Another one, she thought, as Harris sprang to mind; which led again to Robert and the worsening news from southern Africa. With a sigh, she carried on.
The feeling of unease which had touched her at Edward’s leaving returned in force that night. Everything she did seemed to underline his absence, from setting the table at teatime to preparing the children’s bath. It was a job he generally undertook, afterwards taking the children up for a lengthy bedtime story, while she poured water for her own bath, usually a rather hurried affair.
Without him, however, the children were washed, dried, in their nightclothes and in bed almost before they knew it. Downstairs, Louisa prepared her bath, taking advantage of this unaccustomed solitude to relax in the warmth, to pay attention to hands and feet and nails. The last time she had looked at her body, really examined it, was with dismay at its gauntness; but months of contentment had wrought their changes. Breasts and hips had filled out again, and if her waist was also thicker, at least her skin showed few marks of childbearing. It was still fine and smooth; unlike her hands, she noted with a grimace. Roughened by housework and gardening, they were no longer smooth and white like a teacher’s; nor a mistress’s, she thought with satisfaction.
Wrapped in a towel, with clean water she rinsed soap from her hair and dried it roughly. She was reaching for her nightdress when she heard the tell-tale squeak of the gate.
Poised like a statue, Louisa stared at the closed gingham curtains as though sheer will would enable her to see through them.
The light tap at the door released her. Quickly she pulled on the white cambric nightdress and searched feverishly for her robe. It was missing. So was her shawl. Feeling immensely foolish, she opened the front door no more than an inch, peering through the gap. There, in the soft lilac dusk, looking as though he had materialized straight from Savile Row in an immaculate pale grey suit, stood Robert. His smile at least had the grace to seem a little uncertain.
‘Robert! What are you doing here?’
‘A little unexpected, I know, but…’
Caught between a reluctance to keep him standing there, and a profound aversion to him seeing her in such a state of undress, Louisa hesitated.
‘I’m not dressed,’ she said at last, opening the door. ‘Go through into the parlour while I go upstairs and change.’
He smiled quirkily, opened his mouth to say something, then evidently thought better of it. With a slow, sardonic nod, he indicated his agreement. Louisa fled.
Laying hat and gloves on the parlour table, Robert glanced round at white walls and gleaming furniture, the old sofa he remembered so well from the Gillygate days. Peering at a framed photograph of Mary Elliott, he smiled sadly and sat down, wondering what she would have thought to the present situation.
Would she approve of Louisa hiding in Edward’s shadow, or was her intention in leaving everything to her eldest daughter a hope that she might strike out on her own, as she herself had done? There was little likelihood of that now. He had the feeling that Louisa would defend her right to this place till death if necessary, facing flood or fire or acts of God, no matter who came or went in the meantime.
The ambience of this place, Robert thought, was so exactly right for her. He sensed it more each time he came. But was Edward the man she needed? The area of that relationship was like quicksand, so smooth on the surface, but subtly shifting underneath. Impossible to gauge the depth of it, difficult even to discern a safe approach.
Edward would have her, he was convinced of that; what Louisa felt for him, however, was more difficult to judge. He wondered sometimes whether she had set Edward on a pedestal so high that in her mind the man was no longer reachable. It seemed to Robert that marriage, in Louisa’s case, would have been the cure for a plethora of ills. He could not understand what it was that held her back.
At one time he had wondered whether, deep down, she still wanted him; but with the absolute rejection of every single approach, that theory was unhappily discounted. With concern for the future suddenly thrust upon him, Robert wished the situation were cut and dried, Louisa married and happy, the children legally protected. He could go then, to the far side of the world, with a genuinely clear conscience.
For too long he had been obsessed with past events in Dublin, and that theoretical freedom of Louisa’s had tantalized him unbearably. He still wanted her, no matter how many women came in between, and probably always would. At this juncture, however, ties and responsibilities were things he could do without.
He heard her feet on the stairs, then odd sounds from the kitchen, water being poured at intervals down the sink, then an odd scraping noise, like metal across stone. About to investigate, it suddenly occurred to him that he had interrupted Louisa in the course of a bath. Wondering where Edward could be, he resumed his seat and waited.
At last, somewhat heated by her efforts, Louisa arrived with a neatly set tray of tea and cakes.
‘So tell me,’ she began, ‘what brings you here tonight, and unannounced?’
‘I’m on my way to Ireland,’ he said, watching her face, her hands, the tea describing an elegant arc between china spout and gold-rimmed cups. ‘I haven’t been home for some time — thought I should take some leave before it becomes impossible.’
‘Impossible?’
‘Well, more difficult,’ he amended, pursing his lips. ‘Certainly for the next few weeks. Things are getting busier all the time, so I thought I’d better come now, while I have the chance.’
Alerted by his tone, Louisa regarded him with apprehension. ‘War? Is it to be declared, then?’
‘No, not necessarily. Not yet, at least. It simply means…’ For a moment, he held her glance, and then set his cup down.
‘I wouldn’t have come like this, without warning. But as I was leaving, I was given some confidential information. Which must not be repeated, by the way. As from next week,’ he added gravely, ‘the regiment will be on a war footing. We’ve been preparing, unofficially, for some time, but now it is official. We must be ready in case Kruger goes too far – which he will eventually. At the moment it’s just words, but the consensus of opinion is that he’s simply waiting for the spring — their spring, that is. It’s winter now in South Africa. He’s waiting for the new grass to grow – to feed his horses — and playing for time in the interval.’
‘And when will that be?’ Louisa asked bleakly.
‘A month – two, perhaps. Certainly by the end of October. I’m afraid it seems inevitable. I had to see you while I had the chance. But,’ he warned again, ‘you must not repeat what I’ve told you. If you should see Moira or Harris, you know nothing. They’ll know when Harris gets his papers – and it won’t be long.’
She was very quiet and still, her eyes downcast. Like someone who has received news of a bereavement, Robert thought, his heart warming in response. After a moment, leaving her chair, she slowly crossed the room, touching ornaments and flowers on her progress to the window. In the soft twilight she seemed a ghost of her former self, the faded pastel dress paler than hair or skin. Moved by her grace and beauty, he was reminded of that afternoon in Blankney; her thin cotton dress, and an absence of stiff, restricting underclothes. Suddenly his mouth and throat were terribly dry, fine theories dispelled by a dangerous surge of desire.
‘Where’s Edward, by the way?’ he asked, making quite a play of searching for cigars and matches.
She was looking out at the river, its silvery surface reflecting the last of the evening light. Absently, she answered: ‘Lincoln. Visiting his father — he hasn’t been well.’
‘Who? Edward?’
‘No, his father.’
Drawing the curtains, Louisa came back to the hearth. Reaching up for the lamp on the mantelpiece, she set it down on the small table between them. As she bent to remove the glass globe and pipe, Robert touched a match to the wick. As it flared into life they gazed at each other, and for a fleeting moment it was as though time had slipped and they were lovers ag
ain, exchanging silent messages which led to bed.
At once her expression changed. Blinking, she set the globe and pipe back with trembling fingers, while blue spirals of smoke from his cigar were sucked into the heat. Above it her face and pastel-blue dress shimmered like a mirage, tempting and unreachable.
She cleared her throat and looked down. ‘Would you like some more tea?’ He refused, but she began to pour it anyway.
The chink of china and teaspoons accentuated the silence. In the distance, from across the river, came the sound of raised voices and wild hilarity. Louisa commented on it, wondering aloud whether the revellers had been to Harris’s place. A moment later, still searching for conversation, she asked whether Robert would be able to ask for him back.
He cleared his throat. ‘There are a few strings I can pull. I’d like him back, of course. If we’re going to the Cape, I want someone with me I can rely on. But don’t,’ he added with a taut smile, ‘tell him I said so.’
There was another lengthy silence, broken by Louisa’s sigh. She voiced polite regrets that the children were in bed, that he was unable to see them. It seemed like a cue for him to leave.
Abruptly, he said: ‘I didn’t expect to find you alone — but I intended to ask if I might speak privately with you.’
‘Why?
‘Well, the fact that I’m going away, for one thing. I may be gone for some time — who knows? And before I go, I would really like to have things clear in my mind, so that I know,’ he added with emphasis, ‘exactly what it is I’m leaving behind.’
‘I see. And what — exactly — does that mean?’
‘I’d like to know why you haven’t married him,’ Robert stated. ‘And I’d rather not be told — yet again — that it’s none of my business, because I happen to think it is. I need an answer, Louisa, believe me, I do.’
Fury and indignation leapt to her eyes. ‘Oh, you do, do you? That’s all you need to know? Well, the fact is, Robert, I don’t want to get married. And that’s my business. I don’t have to explain my reasons to you, nor anyone else, come to that.’
‘Not even to Edward?’ he asked.
‘Leave him out of it!’
‘But I can’t,’ Robert said reasonably. ‘He lives with you. Some people might put a very unkind interpretation on that.’
‘You’ve got a filthy mind!’
‘No I haven’t. I said some people – I didn’t say me.’
‘If that’s what you think – ‘
‘I don’t, Louisa. My thoughts on the matter are quite the opposite, I do assure you, although I can’t help wondering why. I mean, where does Edward fit into all this? If you’re genuinely enamoured of the single state, Louisa, why does he live here? As I understand it, you’re not financially dependent on him, yet you must have to make certain concessions to his needs — cook his meals, iron his shirts – all the things a housekeeper could do quite well.
‘Why should it be you?’ he went on. ‘Unless you feel so strongly that you can’t live without him? And if you feel like that, why not marry him, and put him out of his bloody misery? Are you so concerned with yourself, you can’t see how much he wants you?’
Abruptly, she stood up and turned away. He could see her face in the mirror, mouth tight, eyes downcast, high colour along her cheekbones.
‘It’s not like that,’ she got out at last, ‘not like that at all. He needs me.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ he said sardonically, but the comment was lost. ‘I needed you once — very much. I still do,’ he murmured, though more to himself than her.
But he was in no position to offer Louisa an alternative. Living in quarters, moving around as he had been for months, and with the threat of war on the horizon, there was no place for a woman, let alone her children. Wanting her, he had had to learn to make do with pale imitations. But even those transactions were grabbed on the run these days, somewhere between Hounslow and Salisbury Plain. He wished they could make love once more; if only to erase forever that last night in Dublin, to know and be assured that she had forgiven him, that they could part as friends.
‘You needed me in the beginning,’ she admitted with great reluctance, ‘but not latterly. And certainly not now.’
‘Oh, you’re wrong,’ he whispered, taking a step towards her. ‘I need you now, Louisa. Not forever — perhaps never again. But once — just once — to prove you’ve forgiven me, my darling, for all the stupid things I did...’
‘No, Robert!’ she exclaimed, hunching her shoulders against that tentative touch. But with all the instincts of a former lover, Robert knew the source of that bitter tension; he felt it in himself, and burned for its release.
He could feel her body’s heat, yet she was shivering as though frozen. Wanting to hold her, caress her, soothe that damaged spirit into some kind of peace, he made her turn to face him. At her distress he pulled her roughly into his arms.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he murmured against her hair, ‘and I don’t want to come between you and Edward. If you want him, marry him, for God’s sake, and with my blessing. Just come to bed with me now – one last time – and let us part friends. We owe each other that,’ he whispered, bending his mouth to her lips, ‘if nothing else...’
She could not have reacted more violently if he had struck her. With a gasp of outrage she twisted away, swept up his things and flung them at the door. ‘Get out – now!’
‘Louisa! For God’s sake, I – ‘
‘Get out – get back to your whores and loose women friends! Let them pander to your needs, and leave me my self-respect!’
‘You call it self-respect?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘This farce? You can respect yourself, while that poor bastard pants like a dog for the want of you? Just who are you trying to convince!’
While Louisa breathed hate and fury, he gathered up his scattered things and straightened his tie. ‘It’s no good playing the outraged virgin with me — I know you too well.’
Her hand came up to strike him, but Robert blocked it, gripped her shoulders and shook her hard. ‘If all I wanted,’ he got out between gritted teeth, ‘was a quick ride on a willing mount, believe me, I’d know where to go for it. But I didn’t come here for that. I came because I loved you. And, God knows, because I wanted something straight and settled between us. What a fool I was!’
After he had slammed out of the house, Louisa stood where she was in the centre of the room. Although he had done no more than shake her, she felt battered and boneless, like a loosely stuffed doll, her head an aching void. The clock chimed ten as she sank into her chair; then eleven, and there seemed no time between.
Eventually she dragged herself together. With her hands on the sofa back, she noticed the stub of Robert’s cigar in the empty hearth.
‘I hate you,’ she said without passion, and went upstairs.
She fell asleep that night in Edward’s bed, curled up like a ball between sheets which still retained a faint, comforting smell of him.
Fifteen
The sister of the boy who helped Louisa in the garden called after dinner the following day, to take the boys to Sunday school. They were ready and waiting in their best sailor suits, Tisha grizzling because she wanted to go wherever they were going, her ill-temper increased by Louisa’s sharpness of manner.
Louisa viewed the dinner-pots with distaste. She had no inclination to wash them, and, suddenly, no desire to stay within the confines of the cottage. Pushing the crockery to one side she washed her hands and face and went upstairs to change her dress. Within minutes Tisha was ensconced in her pram and Louisa was ready. In the orchard there were cornflowers and ox-eye daisies growing wild; gathering a bunch, she wrapped them in a piece of newspaper and set off for the cemetery.
Mary Elliott’s name had been added to the memorial stone in the spring, below that of William and Elizabeth, together with the words: ‘Her end was Peace.’ The words always brought a lump to Louisa’s throat, but, for the first time she kn
elt by the grave and wept like one newly-bereaved.
‘Oh, Mamma, Mamma, what am I to do? What am I to do?’
No answer presented itself. Not even a suggestion of the rose scent which had come so comfortingly to her in the depth of winter. The dead, if they were able to see and hear from beyond the grave, seemed deaf to her pleas. Either that, Louisa thought, or they were too appalled by the mess she had made of her life, the pain she unwittingly inflicted on others.
She had hurt Robert badly, she knew that; hurt him out of her own fear of being kind. His physical presence was so powerful, his appeal a magnet which drew her in spite of herself. He could rouse, excite and satisfy with a consummate ease which was no more than second nature. He would have taken her to bed, made love for hours and kissed her goodbye in the morning with affectionate regret. That was his idea of making up and making friends, Louisa thought bitterly, while her body mocked and ached with the thought.
Unlike her, he had no conscience. The next time they met – if they met – he would greet Edward and herself in his usual way. And then he would go away to his war imagining everything was all right. His complacency infuriated her. He had no conception of the emotional battles already fought, the constant struggle to keep resurgent desire at bay. He did not know the terror she experienced at having to fight the same ground again.
But still, part of her wished she had given in, relaxed in his arms, invited him to stay…
In her weakness, Louisa wondered whether marriage was indeed the answer, whether Edward could love her in the way Robert so brazenly suggested. But Robert judged all men by himself, and something inside her recoiled from calculated seduction. If Edward wanted her, it must come from him, not be inspired by a base appeal to baser nature. Her religious faith might be a puny thing compared to Edward’s staunch adherence, but she believed the Church’s ordinances when it came to baptism, marriage and death. And when the Church proclaimed that marriage was for the procreation of children, a remedy against sin, and for mutual society, help and comfort, Louisa could not gainsay it. That Edward had no apparent need for such remedy was no comfort at all.
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