahead. ‘Does he have to know?’
‘He might easily find out.’
‘Then tell him I threatened to go alone. I will, you know, if you don’t take me.’
Letty protested, but moments later she was stepping inside the kitchen door and shouting to the children to behave themselves. Taking Louisa’s arm, she guided her across the cobbled courtyard and past the stables, checking to verify her brother’s absence.
‘I call most days when I’m here,’ she admitted as they took the deeply rutted road towards the east gates. ‘Not that it makes any difference: she doesn’t appear to know me. Still,’ she sighed, ‘Mrs Hanrahan appreciates the gesture – they don’t have many visitors.’
‘It must be a strain,’ Louisa remarked, ‘looking after someone like that, week in, week out. Does she ever take time off?’
‘One day a week she goes into Waterford, to see a relative, I believe.’ After a small pause, Letty said: ‘Of course, nobody likes to admit it, but Mrs Hanrahan is just a tiny bit strange herself. And it’s become more pronounced since they’ve lived in the cottage. I mean, everyone says how wonderful she is, looking after that poor girl like a mother, but I sometimes think that’s it in a nutshell: Charlotte has become her daughter.’ Letty sighed. ‘She’s very possessive now, and totally protective. Robert couldn’t get near Charlotte these days, even if he tried.’
‘And does he? Try to see her, I mean.’
‘Well,’ Letty said evasively, ‘he likes to know what’s going on.’
A small path curved away from the road and into the woods. A mixture of conifers and evergreens, designed to screen the estate’s high brick wall in winter, also provided excellent cover for the cottage.
In leather gloves, Louisa’s hands were cold and clammy. Feeling sick, she stood back while Letty tapped at th
e door.
A well-built young woman answered, bobbing a curtsey to Letty and standing back while they entered the small living room. ‘I’ll be fetching Mrs Hanrahan,’ she murmured.
‘Only if it’s convenient, Mary.’
Squeezing Louisa’s arm, Letty gave her a reassuring grin. ‘Too late now,’ she whispered.
Before Louisa could reply, an inner door opened and a middle-aged woman emerged, grey hair so severely scraped back from her face that for a moment Louisa thought she was bald. She was massive: as tall as Letty and powerfully built, with a wide, pale face made paler by the severe black dress she wore. Brown eyes peered suspiciously for a moment in the half-light, but then she smiled at Letty, and the smile was warmly welcoming.
Introduced as Georgina’s new governess, Louisa was inordinately glad of the plain brown cloak she had donned before setting off that afternoon, and the warm but unfashionable bonnet.
Offered tea, Letty refused, but they stood in conversation for several minutes; eventually Mrs Hanrahan asked whether they would like to say hello to her charge.
‘It’s a good girl she is today — doing a puzzle this afternoon. Come through,’ she instructed, going ahead of the two women into a small sitting room. It reminded Louisa of a nursery with its large fireguard and absence of ornaments. A slender girl was sitting cross-legged on the rug, bending over a board and a simple wooden puzzle. She was wearing a child’s white pinafore, and her waist-length, silvery hair was caught back in a large pink bow.
Lovely hair, Louisa thought, wondering whose child she was. Her eyes flicked rapidly in search of that demented creature, Robert’s wife.
But as the nurse stepped forward, lowering her massive bulk to kneel beside the child, truth began to dawn; it seemed time slowed, that the woman took forever to kneel, to raise her hand so gently and kindly to that pale, silvery hair.
Louisa Elliott Page 47