‘Are you mad?’ he hissed, once they were outside. ‘You’ll be the talk of the regiment!’
‘That doesn’t bother me in the slightest, darling,’ she said brazenly. ‘If the mountain won’t come to Mahomet...’
‘This particular mountain is on his way home, Amelia, where he is expected for dinner.’
‘Send a telegram, tell them you’ve been detained. I’ve taken a suite at the Adelphi,’ she said, tapping his arm provocatively. ‘We could have dinner there.’
He stood for a moment, looking down at her, wondering how so small a frame could contain such a determined, foolhardy spirit. Although he would much rather have gone straight home, it occurred to him that he should take the opportunity to call a halt to the game, to make her see, once and for all, that the stakes were too high.
Over dinner in her suite, Amelia was lively and witty as ever, apparently oblivious to his lack of conversation. She drank a great deal, almost matching Robert glass for glass, but, like himself, showed no signs of being drunk. For a girl in her early twenties, he thought with faint distaste, she could certainly put the stuff away. Once that brazen impudence had been exciting; she could ride, swear, gamble and drink as well as any man he knew, while her young girl’s face and body lent a paradoxical air of innocence to everything she did. Playing the enfant terrible was all very well; but one day, he reflected, it would backfire, or she would grow old, and perhaps even Gerald would tire of the little harridan then.
Waiting for the remains of their meal to be cleared away, Robert searched for words and phrases to ease the forthcoming unpleasantness. There were none which were not trite or hollow, or singularly inappropriate to the tone of their relationship so far. Which had been, he considered, basically honest.
Having settled on a tone of firm frankness, he said over coffee: ‘This won’t happen again.’
‘No, Robbie darling, you’re quite right, it won’t. I shouldn’t have bearded the lion in his den, and promise not to repeat the scenario. But it was desperation, you see, as I tried to tell you in my letters.’ Smiling sweetly, she put up her hands, removed a pin from her hair and shook the dark mass free. Seconds later, she was seated across his lap and running her fingers through his hair, kissing his neck and ears and cheeks, and making her expectations very clear indeed.
He tried being stern, but she laughed and, ignoring his protestations, divested him of sufficient clothes to make donning them again seem foolish. For a little while it was amusing, and then, with his shirt open to the waist, Robert took hold of her wrists and held them fast.
Very seriously, as she tried to shake free, he said: ‘Stop it, and listen. This affair is over: it has to be. We’ve had a lot of fun, and so far nobody’s been hurt — we’ve been very lucky. But one more incident like today, Amelia, and we’ll both be in the divorce court, with Gerald citing me as co-respondent!’
‘What nonsense,’ she said petulantly. ‘Gerald doesn’t care a fig.’
‘Doesn’t he?’ Robert asked. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘I am. And, what’s more, I don’t care if he does. If I were free, it wouldn’t matter who I saw, or how often — would it?’
‘Don’t be childish. You wouldn’t enjoy being dragged through the divorce courts, with every intimate detail reported in the press. Imagine,’ he added sardonically, ‘what would the servants think?’
With a mutinous toss of her head, she refused to answer, and Robert pressed the argument home. ‘Don’t you think it would be wiser to let the whole thing drop while we’re still ahead? To part the friends we’ve always been?’
Again there was silence. She hung her head like a reproved child, hiding her face behind that mane of dark hair. ‘You don’t want me anymore,’ she said in an unexpectedly small voice, and, with a quick glance, added plaintively: ‘Why not?’
Dumbfounded by that quick change from hardened sophisticate to little girl lost, Robert could only shake his head. If ever there was a time for honesty, this was it, yet he was suddenly most reluctant to hurt her. Very gently, as he would with Georgina, he pushed the hair back from her face. ‘Amelia, I can’t afford to take the risks any more. You might not care about Gerald finding out, but I do care about Louisa. The silly woman loves me, you see, and I cannot bear to have her hurt. It’s as simple as that.’
‘And you love her?’
‘Of course. When did I ever pretend otherwise?’
‘Then why did you come to me?’
Suppressing a dry little smile, he said: ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do.’ Pausing for a moment, he added: ‘You were bored, and so was I. It was a pleasant diversion for both of us.’
For a long time, as though digesting the words left unsaid, she looked down at the slim brown wrists held within his hand. Then, with a catch in her voice, she murmured: ‘It was more than that for me. I think I’ve fallen in love with you.’
Robert’s heart sank. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe her, and then, thrusting credulity aside, shook his head. ‘No, you don’t. You’ve had a good time, little girl, and you don’t want to go home, that’s all.’
Vehemently, she denied it; and then began to cry, heart-rendingly, against his chest. He suddenly saw her for what she was: a spoiled child without discipline, who had exchanged a father’s indulgences for a husband’s. A husband, moreover, who was old enough to know better than let his wife run around like a first-class whore. She should have had her bottom smacked a long time ago, Robert thought harshly, and wondered whether this incident might teach her a much-needed lesson.
But he was not sufficiently hard-hearted to leave her in distress. He cuddled her and petted her, and ultimately took her to bed. For the last time, he swore to himself, making love with unaccustomed gentleness. She was passive and soft, and it seemed strange, with her, not to have a fight on his hands, not to feel she was bent on devouring him whole. It was also very enjoyable, and as he collapsed afterwards, he had few regrets.
When his thoughts cleared, something else became apparent: for the first time she was relaxed, too; genuinely satisfied, instead of clamouring for more.
A little after one, Louisa heard him come in, but he went straight to his own room. For a moment she wondered whether to call out or go to him, but she was sleepy and warm, and the effort was too much. Minutes later, she was dreaming of other things.
Next morning he was oddly vague about the business which had kept him in Dundalk, and for a fleeting moment she thought he might be lying; but then Letty started talking about the situation at White Leigh, and the matter went from her mind. It was a miserable end to the week, dull and gloomy outside, not fit for the ride Georgina longed to have. Robert seemed preoccupied by Charlotte, who was not, according to recent letters, responding well to the new nurse; and the baby was teething. They were all, it seemed, edgy and irritable, and for the first time in months Louisa was quite pleased to see him away again on Monday morning.
Going up to the schoolroom shortly afterwards, she found Georgina by the window, in tears.
‘What’s the matter, dearest?’ Putting an arm around those slender shoulders, Louisa drew her nearer the warm fire. ‘Why the tears?’
For eight years old, Georgina was tall and leggy, but she sidled gratefully onto the proffered knee, snuggling against Louisa’s comforting bosom. ‘Daddy’s horrid,’ she sniffed, ‘and I don’t love him anymore.’
‘Oh, deary me, why ever not?’
‘He doesn’t love me!’ she declared, bursting into a fresh bout of sobs.
‘Oh, my love, of course he does! You’re the apple of his eye, truly you are.’
‘No, I’m not. He promised to take me riding, ‘Ouisa, he truly, truly did. And I promised Dinky, and then he wouldn’t,’ she sobbed again, ‘and told me I was cheeky for saying it!’
‘But it was awfully wet, wasn’t it – not fit for going out. You might have caught a nasty cold.’
‘Not so wet,’ Georgina insisted, ‘and Da
ddy rides when it’s raining. He goes out whenever he wants to – it’s not fair.’’
‘Oh, my sweetheart,’ Louisa sighed, ‘there’s an awful lot of things in life which aren’t fair. We just have to learn to put up with them.’
“But he promised,’ she said indignantly, staring up into Louisa’s face. ‘He shouldn’t have, should he? That makes it a horrid lie, doesn’t it? And that’s wrong.’
The child’s black and white view brought another sigh to Louisa’s lips; and struck a chord deep down, which for no obvious reason made her feel faintly uneasy. Perhaps it was the extent of her own compromise, she thought; which was a difficult balancing act at the best of times.
‘Yes, it is wrong,’ she conceded at last, ‘and he shouldn’t have promised. But sometimes,’ she added wearily, ‘we promise things in all good faith, then outside things come along and make it impossible for us to keep to it. Like the weather — which we can’t do much about.’
‘Well, it’s still not fair,’ the little girl said, but the assertion was less vehement. Taking her hand, Louisa led her through into the nursery, and in the midst of Liam’s prattling baby-talk, Georgina at least recovered her good spirits.
Writing to Edward that afternoon, Louisa confessed to a certain gloominess, ‘brought on by the weather, no doubt,’ and mentioned the current anxiety over Robert’s wife.
‘Both Letty and William — and most certainly Anne! — think she should be committed, but, as ever, Robert won’t hear of it. He hasn’t been down to see her, however—Letty has, and is most concerned. The new nurse – the second since Mrs Hanrahan died – is more capable than the first, but less pleasant, and the servant Mary is now threatening to give notice. Charlotte is violent again, which must make things difficult all round. It seems an endless problem, which as far as I can see will only be solved by sending her away somewhere. But Robert has this fixed idea about asylums and cruelty, and a strong sentimental streak which I’m sure obscures his better judgement.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I really shouldn’t bother you with all these problems, Edward...’
Sometime later, reading the complete missive through, she paused at that point; of late it seemed she bothered him more and more with day to day problems in the Duncannon household. Originally she had tried to avoid that, describing places she had visited, giving observations on life in the Irish capital. But with the advent of children, their correspondence had ceased, and since then, probably because she had little to write about other than her everyday life, it had become more intimate.
She still had his first letter after Robin’s birth, written in the spring; could still feel stupidly emotional, reading the first few lines. ‘Forgive me,’ Edward said, ‘for being angry and hurt. From the very first, it seemed I was watching my dearest, most beloved friend place her head in a noose, and with news of your condition, I saw the rope tighten. I didn’t want to acknowledge it, so I turned my head away, and pretended the deed was done. Now I see how badly that hurt you — that in spite of all you have, you still need your family, even at a distance, even through the pitiful contact of words upon a page. So I beg your understanding, and pray our correspondence might resume.’
It had resumed, and with those letters was created a new paradox in her life. Knowing she was forgiven had made life bearable, but as time went on, his letters fed and fuelled that latent home-sickness, which surfaced so painfully at Robert’s suggestion of a holiday there.
Her mother’s oft-expressed desire to see those little grandsons had an equally profound effect. She longed for her to know them, but even though she had invited her mother to Dublin, Mary Elliott steadfastly refused to make the journey.
‘I’ve never crossed the sea before,’ she wrote, ‘and I’m too old to start now.’ Those sentiments projected Louisa into the future, imagining her mother a helpless invalid, growing old and sick and lonely, her family scattered.
Which was ridiculous, as Letty often pointed out; Mary Elliot had companionship in Bessie, and neither Emily nor Blanche lived a thousand miles away. Nevertheless, having no great faith in either of her sisters, Louisa was aware of a gnawing sense of guilt, a feeling that she might never see her mother again, and would suffer more because of it.
Standing by the nursery window, with the last blast of wind and rain upon the glass, she looked out over the Square at bare trees and wet, scurrying leaves, and the days of the Marygate apartment seemed halcyon indeed, with her family within reach, and Robert never further away, even in the summer, than the five miles’ distance of Strensall.
Although he must have worked hours which were as long and inconvenient as now, it did not seem so. Everything was closer, of course, unlike Dundalk or the Curragh; and in those days he had been with her every hour that he could spare, whereas now he seemed to spare so little. The social life in Dundalk must be poorly provincial compared to Dublin, Louisa thought, and yet there would always be functions to attend for the regiment’s sake.
And now December was almost upon them, cubbing would be over and the hounds ready to quarter the countryside of Meath like soldiers after a red-haired rebel.
‘Perhaps I should have learned to ride,’ she observed to Liam, ‘and taken up hunting.’ But he was busy banging alphabet bricks together, and could not have answered even if he would. With a throaty, confiding chuckle, he presented his mother with a brick, then two more; dutifully she built them up, and with delighted glee he knocked them down.
The roster for December had Robert marked down for duty over Christmas. It was unfortunate, but, as he explained to Louisa, he had escaped the last three years and could not in conscience complain. She was sad for the children’s sake, knowing the festival would not be the same without him, but a peculiar sense of detachment prevented her from being too upset on her own behalf. She was coming to expect these things; indeed, absence had become so much the norm, she sometimes wondered how they would react if thrown together for a long period of time. The numbing routine of her days continued, hardly broken even by her weekly visits to the Liberties.
Familiarity with those back-street hovels had made them ineffective as a blessing-counter; and she was well aware that it was only Dr Molloy’s friendship which saved her from the worst snubs of the other helpers. Only a dogged refusal to be bested kept her going.
Saturdays and Sundays, red-letter days once upon a time, created yet another area of conflict in Louisa’s battle-strewn soul. Robert’s discreet enquiries had provided a name and address, and Louisa was now in possession of a new device to prevent conception. But that seedy-looking medical man off Sackville Street had made her flesh crawl. She had the feeling he supplied the nearby brothels as well as ladies eager to broaden their horizons. Her suspicions imbued the tough little cone of wire and rubber with every degree of sinfulness. The feeling that what she was doing was wrong, that everything in her life was wrong, was inescapable.
Aware that something was amiss, Robert did try, unsuccessfully, to elicit the reason. But, with nothing solved, after a few days’ leave in mid-December, he returned to Dundalk just before Christmas. He would be back, he said, at the end of the following week.
‘We’ll celebrate then,’ he promised, in an attempt to cheer her, and with that he kissed her cheek and was gone.
Two days later, while Letty was out with Georgina, Louisa took the opportunity to wrap the children’s Christmas presents. She laid out paper, presents, sealing wax and ribbon on the dining table, and was just about to begin her task when the doorbell rang. It was the hour for afternoon callers, but other than Dr Molloy or one of the kinder charity ladies, they had few visitors. With a little exclamation of annoyance, Louisa listened for voices as McMahon answered the door. Masculine tones reached her ear, not identifiable; thinking it must be the doctor, she was halfway across the room when McMahon entered. With exceptionally stiff formality, breathing disapproval from every pore, the elderly butler announced Mr Gerald Loy.
A fleeting moment of sheer
revulsion prompted Louisa to say she was not at home; then sickly apprehension overcame it. Gerald had not been to the house in more than a year, and never during the day. Perhaps, knowing he was Robert’s cousin, the army had sent him to break some terrible news: a riding accident; insurrection in the streets; Robert the victim of a Fenian’s bullet...
‘Perhaps I’d better see him,’ she said in a voice which shook perceptibly. ‘Show him into the drawing room.’
She waited a moment, clasping trembling hands together, wishing Letty were there; feeling hot and cold by turns, she went down the hall, past the as yet untrimmed Christmas tree, and into the drawing room. Gerald was standing by one of the tall windows, looking out at the bleak and rain-swept garden. His expression, equally wintry, underscored all Louisa’s fears.
Discarding social niceties, she said: ‘You’d better tell me why you’ve come. If it’s about Robert, just tell me what’s happened.’
For what seemed an eternity, those pale grey eyes searched and studied; and then, against all expectation, he laughed. Not pleasantly, but he saw some amusement in the situation which Louisa failed to catch. ‘It is about Robert, yes. But — forgive me — not quite the tragedy you seem to expect.’ Again the bitter grimace of amusement. ‘A tragedy, but not of life and limb. Unfortunately.’
‘What do you mean?’ Formed as a demand, the phrase came out as a whisper; and limbs which had trembled with tension now gave way to weakness. Sinking into a chair, her eyes never left him, searching every fleeting change of face and gesture, until strutting arrogance gave way to self-pity.
‘He’s taken my wife,’ Gerald announced in hollow tones.
‘Taken your wife? Taken her where?’ she asked stupidly.
‘Taken her,’ he repeated with sudden fury, ‘away from me. Slept with her — had carnal knowledge, sexual intercourse — whatever you like to call it. The fornicating bastard, my own cousin, too!’
Louisa Elliott Page 57