Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

‘So long?’ he laughed. ‘Is it really three years?’

  ‘Liam will be two in just over a month,’ she said defensively, and, switching to the attack, added: ‘Or had you forgotten?’

  ‘No,’ he lied, ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Then how could you think it was less than three years?’

  He laughed again, uneasily. ‘It just doesn’t seem that long. This year’s flown.’

  ‘Time does, when you’re enjoying yourself.’

  Pursing his lips, Robert looked down at the table. Embarrassed, Letty scraped her chair as she stood up.

  ‘Shall we take our coffee outside, onto the terrace? The evening’s lovely and the garden’s full of scented stocks.’

  Determined to break the tension, Robert agreed. Taking Louisa’s arm as they crossed the threshold, he said: ‘Harris wants me to go and look at the property before he agrees to take it. I don’t really think that’s necessary, but it occurred to me you might like to go over for a few days. We could make a little holiday of it.’

  Stiffening perceptibly, Louisa withdrew her arm from his grasp. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she murmured.

  Astonished, Robert thought he must have misheard. ‘No? Why ever not?’

  ‘Because,’ she said, seating herself in one of the wicker chairs, ‘if I went home to York now, Robert, I very much doubt whether I should want to come back.

  ‘Forgive me, Letty,’ she went on into the stunned silence, ‘I don’t mean to hurt you by that. You’ve been such a good friend, and I hope you always will be. But I’m sorry, I can’t pretend any longer...’

  ‘My dear,’ the older woman said, looking up at her brother and pressing Louisa’s hand, ‘I quite understand. However, I won’t interfere, and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.’ Patting the cushions of her chair into shape, she added firmly: ‘Nor do I intend to give up this lovely evening in favour of a discreet retirement to bed. If you need to discuss the matter further, Robert, might I suggest a little stroll along the promenade?’

  For several seconds, Robert was too stunned to move or answer. Starting to speak, he thought better of it, eventually forcing his wooden limbs to carry him across the terrace and away from the women. Stiffly, he descended the steps to the garden, walking the twilight-shadowed area of lawns and shrubberies alone. He felt no pain or anger, only a kind of stinging shock, like the aftermath of a most unexpected slap in the face. From behind him, beyond the house, the hushed murmur of the sea blended with those soft voices from the terrace, making it impossible to decipher words or intent. He could imagine, however, a damning discussion of his shortcomings.

  Did they know about Amelia? The thought hit him from nowhere, bringing guilty heat to face and throat. With trembling fingers he lit a cigar, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. A pity if it came out now, he thought, just as he was planning a strategic withdrawal from that particular field.

  He shivered suddenly and moved on, returning at an apparently aimless, meandering pace to the steps. Letty had her eyes conveniently closed, but Louisa returned his gaze unsmilingly, with just a hint of challenge in that lifted chin. He stood for a while without speaking, unhurriedly smoking the last of his cigar.

  Finally, with an air of having come to a great decision, he said: ‘I think we’d better take that walk.’

  To westward over the land, the sun had set, leaving a sky streaked like an artist’s palette with pinks and golds. Over the sea it was already dark, the incoming tide foaming white on the curve of beach below. The sound of it shushing and sighing over sand and shingle was much louder here, drowning the silence between them, filling the space that time had created. It was late and they were virtually alone.

  ‘Tell me, then,’ he said at last, ‘why you want to leave.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No, but that was what you meant.’

  There was a strengthening breeze blowing off the sea, cool and refreshing after the sultriness of the day. As they rounded one of the bluffs of that rocky coastline, a sudden gust buffeted the stiff brim of Robert’s straw hat. He removed it, turning to look at Louisa with searching eyes. ‘Well?’ he prompted, but she was busy with her own bonnet, trying to anchor it, unsuccessfully, to her short curls.

  With an impatient gesture, she took it off, and went to lean against the sea-wall. With the wind ruffling her hair, she looked down at the rocks far below. ‘Do you want me to go? Back to York, I mean — permanently?’

  He had to stand close to hear what she said. With understanding, he felt the grip of fear. ‘No,’ he slowly replied, ‘I don’t want you to go...’

  ‘Really? I’m amazed,’ she said with bitter humour. ‘I feel like an encumbrance, Robert – a bit of a joke, in fact — the mistress you no longer sleep with!’ She laughed, shaking her head at the irony.

  ‘For your sake,’ he said. But even through the gloom that piercing look of hers reached its mark.

  ‘Are you sure? Sure it’s not because there’s someone else in your life? Knowing you as I do, Robert, I find it hard to credit such lengthy celibacy to my account!’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied shortly, his bitterness managing to equal hers.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Would you believe me if I denied it?’

  ‘No.’

  That shocked him; sent him casting desperately for reasons, excuses, anything to save them both from destruction.

  ‘Then there’s no point in telling you I love you?’ he said at last, feeling its inadequacy. ‘Or that I’ve done my best to abide by what both Molloy and Stevens told me?’ He turned to her, but she was looking away, over the sea, towards England.

  ‘Please, Louisa, listen to me…’ There was no need to simulate emotion. The pain and bitterness were real, as was his anger at blind fate. For the first time he gave vent to those feelings, holding nothing back in a lengthy affirmation of all that had gone through his mind while Louisa was ill. Even at some months’ distance, it was a relief to talk about it; a relief to have it out, here in the open, with the clean salt taste of the sea on his tongue.

  ‘All I could see was Charlotte,’ he said again, stressing an image she knew and understood, ‘and to be told you must never bear another child – ‘ He broke off, thinking not of children but of the passion they had shared, and wishing, now, that he could have spoken of it then.

  ‘But you didn’t want more children,’ she said bleakly.

  ‘I wanted you,’ he declared hotly, grasping her shoulder and turning her to face him. ‘But I was told it would do you harm, that you were afraid, guilty – damaged by what I’d done!’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Louisa whispered, leaning heavily against him, ‘that’s not true. Whoever told you that — it’s not true. I was afraid—yes — and I did feel terribly guilty about the children, about us, but you didn’t damage me. I’m not Charlotte! I still wanted you – I still needed you!’

  Clasping her tight against him, rocking her in his arms, he fought down guilt and remorse, silently cursing the hurt and angry pride which had driven him to Amelia Loy. There was no comparison, he thought, between those spoiled and greedy demands and the love Louisa gave so freely. ‘We should have talked,’ he said miserably, knowing it was no fault but his own, yet clinging to the idea that absence had contributed.

  ‘I tried to,’ she sobbed against his chest, ‘I needed to talk to you, Robert, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I know, I know – I’m sorry. If I’d been more at home, we’d have got together, helped each other.’ Kissing her hair, her face, he whispered: ‘Can you ever forgive me?’

  Tentatively at first, he touched her lips, and then, as longing seized him, kissed her with mounting hunger. Not wanting to let go, yet needing more than kisses, he murmured endearments and promises, plans for the future. But even as the words ran on, he sensed a holding back, her body’s eagerness restrained by thoughts he did not want her to put into words.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ he urged, ‘
back to the villa. I want to be in bed with you, not out here in the cold. You’re shivering, too.’

  Slipping off his jacket, Robert draped it round her shoulders. ‘Come on, now,’ he smiled, ‘Let’s go back.’

  She gripped his hands, staring up into his face. The night wind was getting stronger, whipping at her dress, tossing the curls back from her forehead; it was cold and fresh, tangy with salt and the smell of seaweed, and up from the rocks came the hiss and boom of the tide.

  ‘Tell me honestly,’ she begged, ‘that there’s no one else, hasn’t been anyone else.’

  He closed his eyes, and for a moment the desire to confess was overwhelming; but then sense prevailed. Louisa loved him, and love could forgive much – but not Amelia Loy. Drawing her close, with his mouth against her lips, he whispered: ‘There’s never been anyone but you.’

  Fourteen

  For the first time in many months, since well before Robin’s birth, they shared the same bed. At first there was a deep reticence in her, which he guiltily ascribed to suspicion. At pains to overcome it, he was particularly tender, but that awareness, coupled with the need to be careful, resulted in a less than satisfying reunion. She said she was happy just to sleep with him, and for a few days Robert did his best to think the purest of thoughts before he went to sleep. But abstinence and close proximity were uneasy partners for both of them. After almost four years, that little cone-shaped device obtained in Leeds was past its useful life; and whether it could be replaced in Dublin was a matter for discreet enquiry. If not, Robert said, then a trip across the water must be made; and while that was being discussed, he resurrected the idea of a holiday in York.

  But again Louisa was peculiarly reluctant. She seemed unable to give a concise reason, and with both Harris and Moira in need of a speedy response to his letter, Robert let the subject drop.

  To Harris he wrote that his new partner in the licensed trade should go ahead with the purchase; that he should fix up whatever was essential, and return to Dublin as soon as convenient for the wedding. Vastly amused, especially by the idea of being ‘in trade’, Robert did not seriously expect it to last very long. His investment was more in the nature of a loan, made with the proviso that Harris might buy him out as and when he was able to do so. If anything should happen to Robert, the return on that investment would be payable to Louisa. In the remote possibility of war, with Harris recalled to the colours, Moira would either continue in the business or sell up, again paying Louisa the agreed proportion.

  While the wedding was being arranged, it involved a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing during the second week of their stay. Excitement was in the air, and romance, the women planning Moira’s trousseau as though she were a member of the family. Even Robert was not immune. Although Moira would have liked him to give her away, it was finally decided that, as a Catholic, McMahon should have that honour, while Robert preferred to stand as Harris’s best man; and Georgina, more excited than all of them put together, was to be bridesmaid. It would be a small wedding in the church where Moira attended Mass each Sunday, with a reception below stairs at the Devereux house.

  In the midst of these preparations, and Robert’s forthcoming move with the regiment to Dundalk, Louisa’s birthday was quite overlooked. Awareness that this was her thirtieth year, marking the end of youth, heralding the approach of middle age, had been with her all summer, like a deep-stressed line beneath Robert’s neglect. The passage of time, while she seemed to be standing still, was frightening; as was the conviction that he had found someone younger, prettier, more light-hearted, with whom to enjoy his precious hours of freedom.

  With two babies, she felt trapped. As a consequence, York was on her mind constantly that summer, like a seductive but impossible dream. It seemed the longer she fought it, the stronger it became. Only love of Robert held her in Dublin, and with lack of nurture, love was in danger of dying. She was glad to have spoken out in Dalkey, it had cleared the air between them. His response restored her faith, bringing love to stem that call for home. In truth Louisa knew she could never go back. Not to live. Not with two children.

  But she was happier now, more confident of the future. Sadly, Robert would be away for the winter, but with better quarters and the drill season over, he should be able to take plenty of leave. During the year he had taken far less than his six weeks’ entitlement, when usually, along with most of his colleagues, he managed to elicit something like two and a half months. And Dundalk, she reflected, was not much more than an hour by train, more convenient than Belfast, where Tommy’s squadron was to be sent.

  Happier, but still reluctant to acknowledge the milestone of her birthday, Louisa dropped no hints to anyone, and, until the arrival of the morning mail, had almost managed to forget it herself. There were letters from her mother and Edward, and what felt like cards from her sisters. Despite her regret for the day, each envelope brought forth a surge of emotion. After a long gap in which she had heard from no one but her mother, this little avalanche of mail showed that she had not been forgotten. And perhaps she was also forgiven. Even by Blanche. Tempted to open them, and afraid that she would cry, she set them aside for later, and went down to breakfast.

  Robert was already at the table, still in his riding clothes, opening his own mail over a second cup of coffee. He seemed preoccupied, barely acknowledging Louisa’s greeting. As she helped herself from the sideboard, he pushed his letter aside and gave vent to a soft but eloquent curse.

  ‘What’s wrong? Army business?’

  ‘No, I wish it were.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked again; and with a little flutter of alarm: ‘Not bad news, I hope?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, it is, rather. The trouble is, I’m not sure what to do about it.’ After a short pause, he said: ‘Mrs Hanrahan, Charlotte’s nurse, has just died. A sudden heart attack, William says.’

  Louisa saw at once that such a bereavement could only spell trouble at White Leigh. And inconvenience in Dublin, too, with the wedding and Robert’s departure so soon upon them.

  ‘I should go down — William would like me to — but I really don’t see how I can. And if I do go, what use will I be? I’m sure they’re as capable of interviewing replacement staff as anyone...’

  Remembering the vicious blow she had received from Charlotte, Louisa shivered. ‘That won’t be easy. Where will they find another Mrs Hanrahan?’

  ‘Heaven only knows, but they’ll have to find somebody, and soon – the girl won’t be able to manage on her own.’ Robert’s frown deepened as he considered the problem; then, with a sudden shrug, he stood up. ‘I’d better find Letty, see what she thinks about it.’

  Letty thought he should go down to the funeral, if only as a mark of respect for many years of devoted service; Louisa agreed, but she wished Robert could have asked her opinion first. In the fluster of hasty notes and fresh arrangements, Louisa’s birthday was forgotten.

  By the end of the day, having read Edward’s letter twice, and been touched both times by its simple sincerity, Louisa was aware of a quite profound disappointment. Other than her family in York, no one had remembered.

  Robert made an overnight trip to Waterford for the funeral, returning gloomier than ever. Charlotte was distressed and inconsolable, which did not presage well. Owing to his commitments elsewhere, he could not interview possible nurses, so he had simply left instructions with his brother. Letty, meanwhile, offered to go to White Leigh should William need a second opinion.

  Immediately on his return, Robert was away to the Curragh to prepare for the regiment’s removal to Dundalk; he came back for the wedding, stayed the night, and left again next morning. After a couple of days’ honeymoon in Blackrock, the bridal couple set sail for home.

  Waving from the quayside at Kingstown, Louisa felt quite unreal, like someone made dizzy by a speeding ride at the funfair. The quay was thronged with all manner of people, dockers, sightseers, friends waving fond farewells. Suddenly, there rose a spontaneous cheer;
the ropes were cast off; the ship beginning to ease away from its berth. Louisa saw Moira waving frantically, Harris smiling, until gradually, slowly, she saw more and more of the ship, and less and less of them.

  As the ship gathered way and headed for the harbour mouth, the crowd began to disperse. Faces were sad, expressions flat; the quay an ordinary, cobbled, workday place, its carnival atmosphere gone.

  With a sense of anti-climax, the little party from Fitzwilliam Square went home.

  Arriving, with the babies grizzling, Georgina tired and tearful, Letty anxious about Charlotte, it suddenly hit Louisa that Moira was gone. No smiling face to greet them, no welcome cheerfulness to banish children’s tears and whisk them up to the nursery for tea; no cheeky anecdotes from the kitchen to disapprove; no one to share treasured moments of sweet nostalgia.

  Moira was a married woman, with a home of her own to look forward to: Moira was going back to York.

  Back to autumn in the Museum Gardens, falling leaves along the riverside, white walls sharp against a clear blue sky; home to Minster bells, crooked doorways and narrow, winding streets, to the scent of chrysanthemums at Christmas and daffodils in the spring...

  Fifteen

  Barely had Robert arrived in Dundalk than he was receiving pressing letters from Amelia. She had not seen him in more than a month, she wrote, and unless he made an effort very soon, desperation might send her fleeing back to Gerald’s arms.

  It was all couched in the lightest of terms and, for a while, Robert stalled in much the same fashion, pleading pressure of work, making vague allusions to the hunting season proper, once he could get away. By the third such missive, however, he had detected an underlying seriousness which alarmed him. It was not going to die an easy death after all; he was going to have to kill that unwise liaison, and the prospect was not a pleasing one.

  By the middle of November, he could stall no more. Amelia arrived in Dundalk one Friday afternoon, unannounced, just as he was about to set off for Dublin. For the benefit of the Adjutant and other interested ears, she spun an excellent story about Gerald and business, and travelling down together. Robert was furious.