Louisa Elliott Read online

  ‘I’m staying for a couple of days or so,’ Louisa explained, taking those burning fingers between her own cool ones. ‘So Bessie and Emily can get some rest.’

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ Mary Elliott whispered. Her eyes flickered and turned towards Emily. ‘How’s Mr Devereux?’

  ‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself about him. Emily says his fever’s gone and he’ll be up and about in no time. You concentrate on getting better.’

  She nodded and was quiet for a moment, then, with evident anxiety, asked: ‘Has Blanche come yet?’

  Louisa’s heart sank. In times of emergency, her other sister was always missing. She cleared her throat. ‘She’ll be here tomorrow, Mamma. You get some sleep now.’

  On the landing, Emily stood in the shadows, her olive skin and gypsy eyes a surprising contrast to her sister’s autumn fairness. In some agitation, she said: ‘I wish she’d come. I sent word this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll come,’ Louisa promised grimly, ‘if I have to drag her here by her bootlaces. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ the younger girl confessed. ‘It’s that dreadful man. He’s young and strong, and he nearly died. What chance does Mamma stand?’ Suddenly, dark little Emily burst into tears.

  Louisa hugged her sister. ‘It’s a shock, I know – and you’re tired. We’re not used to Mamma being ill, are we? But she’s not going to die — we’ll make sure she doesn’t.’

  Turning her distress into anger, Emily directed it at their unseen guest. ‘Some gentleman!’ she sniffed, screwing her damp handkerchief into a ball and rubbing furiously at her eyes. ‘Why did he have to come here to be ill? With Harker’s down the road and all the other big places to choose from? If he’s as well-heeled as Mamma seems to think, what’s he doing here?’

  It was a valid question; one to which Louisa had no answer. She listened in silence as her sister questioned their mother’s wisdom in letting the best room to a total stranger, almost smiling as she heard the list of all his sins. Not only had their guest lacked consideration by falling ill as soon as he arrived, but it seemed he bitterly resented their ministrations, cursing Emily particularly, in language which was hardly fit for a barrack room.

  ‘Perhaps he’s a soldier,’ Louisa observed.

  ‘Well, he’d better have some money, is all I can say. Dr Mackenzie’s been every single day, dressing that arm of his.’

  ‘What’s wrong with his arm?’

  ‘Well, it’s more his wrist – looks like he’s been stabbed or clawed, or something.’ Emily shuddered. ‘You should see it, it’s horrible.’

  ‘No, I’d rather not.’ But at her sister’s muttered forebodings, she smiled, patting her shoulder. ‘I prescribe a cup of cocoa and some sleep.’

  ‘Don’t laugh, Louisa. I’m telling you he’s trouble — I can feel it in my bones.’

  ‘Oh, you and your bones!’ she teased. ‘You’re worse than Bessie. You’ll be reading the tea-leaves, next.’

  The man they discussed lay propped against pillows, a book open but unread beside him. He heard the whispered voices, but there had been whispers, comings and goings, all day. He knew that Mary Elliott, of the gentle hands and insistent voice, was ill, perhaps dying, stricken by the same fever which had almost extinguished his own life.

  With sudden, bitter longing, he wished she had let him die. Death would have released him from every vow, wiped the ledger clean for all eternity. It had been so wonderfully attractive: soft, painless, inviting. But she had banished it; used his Christian name, invoked the memory of his mother, asked about Charlotte – God! what had he babbled about Charlotte? – and ultimately sworn at him, using his own curses to shock him into consciousness. And then she had called him a coward; a low, skulking, snivelling boy, afraid of life’s realities, letting fear and misery persuade him that death was the easy way out. Even now, he winced at the memory of that scathing tone.

  He wished he could tell her, before it was too late, that he was sorry, not really a coward, merely tired and disillusioned, the bearer of too much guilt and pain.

  Fatigue dragged at him, numbing his mind; those stinging thoughts sank like stones into black water, and he sank with them into sleep.

  At half-past ten Bessie looked into the dressing room on her way up to bed. She brought a jug of sweetened lemon juice for Mary Elliott and a pot of strong tea to keep Louisa awake, assuring her that their guest was settled for the night.

  ‘I’ve been in to see him,’ she whispered, ‘and he’s fast asleep. The fever’s down, so he should rest quiet for a change — he’s had us all up and running, day and night, since he arrived. Anyway, he’s a lot better, quite the gentleman when he’s in his right mind!’

  Louisa smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Emily was telling me about him. She sounded quite put out.’

  ‘Aye, we’ve had a rare education in curses,’ Bessie sighed. ‘Miss Mary’s been a saint, though, she really has — but he wasn’t so bad with her. If he does start again,’ she said firmly, ‘don’t try and tackle him on your own. Come up for me.’

  Promising to do that, Louisa closed the door and settled down with her book. By the time the clock downstairs struck twelve, she was well into Hardy’s Trumpet-Major, a book she had read more than once, an old favourite guaranteed to see her through the night.

  Her mother’s breathing was harsh but regular; her temperature high, but not rising. Every hour, Louisa gave her a few sips of the lemon drink and watched the night tick slowly by. A little after two her eyes began to feel heavy; she dozed for a while, then something disturbed her, the book thudded to the floor and, startled, she jerked upright.

  Anxiously, she touched Mary Elliott’s burning forehead, felt for the pulse at her wrist; but she was sleeping soundly enough. As Louisa retrieved her book, there came from the other room a low, anguished cry, immediately repeated. With a sudden shiver of apprehension she contemplated calling Bessie, but it seemed unfair to disturb her. If their strange guest should prove impossible to quieten, then she would ask for help.

  More from prudence than fear, she turned to ignite a taper before unlocking the communicating door. By that small glow she could see the bed’s foot on her right and, with petticoats quietly rustling, tiptoed towards the chest of drawers, where an oil lamp usually stood. As she reached out to light it, that deep, powerful voice cried out again. She turned, hardly daring to breathe, dazzled by the small flame and unable to see clearly beyond it.

  For several seconds she stood quite still, gradually realizing that the stranger was held fast by a dream. The glow of the lamp revealed the room’s old, familiar furniture, the large double bed and its briefly quiet occupant. His short, dark hair, ruffled by sleep, gave an impression of youth which was somehow less than frightening. Softly, she called his name. He began to moan afresh, hands clasping and unclasping the pillow, following the dream.

  She called his name again, to no avail. Compassion lent her courage. She was used to children having nightmares, and their panic if suddenly disturbed. Approaching the bed, she began to speak quietly, using soothing, reassuring words.

  Always, he was going home, a seemingly endless journey across a storm-racked sea, plagued by the noise of wind and waves, and the throat-catching fear of drowning. There was nausea too, so strong it would invariably almost wake him, but not quite. Enough for his conscious mind to reassure him; then, having got him in its grip, the scene would change, the nightmare would begin in earnest.

  Lofty and sinister, the avenue of araucarias, bane of his childhood, blotted out the stars; he ran through it in the darkness, guided by an arch of moonlight ahead. The avenue at White Leigh was noted for its magnificence, but in the dream it seemed without end, every step weighted by fear and loathing, the dead spiked fingers of the trees reaching out, tearing at arms and face and clothes.

  At last, sweating and shivering, he gained the open ellipse of lawn before the house, and, in the moonlight, all was as it should be: solid, familiar and be
autiful. Inside, relief turned to shock. The rooms were lifeless, derelict, a single shutter hanging brokenly from an upper window. He wandered through those once-happy rooms, seeing ghosts amongst the dust-shrouds, pursued by memories, in search of something, or someone, he had loved and lost.

  At the head of the staircase, there was Charlotte, insubstantial as a shaft of moonlight. Her hair rippled in silvery waves around her shoulders, and he stood transfixed until she called his name. Even as he mounted the stairs he was never sure that she was real. His terror began when they reached her room. For the room was not White Leigh, but the one they had shared in the beginning, at the Devereux house, with its mirrors and those ice-blue, light-reflecting satins. He longed to pull her away, out of that place, take her to somewhere with a blazing fire, where he could enfold her in his arms and warm her with his own life-blood.

  The longer he stayed, the less able he was to move. She stood by a long pier-glass, a double diaphanous image, beckoning, tantalizing, laughing at his predicament. Desiring, pleading, the more he begged the more she laughed. Until, pitying him at last, she came and raised him up, drew him with her to the bed, kissing him with a passion and fervour she had never displayed in life. He was always fooled. That part of the dream was always the most real; the most shaming afterwards, for he could feel himself entering her, experiencing the whole gamut of emotions she invariably inspired: love, hate, longing, loathing; a desire for mastery, for satisfaction; an overwhelming need to repay all the pain and anguish she had ever caused. But as he approached the point of climax, he would look into her eyes, seeing not love, nor desire, only naked and terrifying hatred.

  Nails raked his neck, attacked his face, became the talons of a predatory animal. He tried to tear them away and could not; his hands sought her throat and found it, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing...

  The pattern of the nightmare changed. While he pleaded and Charlotte laughed, another figure appeared, hazy and indistinct. As though reproved, Charlotte ceased her taunting, and, as her power receded, relief flooded his mind. Words penetrated his consciousness, and an image of Mary Elliott’s strangely youthful, twinkling smile. But this voice was unfamiliar; he struggled to put a face to it, and realized he was awake.

  Elongated, forget-me-not eyes regarded him anxiously from beneath thick brown lashes. Bewildered, he stared back, wondering if she was as insubstantial as the terror which on previous nights had felt as real as her hand on his brow. Always, the nightmare had stayed with him. He had been but dimly aware of Mary Elliott’s presence, and sometimes a dark-eyed girl he confused with his brother’s wife. Yet now he recognized the dream for what it was. Like a man dragged into the sun from a bottomless well of despair, he felt light-headed with relief.

  He turned and caught hold of her wrist. Strong hands, strong features, a curling black moustache. Eyes darkly blue in the lamplight gazed up at her in bewilderment, as she stared back in alarm.

  She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. Gradually his gaze softened, he began to breathe again and the grip relaxed. She was conscious of neither offence nor embarrassment, more a sense of recognition, as though she had known him once, long ago. That sense of familiarity held her captive; but the relaxation of his fingers, sliding over the back of her hand to her fingertips, broke the spell. On a sharply indrawn breath she looked away, conscious of warmth in her face and an almost panic-stricken sense of impropriety. Hastily, withdrawing from his grasp, she moved across the room towards the fire, tending it to cover her embarrassment.

  As she knelt before the hearth, he murmured apologies and the explanation of a nightmare. His voice still held the huskiness of sleep, but despite those educated vowels, she recognized the lilting cadences of his native land.

  Emily was right, she thought; he is Irish. And with that style of moustache, he may well be a soldier. Determined to find out more about him, she turned and stood up, suddenly appalled by the sight of his naked chest and shoulders. She dropped her gaze, reached for his night-shirt, and handed it to him with averted eyes. As he took it from her, Louisa noticed for the first time the bandage which extended from above his wrist to the knuckles of his right hand.

  ‘You must have found it difficult to dress yourself,’ she observed, guiding his injured arm into the narrow sleeve.

  ‘A valet would have made things easier,’ he admitted dryly, ‘although I’ve had little need for clothes these past few days.’

  He glanced up, seeing the brown pintucked fullness of her bosom as she bent over him, starched white collar and gold brooch; smooth cheeks, and a generous mouth trying hard to be prim. A sudden surge of desire caught him by surprise; closing his eyes momentarily, he savoured the tingling sensation where her fingers touched his skin, and the clean scent of her, tinged with lavender. He wondered who she was. Not a servant, surely, with that intricate gold brooch at her throat; and why did her face seem so familiar?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply, leaning back against freshly smoothed pillows; but the flash of panic in her eyes as he again caught hold of her hand made him release her immediately. ‘Forgive me, I’m like the drowning man — longing to embrace his rescuer.’

  Colour leapt to her cheeks, and he thought how lovely she looked, so young and fresh and alive, her eyes so bright in the lamplight; even her confusion delighted him.

  ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said at last. ‘My mother is ill. I’m supposed to be with her.’

  ‘Your mother?’ he asked. ‘Do you mean Mrs Elliott?’ Suddenly guilt-stricken, he asked how she was. ‘I feel so responsible… ’

  ‘It can’t be helped – it seems everyone’s going down with it. Now,’ she added briskly, ‘would you like me to leave the lamp like this, turned down, or do you want to read?’

  ‘You could turn it up a little – I doubt I shall sleep for a while. But before you go,’ he added as she turned away, ‘would you do something for me? Over there, on the mantelpiece, I think I left my cigar case and matches. Would you pass them to me?’

  ‘I really don’t think you should smoke in bed,’ she commented with disapproval. ‘And if you’ve been as ill as everyone seems to think, I’m sure it can’t be good for you.’

  Chastened, he assured her he was much recovered. ‘If you stayed a while,’ he went on, ‘you could ensure my safety, and that of the entire house.’

  Louisa shook her head.’ You might be feeling better, Mr Devereux, but my mother is ill. I must see to her. Now, if you’ll excuse me —’

  ‘Of course…’ At the door he called her back. ‘Miss Elliott?’

  ‘Yes?’ Sighing, she turned to face him.

  For a moment he hesitated. ‘There’s something I feel I should say. My name’s Duncannon, not Devereux.’

  Louisa’s left eyebrow arched quizzically; a sudden, dimpling smile appeared and was as quickly suppressed. ‘I see,’ she said crisply, as though he had explained everything; and with that, she closed the door.

  Easing himself out of bed, Captain Robert Devereux Duncannon, of the 1st Royal Dragoons, stationed at the Cavalry Barracks, east of the city, reached for his heavy robe. There was a jug of lemonade on the table beside the bed; pouring himself a glass, he drank deeply. He would have preferred a good, stiff brandy.

  With a sigh he found his morocco slippers and padded across to the fire, determined to have that cigar, no matter what the disapproving Miss Elliott had to say. Gingerly, he paced back and forth, trying to force some strength into limbs which seemed incredibly weak after a mere four days in bed, inwardly cursing the illness which had laid him low for so long. No matter, he would have to report for duty in the morning; no one knew where he was, and it simply would not do to be reported absent without leave.

  So much, he thought, for the idea of a quiet few days in which to gather his thoughts and lick his wounds in private. The illness had put paid to that. For a moment, wondering what had possessed him to give his mother’s family name instead of his own, Robert Duncannon shook his head. It was, he
supposed, part of the morbid mood he had returned with; an irrational fear of meeting up with anyone he knew, of acquaintances hearing he was back in York, hazarding guesses as to the reason why.

  That overwhelming need for anonymity now seemed foolish and pointless, like the impulse which had made him reveal the truth just now. What must she be thinking? What had he said while delirious? How much did they know? The gruff little doctor had tried to question him earlier when he came to bandage his wounds, and Robert knew his answers were too vague to be believed. He would have to think of a more convincing tale for the regimental surgeon.

  For the first time since Christmas Day, he was suddenly able to view the events leading to his injury with some kind of clarity. Of course it had been his own fault, as brother William had so brutally pointed out; and Anne, his brother’s wife, had seemed to take delight in it even while she berated him. ‘You were warned,’ she said. ‘But as usual, Robert, you refused to listen. And now Christmas is ruined completely!’ Finding a certain bitter humour in that, he smiled. But the memory of his three-year-old daughter, hysterical and refusing to be comforted, was far from amusing.

  Lost in unhappy contemplation, he barely heard the light tap at his door; its opening, a few seconds later, startled him.

  They were both surprised; he by her sudden reappearance, she by the fact that he was simply standing there. And by his height. Even across the room, she could see that their mysterious guest was several inches taller than herself, and she was by no means a small woman.

  Somewhat disconcerted, she apologized for disturbing him. ‘I wondered whether I could get you something? A hot drink, perhaps?’

  ‘No, please don’t trouble… the lemonade will do.’

  ‘Well, then…’ She turned, her hand on the door.