Louisa Elliott

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Summoning a smile, Edward patted her arm as he escorted her back to the carriage. ‘You’ve done well — I’m so proud of you. What happened to you by the graveside? I felt your spirits lift and…’

  Robert joined them, John Elliott by his side.

  ‘I won’t come back to the house — you’ve enough to handle without my presence causing more raised eyebrows. I’ll head off back to Harris’s place.’ He turned to his companion. ‘John here feels in need of something warming, so he’s coming with me.’

  John gripped her hand and held it for a moment. ‘I’ll come on later, love, if that’s all right. When the crowd’s shifted. Can I beg a bed for the night, do you think?’

  ‘Of course you can. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ he murmured, his eyes suddenly misty, ‘we’ll have a little talk later, eh?’

  Robert touched her arm. ‘Moira sends her condolences, by the way. She would have liked to be here with you, but couldn’t. You understand?’

  For a moment, Louisa furrowed her brow. ‘Too busy?’ she ventured.

  ‘No, a small matter of religion.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Louisa sighed, ‘I’d forgotten that. Yes, well — send her my thanks, Robert. And my regards.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Hesitating a second, he suddenly took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘You deserve a medal,’ he said.

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ she answered bleakly, ‘but the day’s not over yet.’

  ‘The worst part is.’ He turned to Edward. ‘Letty’s arriving the day after tomorrow. She’ll want to see Louisa straight away, I know. May I bring her?’

  Edward nodded. ‘Of course.’

  With a smile and that so-familiar half-salute, he was gone. Louisa turned to find Edward’s eyes upon her, his gaze uneasy, questioning.

  The children were upstairs in the nursery with Emily’s four, looked after by a huge-eyed slip of a girl who reminded Louisa of her sister before marriage and children had thickened her figure. She was unsure whether the girl was employed as nanny or skivvy in Emily’s household, but did not ask; she was good with the children and polite enough, although her heavy West Riding accent with its strange dialect was hard for Louisa to comprehend. Young as they were, even Emily’s children were adopting it, and that seemed stranger still.

  Sighing, trying to recall when they were last gathered as a family, she took a tray of tea through into the parlour. Once again, the absence of her mother’s face hit her hard; she would have liked to be here, Louisa thought, just to see us all together. Although Emily had visited regularly, and Blanche came when she could spare an afternoon from her business in Harrogate, they never came as a pair. From the tone of their conversation, however, Louisa deduced they saw each other from time to time. Harrogate was after all, only a short train-ride from Leeds. And York, Louisa thought.

  But Blanche’s excuse, as always, was lack of time. Now a modiste in her own right, she had opened a small establishment in Harrogate, working single-handedly at first. Now she was employing seamstresses and assistants, all of whom, according to Blanche, were absolutely devoted to her. The maid who looked after her in the pleasant apartment overlooking the Stray was a similar treasure.

  Feeling like the servants her sisters discussed, she served the tea and returned to the kitchen. She felt better, keeping busy, in spite of Edward’s constant pleas that she sit down and rest. She cut sandwiches and cake for the children, calling the girl down from the nursery; minutes later, intending to call her again, she went silently into the hall. John Chapman, the up-and-coming cabinet-maker, with his well-tailored black suit and gleaming new watch-chain, was standing at the foot of the stairs, his hand upon the young girl’s waist. And she, the silly goggle-eyed creature, was gazing ardently back at him. So that’s the way the land lies, Louisa thought with more regret than satisfaction. As she ostentatiously cleared her throat, the two sprang apart, guilty confirmation in John’s dark flush and the girl’s haste to perform her errand.

  ‘I was just – er – enquiring after the bairns. You know, if they were behaving.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, John,’ she whispered harshly. ‘Don’t you think one scandal in the family is enough? Besides,’ she added contemptuously, ‘what would your mother say? Hmm?’

  Sheepishly, and without further comment, he returned to the parlour, while Louisa went to remind the girl of her position.

  Edward, listening to Blanche and Emily, felt anger rising.

  ‘Yes,’ Emily was saying wistfully, rejoined them, ‘I’ve always liked that little writing desk. I seem to remember Mamma saying she brought it back from Lincoln after her mother died. It’s terribly old-fashioned, I know, but...’

  ‘I could do with a couple of occasional tables,’ Blanche said frankly. ‘There must be a dozen dotted about this house. I shall have to have a word with Louisa about it. You know, Edward, when you move, there simply won’t be room for all this stuff. You’ll have to get rid of it.’

  ‘And so many ornaments,’ Emily added. ‘Do you think I could take those glass vases? They’re such a pretty shade of turquoise, and they’d look so nice against the new wallpaper in the parlour, wouldn’t they, John?’

  ‘We haven’t begun to look for another house,’ Edward said sharply. ‘And until we find one, it’s impossible to say what we shall need, or what will have to go. And the decision as to what will be kept and what sold,’ he added heavily, ‘will have to be Louisa’s.’

  ‘Oh?’ Blanche challenged. ‘Why’s that? There are three daughters, Edward, and if you’ll pardon my saying, you are only a nephew.’

  ‘I’m also the executor of your mother’s will.’

  There was a stunned silence. Suddenly, they were all asking questions at once, and in the midst of it, Louisa came in.

  Edward motioned her to a chair, but she looked like someone on trial. So far he had managed to field the money question. While she supposed her mother’s estate was negligible, she would survive this interrogation; but if her sisters knew there was close on a thousand pounds in Mary Elliott’s bank deposit, their wrathful indignation would know no bounds. Personally, he was surprised: under the circumstances he thought his aunt might have named something for each of them, a small token, if only for the sake of sentiment. But there was nothing.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us there was a will?’ Blanche demanded. ‘I asked you only the other day!’

  ‘We weren’t sure there was one,’ Edward replied, diverting attention from his cousin. ‘If you recall, I was out the afternoon you called, at the solicitor’s, and the bank.’

  ‘You weren’t out when I came!’ Emily said indignantly. ‘And you never said anything to me!’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘Well, I’m asking now. What did she leave, and to whom?’

  Slowly, Edward took a copy of the will from his inside pocket. ‘It’s here,’ he said, scanning the short and familiar contents. ‘You can have a look at it, if you like, but to summarise — apart from a bequest of fifty pounds to Bessie, everything is left to your sister Louisa. And I do mean everything – furniture, linen, pots and pans — everything.’

  Emily sank back like a deflated balloon. ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘And I always thought she was going to leave the silver to me. I must have spent years cleaning it.’

  With her usual hard edge of practicality, Blanche asked: ‘So how much did she leave in terms of hard cash, Edward? Just as a matter of interest, you understand?’

  ‘Enough to bury her with,’ Louisa cried, and left the room.

  Furious, Edward chewed his lip, resisting the urge to follow and tell her the truth. But he would never, he realized, be able to reveal what he knew: that for the past two years, Robert Duncannon had been paying an allotment of £12 a month into Mary Elliott’s account. While she was able, his aunt had made withdrawals against that amount, providing the children with clothes and shoes, and contributing to household expenses. It had been do
ne secretly, but with the noblest of motives, while Louisa refused to accept Robert’s offer of an annuity, and swore she would never take a penny from him again.

  Even without the residue of that considerable sum, Mary Elliott had saved a surprising amount. Edward almost smiled at the irony of these last months, when he had driven himself to the limits in an attempt to keep them solvent, refusing every offer his aunt had made. He had wondered at her frustration, and now he knew; understood also Robert Duncannon’s need to see her before she died. But the irony amused rather than annoyed him; even in the bank, that tidy sum would bring in interest for Louisa of almost fifteen shillings a week, which was more than some men were paid for hard physical labour.

  He knew it would give her financial independence and the freedom to decide what her next move must be; and if she should choose to make her home with him, Edward thought, with a small thrill of pleasure, he would know the past was over indeed.

  Nine

  Heavy rain, which had made the usual Sunday afternoon walk impossible, rattled a sharp tattoo against the parlour windows. Bessie hitched her shawl closer and peered at her knitting; with a yawn she put it to one side and reached for a taper to light the lamps.

  ‘Don’t know how you can see to read, Mr Edward,’ she muttered. ‘And that child is falling asleep. If she nods off now, she’ll never settle tonight.’

  Edward shifted slightly, adjusting the baby in the crook of his arm and pulling her thumb away from her mouth. ‘Just one more page, and then it’s teatime.’

  Either side of him on the sofa, the boys snuggled closer, peering eagerly at the next coloured picture, of grey skies and a heaving sea, a small fishing-boat with a brown sail and frightened men in long, coloured robes.

  Liam knew the book by heart. ‘Jesus isn’t scared,’ he said, pointing to the man in white standing in the bows. ‘He’s telling the storm to go away!’

  ‘Can you read it?’ Edward asked, pointing to the words. ‘“Now it came to pass on a certain day... ”’

  ‘“That he went into a ship,”’ Liam continued, but even though Edward knew he was reciting, rather than reading, he let him continue, picking up towards the end of the piece as Liam’s memory failed him.

  ‘“... Then He arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water, and they ceased, and there was calm.”’

  ‘Saint Luke, chapter eight, verses twenty-two to twenty-four,’ Liam finished proudly.

  ‘Very good! What comes next?’ He turned the page to the poem which followed, the poem with its sepia illustrations of a storm-tossed sailing ship on one side, and the same ship in calm waters on the other.

  ‘“Twas a wild, wild night at sea: And the captain and crew of the Bonnie Marie, Were all as grave as grave could be: For the waves rolled by, So great and high; While the wind whistled loud, And dark hung every cloud, And the good ship laboured heavily...”’

  Edward smiled, prompting: ‘“But the little cabin boy...”’

  ‘“But the little cabin boy, with a happy smile, Went about his work, and sang the while Of Him who spake and the worlds were made: Of Him who spake and the winds were stayed, And the storm was stilled on Galilee.”’

  ‘And do you know the rest, or shall I read it?’ Edward asked. Liam shook his head, hugging his knees as he listened to the last verse.

  Into the ensuing silence, Robin’s piping voice said anxiously: ‘That man’s gone on a ship.’

  Edward’s heart lurched. Then Liam said: ‘He’ll be all right. Jesus will look after him.’

  Edward thought he heard Bessie say the Devil looked after his own, but when he glanced again, her lips were pursed and she was studying her knitting.

  ‘Besides,’ added Liam importantly, ‘he’s the Captain. I know ‘cos he told me.’

  ‘He’s not that kind of Captain,’ Edward felt constrained to say. ‘Captain Duncannon is —’ The words echoed round his head and he hated himself for being unable to utter them, for being unable to tell two young boys that that man was their father. ‘Captain Duncannon is a soldier,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Well, I’m going to go on a ship when I’m big,’ Liam announced. ‘I’ll sail away for ever and a day.’ He slid off the sofa and followed Bessie into the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s Mammy?’ Robin asked wistfully. ‘When’s she coming back?’

  ‘She only went yesterday,’ Edward said, stroking the boy’s dark curls, ‘so it’ll be a few more days yet. She’s gone to Scarborough with Auntie Letty.’

  ‘Why can’t we go, Daddy?’

  He sighed, pulling the child closer. Sometimes it was Uncle, more often, like Tisha, it was Daddy; even Liam was picking it up, wanting to copy the other two. At first Louisa had been very keen, like himself, to correct them, but of late such niceties had fallen by the wayside, along with so many other things. Had it not been for Robert Duncannon’s return, he supposed it would not have mattered too much; but Edward had to remind himself that he was not the children’s natural father, however pleasant it might be to imagine so.

  He felt desperately torn between past and present, between a deep-seated belief that it was vital for every child to know its own father, and a growing conviction that security and affection were at least as important. Torn to the extent that it was hard for him to decide a course of action and stick to it. The children loved him, and he loved them too. But he had no right to them, and no claim upon Louisa. If she asked for advice he could attempt to give it; but he could not tell her what she should and should not do.

  Faced with Robert and his sister two nights ago, Edward had felt a mixture of heart-soaring joy and excruciating dismay when Louisa had declared her intentions to them. He wanted her to stay with him, of course he did; and that she wanted to share his life too was almost more than he had dared to hope. But he was sensitive enough to appreciate the blow to Robert Duncannon, a blow, moreover, which was delivered before witnesses. Perhaps that had been her intention: that once said, she could not go back. But Louisa was not indifferent to its effect, and he doubted the purity of her motives.

  Robert clearly disturbed her, no matter how strongly she denied it. And she still loved him. He suspected that what truly rankled with her, beyond his affair with that other woman, was his abrupt abandonment of everything in favour of what she called, ‘some piffling little foreign war.’ She had used that phrase so often; had even, at news of his wound, said defiantly: ‘It serves him right.’

  True or not, Edward had little sympathy to spare for Robert Duncannon. He would never forget the night of her return, when she and the children had arrived like waifs of the storm, seeking shelter and safety.

  He had suspected that things were far from well in Dublin. The tone of her letters had revealed so much more than Louisa imagined, and Edward was attuned to every subtle shift and change of fortune in that distant city. The bruises on her face had ensured instant sympathy from his aunt and Bessie, and in the first flush of her need to confess and be comforted, Louisa had revealed much of the cause of that stinging blow. But horrified though he was by that act of violence, Edward had cause enough to be glad of the other man’s hasty temper. Only afterwards, weeks later, when he had time to consider and assess, did he begin to see that the affair was by no means closed.

  And so he waited. They all waited, for two uneasy years. It was like living on a knife-edge, always wondering what would happen when the day came, always reluctant to reveal too much or love too well for fear of losing all in the end. He wanted Louisa to make up her own mind, without pressure from himself or anyone else; and most important of all, whatever love she had to give, he wanted it untainted by either gratitude or guilt.

  So, in that respect, he welcomed Robert Duncannon’s return.

  But the children were caught between the three of them, and no matter the difficulty of making hard and fast decisions now, they could not be set aside to await a more propitious day. Their future hung in the balance, and, unfair though it was, he could understand why
Robert Duncannon wanted his own position made clear. He wanted access to his children, and the chance to support them financially, points which Louisa was inclined to dismiss out of hand, on the grounds that they were her children, and she did not want them to be confused by a complicated web of awkward relationships.

  On the sidelines, both he and Letty had weighed in with suggestions, but apart from an agreement that Robert could see them whenever he managed to get to York, the rest was still unresolved.

  A small hand pressed his arm; wide blue eyes full of trusting innocence gazed up at him. ‘Why,’ Liam asked, ‘can’t we go with Mammy?’

  ‘It’s not a very good day for playing on the sands, now is it? I tell you what, we’ll go in the summer, when the weather is better. But right now,’ he added, ‘it’s time for tea. Off you go and wash your hands.’

  Tisha whimpered as he lifted her up, soft little arms clinging round his neck. Edward smiled as he cuddled and kissed her, delighting in the sweet baby smell, the feel of her satiny skin against his cheek. No matter how detached he tried to be, it was hard not to play the part of loving parent. No father could have been more anxious than he during the hours of Tisha’s entry into the world, no father more proud and relieved when he was allowed in to see mother and child for the first time. Although he adored all three of them, he supposed it was because he had lived with Louisa throughout the whole of her pregnancy that made Tisha so special to him. Illogically, but very deeply, he felt she was his child by right.

  Setting her into the high-chair by the kitchen table, Edward watched while Bessie tied a towelling bib round her, and waited for the boys to cease their chatter.