Despite his superior age, Liam still hung back, unsure of the big man with the sun-browned skin and flourishing black moustache. Not so his little brother. Robin climbed confidently onto the proffered knee, beamed like a rococo cherub and thrust out an already sticky hand for the finger of bread. Robert looked at them: one dark, one fair, both likely to grow into handsome young men. But as soon as Louisa carried Tisha into the room, Robert knew she was going to be beautiful. At fifteen months, with clear, translucent skin, rosy cheeks and a perfect little rosebud mouth, she had all the delicate perfection of a china doll. She stared at him from beneath glossy dark-gold curls, a wide, unblinking, inscrutable gaze, and Robert knew he was lost.
Suddenly, her gaze shifted; and immediately she struggled to be free. ‘Dadda,’ the tiny heartbreaker demanded, reaching out her arms to Edward. ‘Want Dadda.’
Seven
Edward did not go to work that day, nor the next, and on the night Mary Elliott slipped peacefully away, Louisa had slept some twelve hours, unaware of her mother’s passing.
In retrospect, that was what grieved her, beyond thankfulness, beyond relief, beyond the dreadful aching hole she felt somewhere in her breast, beyond any of the emotions she thought she should have been feeling. After all they had suffered together, it seemed a kind of betrayal that her mother should leave the world without Louisa even being aware of it.
Initially she could not forgive Dr Mackenzie for the sleeping draught he had insisted she take that night, and even railed against Edward for agreeing. Angrier than she had seen him for a long time, he told her to stop behaving like a spoiled child: rest was what she had needed then and needed now. He waited while she swallowed more of the foul-tasting medicine.
She knew she was behaving badly, reacting in bizarre and eccentric fashion to everyday irritations. As though they could not give up the habit, Bessie and Edward took turns to sit with her each night until she fell asleep. And sleep she did, all night and half the day, the sleep of utter exhaustion.
At news of Mary Elliott’s death, Robert said he would stay on for the funeral. He had called regularly, but even when she didn’t see him, Louisa sensed his proximity. His presence in York was like an upraised sword on the edge of her vision.
But for the moment she had her solitude. Blanche had been and gone, Edward was out, Emily had thankfully whisked the children back to Leeds with her the night before, and Bessie was in her beloved kitchen, preparing food for the funeral tea.
And when we move, Louisa thought sadly, she will go too, because we can’t afford to keep her. And because Emily is moving up in the world, and says she really must have a housekeeper, Bessie will go to them. To a decent, respectable family with a marriage licence framed on the wall.
The past two years had been difficult. Although she kept silence on the subject, in myriad small ways Bessie had managed to register her disapproval, making it clear that had it not been for loyalty to her old and dearly-loved mistress, she would be searching for another place. And that, more than anything, had hurt Louisa, for Bessie was more family than servant, a human fixture who had always been kinder and more reliable than either sister; more affectionate, even, in the difficult years between child and adult, than her mother.
Now, however, with a move from Gillygate imperative, Bessie had no reason to stay. Louisa knew she would miss her greatly.
As self-pity attacked, she gave in to it, for a moment wishing she smoked like Letty or drank like Robert, so there could be some outward and visible sign of the grief within. She dreaded the funeral, not least because it meant facing people she had avoided for a long time. People like Mrs Chapman, who had fuelled more gossip than Louisa cared to contemplate, and one prune-faced neighbour who never lost an opportunity to lift her nose and swish her skirt aside if she saw Louisa in the street. Another had actually hissed the word whore at her in the butcher’s; and while he had glared at the old witch and given Louisa an extra half-pound of beef, that had been the end.
After all, she reasoned, to a certain extent they were right; and not only had she broken every rule in the book as far as they were concerned, she had also had the brass-faced cheek to come back and advertise the fact. With her pregnancy becoming more obvious then, she had given up, leaving Bessie to do the shopping, and her mother to take the boys for walks. Except for Edward’s insistence, she might have given up going out altogether. But from the very beginning he had refused to let her become a hermit, and done all in his power to deflect the prurience of local curiosity.
There had been harsh words on occasion, delivered mainly as jolts to her bouts of self-pity, but from Edward there had been none of the recriminations with which she lacerated herself. Until her mother’s illness, Louisa felt she had been recovering, but the agony of that raked up all the old guilt and more. Had she stayed in Dublin, the hotel would still be viable; Mamma’s health might not have broken down; Edward need not have worked so desperately hard to support them all... The list went on and on.
The irony of it, when she had imagined from the distance of Dublin that a return to York would provide all the answers, bit into her even now. In their own ways, people here could be just as cruel as anywhere else: human nature was no different, whatever the class, whatever the language used to express it. The only consolation, throughout everything, was in Edward’s unconditional affection, and her love for the city itself. In the very early hours of a summer’s morning, or at dusk, Louisa would walk her favourite paths, watch the changing of the seasons, and, for a brief while, at least, leave trouble behind.
Half-dozing in her mother’s favourite chair, the jangling of the front bell startled her into wakefulness. She heard Bessie’s footsteps and an irritated sigh as she approached the door; silence for a second and then her voice, heavy with disapproval, as she invited Robert to wait inside.
‘It’s the Captain, ma’am,’ she said to Louisa, eyebrows drawn together over a gimlet gaze. ‘Are you at home?’
‘No, Bessie, I don’t think I am.’
‘At home or not,’ Robert said, coming into the parlour, ‘you’re up and dressed, and I need to speak to you.’
Bessie bestowed on him a look which would have crushed another man. She glanced at Louisa for further instructions, and, receiving none, gave a sniff as she swept out which said they must both go to hell without her assistance.
‘I don’t want to speak to you, Robert.’
‘Well, it’s time you did. There are things we have to discuss before I return to Ireland.’ Removing hat and coat and gloves, he took the chair which faced her. ‘Edward tells me you’re thinking of moving house.’
‘Yes, that’s right. We can’t afford to keep this house on.’
‘So I understand. But do you have to move in with him?’
Amazed at his temerity, for a second Louisa simply glared. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business!’
‘The children are my business.’
‘Oh, no. They’re mine, as I said before. I’ll provide for them somehow, Robert, don’t you fear!’
‘How?’ he demanded. ‘You’re an unmarried woman, without employment — how will you provide?’
‘I was an unmarried woman, without employment,’ she said with low, controlled fury, ‘when I first came back here, two years ago. I had every intention at that time of taking a job – any job – to feed and clothe my children. I had no intention of being a burden on my mother, or Edward, or anyone else!’ Breathing hard, pausing to let that sink in, she glared at him with such venom that for a moment Robert recoiled. ‘But before I was able to do that – I was looking, you understand – I discovered I was pregnant!
‘You made me a burden on this household,’ she said accusingly. ‘And it’s thanks to you that Edward has had to support me all this time. If you could have just let me go that night – just accepted that I had had enough and could take not one thing more, Robert — if you could have done that, I might have been able to forgive you.’
�
�I know, I know,’ he murmured, almost writhing with contrition, ‘I’m so sorry for that, Louisa, you’ve no idea — ‘
‘I don’t want to know! Your sorrow at this juncture does not concern me!’ Rising abruptly to her feet, Louisa went to the door. ‘I think you should go.’
He stood, but did not gather his things. ‘Please, listen to me. I’ve had two long years to think about that night – and all that went before it — and I know what a blasted fool I was. But you wouldn’t listen to me then, Louisa — just as you don’t want to listen to me now. What I did was unforgivable, but, believe me, it happened only because I loved you so much, because I didn’t want you to leave.
‘You have to understand that,’ he whispered, taking a step towards her, ‘you have to believe that it was love and — and dread — that drove me then, not anger.’
Not wanting to accept it, still she saw the sorrow in his eyes, and the memory of their last night together, when he had taken her without consent. Reliving all the rage and humiliation of that night, she stiffened under the hand which touched her shoulder, and knew there had been hatred, too. Not in him, perhaps, but in herself, for the weakness of the body which had committed the ultimate betrayal and responded to him.
But it would not happen again, however hard he tried to remind her of other, better days. Moving out of reach, in a voice which was not quite steady, she said: ‘All right — I believe you. I hope that makes you happy.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘I’ve said so, haven’t I? But remember this, Robert – it’s over. I’ve changed, I’m no longer the woman I was two years ago – ‘
‘I’ve changed, too,’ he said quickly, taking hold of her hand. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’ve learned a lot while I was away. I’ve changed, Louisa, but I still love you, and I…’
‘No! There can be no going back, not now, not ever! I don’t want your kind of life, Robert, and, if truth be told, I never did!’
‘On your terms,’ he said desperately. ‘You could stay here, in York — I’d buy a house…’
‘No!’ Backing away from him, Louisa took refuge in her mother’s chair and covered her ears. Fragile self-control, so carefully held together, was crumbling like sand. She had an overwhelming desire to scream at him; and was afraid that if she did, the scream would go on and on and on...
‘Louisa...’ He was bending over her, much too close; she pushed at the air, fending him away.
‘Don’t – don’t touch me – I don’t want you near me — just stay away.’
He sat down. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘I shouldn’t – shouldn’t have come. It’s the wrong time – wrong place.’ He leaned forward, head in hands, despairing. ‘There’s never enough time — never was. I’m never with you long enough, am I? Never long enough to find the right moment…’
For some time, neither spoke. Gradually the tension in the air eased, Louisa sniffed and wiped her eyes, and Robert sank back in his chair.
‘What I’m trying to say is that I still care about you, Louisa. And the children. I’d like the chance to spend time with them occasionally. I hope you won’t deny me that. And, whatever happens, the offer is still open, will always be open, should you change your mind.’
Unable to speak, she simply nodded, with the feeling that she would agree to anything if only he would go away, leave her in peace.
For some minutes he said nothing at all, and then, looking as exhausted as she felt, Robert started to talk about Letty, about a plan he had discussed with Edward, for inviting his sister over to accompany Louisa on a short holiday. The thought that she had been discussed behind her back, by Edward and Robert of all people, roused her anger afresh, but she had no energy with which to express it. Moments later, the idea seemed absurdly tempting. To see Letty again, talk to her, get away from everything for a while, might help restore a better perspective.
She wished she could have seen Georgina, too. Loving her, she had missed the child after leaving Dublin, and, since the heartbreak of that parting, had thought often of Anne Duncannon’s words uttered all those years ago at White Leigh. What did we do to her?
Thinking of that quiet and thoughtful girl, the childish exuberance tamed by tragedies not of her making, Louisa felt ashamed. Loving her little brothers, depending on Louisa, the shock of losing them, with her adored father’s abrupt departure so very close behind, must have left indelible scars. Only Letty remained a true, fixed point, and for that Louisa was thankful. But she often wondered what went through Georgina’s mind when she visited them in York, and how Robert stood these days in her affections.
‘How is Georgina?’ she asked. ‘Was she pleased to have you back?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ he said; a little guardedly, Louisa thought, glancing quickly up into his face. Holding that glance, he added softly: ‘She hoped, when I told her I was coming here, that I would bring you back.’
Eight
Scarcely a handful of mourners had paid their respects at Elizabeth Elliott’s funeral, but at her sister Mary’s were dozens of people, neighbours and shopkeepers from Gillygate, old regulars from the hotel, and friends she had made over the years whom her daughters barely knew.
Shaking beneath dense black veiling, Louisa clung to Edward’s arm as they followed the coffin into the huge chapel. To her, the gathered mourners were not individuals but an amorphous mass with eyes, eyes that touched and probed, stripping away the crepe and veils and leaving her naked in terror and grief. She shivered and trembled and tried to concentrate on the service, but that was worse, impersonal and anonymous, conducted by a young cleric who had no acquaintance with Mary Elliott. To hear her mother referred to anonymously as, ‘our sister here departed’, was hurtful; she looked at Blanche, her face and hands so neatly composed, and Emily weeping quietly into her handkerchief, and each time she heard that phrase repeated, wanted to shout in protest.
She began to be afraid she would give voice to it, pushed a scrap of lace and linen between her teeth and bit hard, covering her mouth with her fingers. Edward gripped her other hand fiercely, and she knew he was suffering too. At the hymn they stood, both unable to sing; Blanche’s voice, steady at first, quavering like Emily’s towards the end, rang in her ears.
Out. Out past that sea of faces and into swirling mist. Fresh agony struck: how would they ever find the grave? Angels with outspread wings loomed at her, obelisks appeared for a moment and then were swallowed whole; great slabs of marble and granite, nightmare trees dripping crocodile tears reached out; the coffin with its bearers moved off, disappearing into the fog. Blanche and Emily were indistinct, then gone...
Edward was tugging gently at her elbow. ‘Not much more, then we can go home.’
‘I can’t!’ She was shaking, too terrified to move.
Out of the rapidly-swelling crowd, Bessie appeared, grief suspended as she reached for Louisa’s hand; but Louisa flinched from the expected touch.
‘It’s all right,’ Edward said calmly, and his voice was soft and warm; gently, he pulled her arm through his and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t panic. Just tell me what’s wrong.’
‘They’ve gone, we’ll never find them, never find the grave!’
‘Yes, we will.’ His voice was so sure, so confident. ‘All we have to do is follow the path. I know the way.’
As she took her first hesitant step forward, she caught sight of Robert a few yards ahead, on the edge of the crowd but towering above them, face anxious, eyes willing her on. Her knees threatened to give way, but leaning on Edward, heartened by his murmured encouragements, she made her way forward. Bessie was in front, with a man whose jaunty figure and black billycock hat raised a weak smile beneath her veil. His face, anxious at first, burst into a broad grin. His saucy wink brought an unexpected gurgle of laughter to her throat.
‘Oh, John Elliott,’ she whispered to Edward. ‘I might have known that would be John.’
‘Typical,’ he replied, referring to the wi
nk, but there was gladness in his voice as he pressed her hand. ‘Good of him to come. It must have been the very devil of a journey.’
‘He was very fond of Mamma. I knew he’d come if he could.’
To one side of the open grave, flares were lit, dispelling wraiths of fog beneath the trees. Supported by her husband, Emily was weeping copiously; even Blanche was dabbing her eyes with a scrap of silk, but, strangely, Louisa had no desire to weep.
The young Curate mumbled his way through the last of the service, and she simply ceased to listen. Lifting her head, she noticed a few withered leaves clinging to the branch above them, and thought of her mother in the past endless weeks, clinging so tenaciously to life. But the suffering was over, the spirit set free, having no more to do with this disposal of mortal remains.
As its importance fell away, spring was in her soul, and the scent of roses; she was suddenly warm and glad, relieved of fear, relieved of grief and sadness and the terrible memory of lingering death. She wanted to embrace them all, fill them with her sure and eager certainty: they were wrong to be weeping when Mary Elliott had been set free; wrong to weep for a soul at peace.
The joy she had experienced buoyed her through the ordeal of condolences. Edward kept her close beside him, forcing people who would commiserate with him to acknowledge Louisa too. Sometimes strained through tight lips, sometimes surprisingly genuine, the wash of words flowed over her, leaving little mark.
A sense of familiarity, as though she had done this before, washed over her. The sight of Robert, head bowed in conversation with John Elliott, suddenly provided the answer: those early days in Dublin, when he had taken her practically everywhere with him. He had forced her through dozens of similar ordeals, but she had never acquired the necessary immunity to sly looks and whispered gossip. Unlike Robert, she would never be gregarious; her life and nature precluded it. But she would strive, for the children’s sake, to regain something of her former confidence; and for her mother’s sake too, she thought, still warmed by the glow of her fleeting presence. It was a small beginning on the road back to life, but with help, she knew she would get there.
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