With a sigh he donned his clothes and sent down for a light supper to be served in his room. When he had eaten, he would make his way to Clementhorpe. Although he had written them to expect him the following day, Robert could not imagine they would be out.
Replete and refreshed, he strolled up Queen Street in the gathering dusk, sniffing the scents of new-mown grass along the ramparts. He passed the small and rather forbidding school beneath the Micklegate walls, where Liam had recently begun his first term, and wondered how the boy was faring. He would have preferred to educate his sons privately, but as Louisa was never slow to point out, technically the children were hers, not his, and they would receive the kind of education suitable to their status in life. At least until they were older. Should one or all of them prove worthy of a higher education, Edward had assured him he was quite as keen as Robert that they should receive it, no matter what the cost.
At the corner with Blossom Street he paused, staring with sudden and avid curiosity at the Tempest house across the road. It was the first time he had set eyes on the place since leaving York with the regiment, and he thought of Louisa, passing this way every day as she brought Liam to and from school. That house had given her the cold shivers, ever since…
Reminded of Rachel, he wondered about Arthur Bainbridge, whether he was still with the Hussars, or if Rachel had made him give up that fancy blue uniform for real work in her father’s business. Somehow, he could not quite see Arthur settling to anything.
He thought he must ask Louisa whether she had ever bumped into the Bainbridges, or, since the move to Clementhorpe, had seen anything of Moira or Harris. They were just across the river, after all.
Along Nunnery Lane, the shadows in the moat were indigo, the bright new leaves of chestnut trees like vivid green fingers holding candles in the dusk. High above the trees, the crenellated city wall was touched with pink, smiling this evening, not threatening. The familiar scent of horses in a stable on his left, freshly-cut grass and all the heady newness of early summer attacked Robert’s senses like wine.
Two young girls in white Whit Sunday dresses passed him, their voices high with excitement. No doubt they were out to meet two similarly eager young men, Robert thought, and was filled with envy, for their innocence, for the as yet unmarked page of their future lives. A sentimental desire to wish them well possessed him; and with admiring eyes he tipped his hat, to be rewarded by two dimpling smiles. The burst of delighted, half-fearful giggles behind him was suddenly poignant. For all that he had, for all the sensual beauty this summer evening had to offer, he was alone, not for the want of opportunity, but for need of a woman who had turned her back.
When all was said and done, he knew he could forget her intransigence, the blistering words, the utter boredom of domestic life; but he had only to watch her cross a room, or catch her scent as she passed by, to recall in minutest detail how she looked and felt after making love. It was the subtlest form of torture, yet for that he had taken an extra half-day’s leave and the early train in order to indulge it.
Unsure which of the new streets led down to the cottage, Robert took the more familiar way, past the confectionery works and along the riverside. It was lighter there, the last pale glow of the western sky reflected on the glassy water. A solitary rowing-boat was drifting slowly downstream towards the confluence with the Foss, no doubt some boatman returning to his craft moored in the basin at Castle Mills. A touch of red caught his eye beneath trees on the far bank, and he saw with a pang of unexpected nostalgia a pair of young soldiers walking their girls across St George’s Field.
After the metallic echo of his footsteps on pavements and cobbles, his footfall was suddenly absorbed by a sandy bridleway overhung with beeches and tall elms. Further on he saw a pantiled roof over a wall thick with flowering shrubs, and then the iron railings beside the path; there was the squeak of the gate and Edward appeared, his face quite clear in that open space. He was laughing as he turned back, the first genuine, carefree laugh Robert had ever heard him utter. He was so surprised, he stopped; and then he was curious, reluctant to leave the shadow of the trees under which he stood.
‘Leave that weeding,’ he heard Edward say, ‘or you’ll be bent double tomorrow. And you needn’t come to me for sympathy!’
‘I’m coming,’ the disembodied voice called back. It was Louisa, of course.
Edward appeared again, bareheaded and with turned-back shirtsleeves, as though he had been gardening too. He leaned on the gate, laughing as he held out his hand to the invisible figure in the garden. He has good teeth, Robert thought, with surprised irrelevance, knowing he had never noticed before.
Relaxed and unaware, Edward chaffed Louisa to hurry, and she came at last, pulling off stained gloves and untucking her dress as she stepped out onto the path. Her merry, dimpling laughter burned jealousy into Robert’s heart. For a second he simply stood transfixed, hating them both; then, afraid they might start towards him, stepped back into deeper shadow.
But they went no further than the grassy riverbank.
‘I’d nearly finished,’ she said with lighthearted protest, as Edward helped her down a steep and hidden path.
‘I know, but it’ll be dark in no time, and I want to see the river and this marvellous light before it goes completely. A few minutes, that’s all.’
‘You’re quite mad,’ she laughed, dropping down beside him in the grass.
He could see only their heads and the line of their shoulders, close together; then Edward’s arm came up around her, his broad hand resting against the curve of her neck. Like a pair of lovers, Robert thought as he turned away, not caring if he was seen.
It was already hot when he returned the next morning. All the doors and windows stood open, and Louisa was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Her cheeks were flushed, but as ever she looked prettier like that, he thought, never distressed and unattractive. A broad starched apron covered a white-spotted navy-blue dress, and she looked neat and cool and capable; rather like one of the nurses, he thought, on the steamship home from Cairo. The image appealed to him.
As before she greeted him casually, from a distance of several feet. Robert stood in the shady doorway, where a slight breeze played, watching her rinse crisp green lettuce leaves in a bowl of icy water; her hands dripped as she shook them, and he longed to feel their coolness against his brow. Catching the glance she smiled and reached for a large jug of fresh lemonade.
‘Here,’ she said, pouring Robert a glass, ‘have a drink. You look hot.’
Thanking her, he followed her with his eyes; embarrassed, Louisa turned away. With the memory of the riverbank in his mind, he stood quite still for a moment, pondering afresh the question which had tormented him half the night: had the situation drastically changed, or was it simply that he had watched them unobserved? But she was hardly likely to answer him, Robert reflected with a sigh; attracted by the sound of children’s voices, he went outside.
Beneath trees in the little orchard, on grass spotted with daisies and fallen blossoms, the boys had erected a makeshift tent of clothes-horse and blankets. While they crawled in and out, disturbing and re-arranging, the baby sat calmly by in frilled pinafore and sunbonnet, like an amused little queen surveying her unruly subjects. From time to time she plucked a daisy from the grass and ate it. He crouched down, intending to dissuade her, but Liam called him to see the tent, eager and so remarkably transformed from the hesitant, suspicious child he had come to expect that Robert had to join him.
Surveying that round, fair head, and listening to his elder son’s assessment of the problem of the blankets, Robert was amazed at the change in him. He could date it, he realized, to a precise point in his last visit, the afternoon of the picnic. Before that, the boy had been reluctant to speak to him, and even less eager to make any kind of physical contact. Asked whether he would like to ride alongside Robert on the driving seat, he had backed away as though from a plague.
It was unbearable. Later, Robert h
ad noticed him on his own, watching the placid old horse cropping contentedly at the grass. With the excuse of checking its tether, Robert strolled casually towards them. He began by talking about the horse, its size and breed and what it was suited for, running his hands over various points and showing Liam its hooves and shoes; went on to talk about his own horses in Ireland, and the chargers which must be specially trained for cavalry use. The child had listened carefully, but at a distance, torn between fascination and obvious mistrust. Despairing of the game, Robert crouched down and returned his son’s stare, trying to fathom the cause of that desperate inner struggle.
The fact that he did not immediately run back to his mother was heartening. At last, Robert had said quite baldly: ‘You don’t know what to call me, do you, Liam? You remember me and you remember the horses — but you don’t quite know who I am. Is that it?’ Very slowly, the child had nodded.
Robert had known then that he must take Louisa’s word as a mother: no matter how much it crippled him to deny his paternity, he must for the boy’s sake – for all their sakes – pretend.
The recollection of that moment brought another lump to Robert’s throat. Now, as he stroked the soft fair hair, the boy smiled up at him. ‘Come on, Uncle Bob,’ he said brightly, ‘you come in as well.’
‘No, no, I’m far too big for that little tent. I should knock it down, and then you’d have to start again. I’ll sit here outside for a while.’
He watched them playing, Liam the leader and Robin his faithful follower, and wondered whether it would always be so. With age, boys tended to quarrel; he had with his own brother.
‘And you, little miss,’ he murmured as the baby crawled towards him, ‘will you be like your namesake, with an independent streak a mile wide?’
Attracted by another daisy, Tisha paused, her perfect features the very picture of concentration. Chubby fingers hovered, descended, and picked the tiny yellow and white flower; it went straight into her mouth.
‘Should she be doing that?’ he asked Liam. ‘Eating daisies?’
‘Oh, she’s all right,’ Liam stated with airy unconcern. ‘She likes them.’
‘I think I’d better ask your mother,’ Robert replied doubtfully, glad of an excuse to go inside, out of the sun.
As he reached for that little stranger, his daughter, she turned an imperious blue gaze upon him; a second later those rosebud lips enunciated the clearest, firmest negative Robert thought he had ever heard. With a laugh he picked her up, and was rewarded by a piercing scream; wincing, he took her in to Louisa.
‘Here’s one who’ll never be taken advantage of,’ he muttered thoughtlessly as he handed her over.
Tight-lipped, Louisa soothed the child and sponged her face and hands. ‘I think it’s time for a little lie down.’
‘Yes, please,’ Robert agreed, holding his head. ‘Just show me the way.’
‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?’
‘I’m most decidedly unwell,’ he admitted, sinking into a chair.
Giving him a searching look, Louisa took the baby upstairs; when she came down, she said: ‘Demon drink, Robert? I thought you’d given that up.’
‘Not entirely. And last night I bumped into an old acquaintance.’
‘Oh? Who was that? Anyone I know?’ Taking the lettuce she had washed and drained earlier, she began arranging it in a large glass bowl. On the table were spring onions and watercress, and a crock of large brown eggs.
‘Arthur Bainbridge.’
‘Rachel’s husband? What on earth was he doing in London?’
It took some time for Robert to explain the circumstances of that meeting on Blossom Street, as the tale was threaded by several half-truths. Exhausted by that mental effort, he had quite forgotten the reason for beginning it when she said: ‘And one drink led to another, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I suppose it did.’
‘Well, I hope you can manage some dinner. It’s all cold – I couldn’t face cooking a hot meal today, and by the look of you, you couldn’t have eaten it, so it’s just as well.’
While she was cracking and peeling hard-boiled eggs he watched her, amazed at her ability to cope with meals, domestic chores and the demands of three young children. The kitchen was bright and spotless, as he was sure the rest of the house would be. Remembering her work in the garden, late the night before, he realized she must rise early and work solidly throughout the day; what amazed him most of all was the fact that she appeared to be happy doing it.
‘How on earth do you manage on your own, without help?’
‘Quite well,’ she said, with more than a touch of pride and challenge in her voice. Chopping sprigs of parsley, she sprinkled it over the eggs, and fetched a large stand pie from the pantry. ‘Not that I have time these days to sew fine seams and play the piano — but I enjoy what I do. It’s very satisfying, Robert, to be appreciated.’
‘Meaning I didn’t appreciate you?’
‘You took me for granted, Robert. And really, to be honest,’ she added dryly, ‘I didn’t actually do very much in Dublin, did I? Apart from bear children, that is.’
He sighed. ‘You never let go, do you?’
With a little laugh, Louisa shook her head. ‘What do you expect? That I should fall into your arms, say it was all a big mistake, and won’t you take me away from all this?’ She stood for a moment, arms akimbo, watching him. ‘This is where I belong, Robert. What else could you possibly offer me that I might want? I’ve tasted it all – and it went very sour.’
‘I could think of something,’ he said with brutal frankness. ‘Or is that provided, too?’
She went white. In her eyes there was more pain than fury, and instantly he regretted those goaded, hasty words. Even as he braced himself for a torrent of abuse, or the short order to leave, Louisa turned away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, hating himself. ‘That was unforgivable – I don’t know what made me say that…’ As she leant against the table, Robert caught her arm, and before she could jerk away, made her face him. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said softly.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said in a queer, controlled voice, ‘you can think what you like.’
‘I don’t want to think that!’ His eyes raked her face, hating that blank, shuttered expression. ‘Look at me,’ he ordered, shaking her, ‘and tell me I mean nothing to you! Tell me you could see me dead and not weep one single tear – tell me that, and I’ll go away and never bother you again!’
‘You’re hurting me.’
For a second his fingers bit deeper into the soft flesh at the top of her arms; then, with an oath, he dropped his hands and stepped abruptly back.
When he could find his voice, which was far from steady, Robert said: ‘Why do you make me so bloody angry? You know, it was precisely this sort of situation which led to that...’ He shook his head, not wanting to complete the sentence, not wanting to admit…
But while he glared at her in angry frustration, Louisa’s eyes were on the window. ‘Edward’s here,’ she whispered on a sharp release of breath, ‘so please don’t say any more.’
As Edward came in at the front, Robert made a swift exit through the kitchen door, and when he returned with the boys some ten minutes later, Edward was washing his hands in the tiny scullery. None of last night’s easy humour remained; he was polite and wary as ever. At the table, taking their cue from him, the children were on their best behaviour, subdued by the atmosphere and the unaccustomed grandeur of eating in the parlour.
They discussed the weather and the garden, and Robert praised the simple but excellent meal. Afterwards, while the boys were sent to lie on their beds for an hour, and Louisa gave Tisha her dinner in the kitchen, the two men took their coffee outside.
Searching for something to say, something neutral which would break the ice between them, he mentioned having run into Arthur Bainbridge the night before. As a means of deflecting interest from himself and the nature of that spur
ious army business, he had bombarded Arthur with questions about his family, and all the mutual acquaintances he could bring to mind. Over several drinks in Arthur’s club, he had heard the story of Mrs Bainbridge senior’s demise, and Sophie’s subsequent role of martyred companion to the old Major.
Repeating relevant details, Robert managed a little laugh. ‘Happy families! And Arthur’s talking about applying for a regular commission, he’s so sick of them all. I get the impression Rachel drives him mad.’
‘Fancy Sophie being still on the shelf,’ Louisa remarked as she came out to join them, ‘I’d have thought she’d be like Rachel — marrying the first to come along. Whatever happened to Lily? Is she still at home?’
‘Far from it,’ Robert chuckled. ‘She married some eccentric old boy with estates in the East Riding. Big interests in bloodstock and racing, apparently, but they live in absolute squalor, according to Arthur. He said he’d rather have slept in the stables when he visited last — they were a damn sight cleaner than the house!’
‘I can imagine that,’ Louisa said dryly.
She poured fresh coffee, and after a while the conversation lapsed quite comfortably. Robert’s headache had gone, and with it the hard edge of his anger; as always, he regretted losing his temper, and wondered how to make amends. Beginning to feel the soporific effects of a late night and a pleasant meal, he leaned back, finding the un-cushioned Windsor chair lacking in comfort. What they really needed here, he thought, was a long garden seat; propped up by cushions, he could have stretched out his legs and gone to sleep...
Louisa Elliott Page 70