Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Words were uttered, words which seemed to have no meaning, and then Letty was going forward, bending over, whispering Charlotte’s name.

  Louisa thought she might faint; took hold of a chair-back and swallowed hard. The girl did not look up; Letty and Mrs Hanrahan might not have been there at all. Amazed by how slight she was, Louisa tried to see past those thin wrists and childish clothes, tried to envisage her in a ballgown, with hair piled high in curls and ringlets.

  Could this be Georgina’s mother? Robert’s wife? Had this frail, bloodless creature really wreaked such damage?

  Louisa moved, trying to see her face. At that Charlotte looked up. At once the hair and the bow and the childish pinafore were incongruous; the face was small, but not a child’s, the eyes old, calculating, all-knowing. It seemed to Louisa those pale eyes stripped her bare; like a rabbit before a stoat she could not have moved had her life depended on it.

  Sensing the tension, Letty and Mrs Hanrahan turned at the same time; and in that moment Charlotte leapt up, scattering the wooden pieces. Seizing the board, she threw it at Louisa. It missed her face but struck her painfully in the breast, winding her. Before she could leap after it, Mrs Hanrahan seized that writhing figure in her massive arms and yelled for Mary. Within seconds the servant was there with bottle and spoon, pouring liquid down Charlotte’s throat while Mrs Hanrahan forced her tight-clenched jaws apart.

  In the kitchen, Letty handed Louisa a glass of water and urged her to sit down; but, trembling in every limb, all Louisa wanted to do was leave.

  ‘I must make sure she’s all right, first.’

  ‘Who? Charlotte?’

  ‘No, Mrs Hanrahan.’

  The serving woman seemed not at all perturbed. ‘Half an hour, they’ll both be fine,’ she assured Louisa, and with a kind smile, added: ‘Don’t be feeling guilty, ma’am, you don’t need to be doing a thing to set Miss Charlotte off. She has her little turns every now and then, no matter what.’

  But Louisa felt more than guilty: sane or insane, she felt Robert’s wife knew her through and through. Knew who she was, and what she was.

  As they prepared to leave, the servant said confidentially: ‘I expect it was Mr Robert being here this morning, and yesterday. I saw him myself – on horseback he was, just outside. I dare say she saw him, too.’

  Five

  Like a waking nightmare, every shock and impression of that day lingered at the forefront of her mind. Unable to control sudden tremors, Louisa would have taken to her bed had she not been afraid of Robert’s questions. His undivided attention was the very last thing she wanted. Dressing for dinner, she thought of packing to go home; not to Dublin, but to York. York and Gillygate and Edward: the three were synonymous with home and comfort and sanity. She longed for them with a passion which made her weep.

  Letty came, suggesting something on a tray. Louisa refused. Sighing, the older woman asked what, if anything, Robert was to be told, for he was bound to notice the change in her.

  ‘If he asks, tell him I’m ill and want to go home. I hate this place!’

  ‘And Anne?’

  With a cold cloth over her eyes, Louisa shook her head. ‘She can go to blazes, for all I care!’

  ‘Should I tell her that?’ Letty chuckled, adding: ‘You’re beginning to sound like Robert,’ as she went away.

  Later, she was thankful for candlelight and flickering shadows, thankful too for the added presence of Mr Crabtree and one of the Blamires that night. Struggling through dinner, eating little, saying less, she feigned polite interest in the men’s lively conversation. They had had a good day’s riding with convivial company, if little success at the hunt itself, and with the rising of the ladies after the meal, it seemed they would sit long over the port.

  Louisa drank her coffee in the small drawing room, and begged leave to be excused. As she left the room she caught the sound of Letty’s voice, though not what was said. Anne Duncannon’s words, however, rang clear as bells.

  ‘She didn’t have to go, did she? And you didn’t have to take her, Letty.’

  Nauseated, she climbed the marble staircase to her room, feeling the weight of the day in every step. Convinced that sleep would elude her, she fell asleep almost immediately, to be woken again sometime after midnight, by the sound of a door being opened and closed.

  Startled, the disturbing mists of the dream-world in her mind, she saw a man’s dark shape pass between herself and the glowing ashes of the fire; on the point of crying out, she was silenced by Robert’s whisper.

  ‘It’s all right — it’s only me.’ Leaning over the bed, he kissed her cheek; she caught the rich, sweet aroma of wine and cigars, and knew he was a little drunk. ‘Sorry I’m so late, darling —it went on longer than I’d thought. Letty tells me you’re not well, a bit of a chill. I must say I thought you were quiet over dinner, then thought it must be young Blamire, talking his head off like a fool.’

  He was so reassuringly normal that for a moment she forgot his early-morning vigils at the cottage; wanting to hold him, to feel his safety and strength beside her, Louisa buried her face against his neck. ‘I want to go home,’ she whispered, sounding like a child, desperately fighting tears.

  ‘What, now?’ he chuckled. ‘In the middle of the night?’

  ‘If we could. But we can’t, can we?’

  ‘No, my darling, we can’t.’ He nuzzled her cheek. ‘I’ve missed you today – couldn’t bear another night in that lonely room…’

  Dismayed, she drew back. ‘Robert, I can’t bear this place, I’m sorry, but it’s hateful to me. Can we go tomorrow, please?’

  His evening coat off, Robert began loosening his tie; the starched collar and front of his shirt crackled in the silence. Suddenly, it stopped. ‘We can’t leave tomorrow — I’ve promised to look at a horse with young Blamire. And anyway, I said we’d stay until Saturday.’

  ‘But that’s three more days!’ Appalled, Louisa gripped his hand. ‘Robert, I can’t tolerate any more of this, really I can’t. We must leave.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not tomorrow — Blamire wants my advice about that hunter, and I promised to look it over.’

  ‘Surely,’ she began, but Robert laid a finger across her lips.

  ‘No, Louisa, I gave my word. Also, I have some business to attend to in Waterford. I may be able to clear it up tomorrow, after we’ve looked at the horse, in which case we’ll go home on Friday morning. I’m sorry,’ he said gently, ‘but it can’t be done before.’

  Without an argument, without confessing the sordid details of the day, Louisa knew she could not shift that stance of his. She simply nodded and turned away.

  ‘Stay in bed tomorrow,’ he advised, stroking her hot cheek, ‘and get over that chill, otherwise you’ll be in no fit state to travel anywhere.’

  Their train journey down had been via the coastal route, through Wicklow and Wexford, but the change in arrangements meant an inland return, with less spectacular scenery. Louisa stared out of the window, but her eyes registered nothing. In her mind was the cottage in the woods, and the child-woman Robert had married. She could hardly bear to look at Georgina: her pale, ash-blonde hair was so like her mother’s.

  The child was unusually quiet, her deep-blue eyes solemn and strangely watchful. After a while, Robert drew her onto his knee, holding her close within the crook of his arm.

  ‘I think my little one’s tired,’ he murmured, pushing back a stray lock of silvery hair. His fingers lingered in the loose, soft tresses, and an unexpected dart of pain stabbed at Louisa’s vulnerable heart. Wincing, she turned away.

  The little girl slid off her father’s knee and leaned against her, touching her hand with tender solicitude. Still unable to frame the beginning of Louisa’s name, she said: ‘Have you got a headache, ‘Ouisa? Auntie’s got a headache, too.’

  Catching Letty’s eye, a shamefaced laugh escaped. ‘Yes, dearest, I do have a headache. But I expect it will soon be better.’

  ‘Well, thank th
e Lord for that,’ Robert muttered. ‘I was beginning to think long faces were the fashion.’

  Beyond the little town of Kildare they passed the Curragh, its open expanse of racecourse and military training ground barely visible through drenching mist and rain. Robert said that was where he would be spending the summer, and pulled a face. His expression was even more rueful as they approached the outskirts of Dublin; peering through the darkness, he pointed out the lights of Islandbridge Barracks.

  ‘And that place needs more than just a new roof: it should be razed to the ground and completely rebuilt. I’ve never seen such an old ark — Noah would think twice about billeting his animals there, believe me.’ Indicating the darkness beyond, he said: ‘And over there – across the Liffey — is Phoenix Park. Famous for displays and field days throughout the entire British Army!’

  ‘Is it really?’ Louisa asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘My dear,’ Letty answered dryly, ‘with more than twenty thousand troops weighing this little island down, the powers that be have to find something for them all to do – and somewhere in which to do it. Phoenix Park is traditional, like cricket, garden parties, and afternoon tea.’

  ‘And the odd assassination,’ Robert muttered darkly, not to be outdone. ‘Although that seems out of fashion, thank God.’

  Minutes later, the train was pulling into the station by the Liffey. Robert steered them through the bustling crowd to a waiting cab. As they made themselves comfortable, Letty pressed her hand.

  ‘For all Dublin’s iniquities,’ she whispered, ‘it’s good to be back, don’t you think?’

  Unable to speak, Louisa simply returned the pressure; but as their conveyance wound its way through traffic along Victoria Quay, she looked out across a black expanse of water and thought of York.

  The carriage turned down Patrick Street, its grey, greasy poverty brightened by hanging lanterns and market-stalls. Bacon, sheep’s heads and barrels of pickled herrings were for sale amongst racks and rows of second-hand clothes, items which looked as verminous as their vendors. The reek of rotting meat and vegetation mingled with other odours, bringing nausea to Louisa’s throat. Fumbling in her reticule, she found a powder-puff and held it to her nose, while Letty, hardened by innumerable visits to streets such as these, simply smiled. Georgina coughed and pulled a face; Robert lit a cigar and cursed everything roundly, including their driver. Above them, somewhere in the darkness, the bells of St Patrick’s Cathedral were ringing.

  Even Walmgate, Louisa thought, with its dirt and grime and miserable little courts, was never like this; never such degradation on the open street; never poverty on such a massive scale. Reading her expression, Robert said every street surrounding the Cathedral and the Castle was the same.

  ‘Unfortunate, since it makes journeys to and from the castle something of a trial. But there we are, it’s a fact of life and impossible to deal with. I know people try,’ he added, looking at Letty, ‘but without employment, there will always be poverty…’

  Fitzwilliam Square, just a few minutes away, was another world. The little park was shrouded, street lamps lighting veils of mist beneath the trees. The magnificent fanlight of the Devereux house shone a welcome, an oil lamp glowed on its bracket by the steps, and railings curved protectively to either side. Below were the kitchen and comfortable servants’ quarters, and to rear a secluded garden with mews at the back. Not the home Louisa longed for, but it was a refuge, attractive and welcoming. Louisa thought she had never been so thankful for a journey’s end.

  Chronically homesick, and shocked by the visit to White Leigh, nevertheless she felt bound to keep the misery to herself. She could not, dare not, discuss Charlotte or Anne with Robert, and the other she did not care to: to be homesick seemed so ungrateful.

  He saw it, of course. When the feverish chill had subsided and still Louisa’s eyes were dull, he tried hard to cheer her, to tell her the ache for home was natural, and would pass. Unconcerned at first by her lack of response, Robert retained his good humour, instructed Letty to keep her as busy as possible during the day, and meanwhile accepted a number of invitations to social gatherings due to take place over the Christmas period.

  He arranged with his sister to give a small dinner party, largely for Louisa’s benefit, as a way of introducing her to people who might prove useful in the future. On the military side, he thought the Kellys would make a good start. Captain Kelly was recently attached to the regiment, and also recently married. His wife, the widow of a brother-officer, was a pleasant woman and refreshingly down-to-earth. Robert felt instinctively that she was the one most likely to understand his sister’s eccentricities, and to offer both Letty and Louisa the benefit of her patronage. She was also the mother of three grown daughters: the youngest might possibly make a dinner partner for Darnley, who, in spite of his good looks, remained resolutely unattached wherever he went.

  Darnley, Louisa knew and liked; and also Tommy. They would provide the cushion of familiarity. Tommy would no doubt bring his latest inamorata, a pretty young widow from Blackrock; and to please his sister, Robert thought he would invite their neighbour, a young Irish doctor by the name of Molloy. He was well-connected, with a string of wealthy patients; but he also worked amongst the poor, and that was what interested Letty. Robert was not at all sure he approved of her increasing involvement in these charitable works, but with his wit and good humour, Molloy was impossible to dislike.

  To make up the round dozen, Robert hoped the Loys would accept. Gerald was a distant cousin on the Devereux side, of an age with himself, and at school they had been quite good friends. Over the years they had dropped out of touch completely, but with Louisa in mind, and needing more than one social string to his bow, Robert had called on his cousin quite soon after his arrival in the summer and, while mentioning Louisa only obliquely, had managed to make the circumstances clear.

  For some time, Robert had been dropping hints in the Mess, and with Tommy released from his vow of silence, it seemed most people were aware of his true situation. Only Darnley had mentioned it directly; and all he had said was: ‘Now I understand.’ Once, Robert would have scorned even tacit sympathy, but loving Louisa as he did, he wanted it understood that she was his mistress only because she could not be his wife.

  Perhaps out of curiosity, the Loys accepted his dinner invitation, and Robert was delighted to find Gerald’s wife a devotee of the hunting field. She was surprisingly young, no more than twenty; and built, as Robert laughingly remarked later, like a little whippet; but what she lacked in womanly contours she made up for in personality and a quite daunting self-confidence. If she was aware of the Duncannon household’s peculiarities, she gave no sign of it, greeting Letty warmly as her husband’s cousin, and accepting Louisa as the family friend she purported to be.

  Mrs Kelly’s fine hazel eyes were perhaps somewhat guarded, watching all and revealing little. She exchanged a few words with Louisa, as she did with everyone, and Robert was pleased to notice later that Mrs Kelly seemed to be taking Louisa under her wing.

  It was difficult, as Robert himself understood, because so many of the other regimental wives had known the Bainbridges, and might, therefore, know more of Louisa’s background than would ever be openly admitted here; but he was confident she could carry it off. Her spirit was rebellious enough, he was sure, to tell them all to go to blazes, if she so chose.

  As a beginning, the evening was a success. The meal was excellent, Letty’s Chopin faultless, and afterwards their guests had been relaxed enough to join in what became an informal musical evening. It was with genuine praise and thanks that the last ones left, and with a warm and very satisfied smile, Robert turned and hugged his ladies.

  ‘Well, a small start, but a good one.’

  ‘I’ll say so,’ Letty agreed, squeezing Louisa’s arm. ‘You’re on your way, my dear, unless I’m very much mistaken. Didn’t you hear Mrs Kelly? “I’m at home on Thursdays, Miss Duncannon. I do hope yourself and Miss Elliott will call.”
And Amelia Loy asked when we were at home, so that means — ‘ Letty broke off suddenly, smiting her forehead with a mock groan of despair. ‘Oh, what am I saying? I hate at homes — I loathe all that effort of making conversation about nothing! I must be mad, Louisa!’ But she hugged her again, and kissed her brother’s cheek.

  ‘I think Louisa struck exactly the right note, don’t you? Quiet, modest, pleasant — they liked her, Robert, didn’t they?’ She smiled fondly, as at a well-behaved child.

  ‘They did indeed,’ he agreed, kissing Louisa’s cheek.

  He did wish, however, that she could have looked a little more delighted.

  Six

  The weeks wore on towards Christmas, and those stark impressions of White Leigh began to fade. Although her image of Charlotte was still as clear as ever, refreshed by Georgina’s bright hair and quick, lithe movements, Louisa found that as long as she kept busy, she could banish that picture for lengthy periods.

  Letty thought it wise not to talk about White Leigh, and, practical as ever, tried to involve Louisa in her own work. Two afternoons a week she went with a group of women into the poor area around Patrick Street. They ran a soup-kitchen for the poor and needy, and Letty supervised, under Dr Molloy’s direction, a small dispensary. With gallows humour, she said it was good for the soul: one afternoon in those surroundings was guaranteed to cure self-pity, even the most deep-seated variety. Louisa was bound to agree, but, while she counted her blessings in abundance, she found those horrendous images of poverty and disease another source of misery.

  It was endless, hopeless, like bailing sewage from the Liffey, as she once remarked bitterly to Letty, who laughed. The native Irish mostly terrified her. She had never seen such wretchedness: beggars maimed and ugly lay in wait on every corner, ready with a gap-toothed grin or vicious, well-aimed spittle; and gangs roamed the poorest quarters, armed and dangerous. Even Moira, giving up free time to accompany her mistress like a bodyguard, recalled Walmgate in terms of rosy endearment. But Letty accepted it all with a shrug and a smile. This was Ireland, she said, where poverty was endemic and blood-feuds a way of life; one simply did what one could.