Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  He saw things from a different standpoint; he said things she would not have dreamed of saying.

  “Don’t wear that hat, Elizabeth; I simply loathe it!”

  She thought that she could not have heard aright. She had been taught from earliest childhood that personal remarks of a disparaging nature, even between the nearest of relations, were not only rude, but unkind as well.

  “You—loathe it?” she repeated blankly.

  “Mm. Doesn’t suit you, darling. Do take it off!”

  She did so, slowly. The hurt she felt showed in her face, so that he came to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Why, Elizabeth, you’re not offended, are you? I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetest! It’s only that that particular shade of blue takes all the colour out of your dear little face.”

  “I—see. Which hat would you like me to wear?”

  “The little brown one. Let’s burn the blue atrocity.”

  “Stephen! We couldn’t possibly! It’s new!”

  “Well, never mind if it is. I’m not going to let you wear it, so why hang on to it?”

  “I couldn’t bum it. It would be such waste.”

  “Give it to the housemaid, then.”

  “Yes, I might do that,” she agreed. “It seems rather dreadful, though.”

  At Rome he spoke to her of his income, and found her woefully ignorant of all money-matters. In the Arden household it was considered a breach of manners if you spoke of money as Stephen spoke of it. You did not enquire into another person’s means, nor did that person offer to expound them to you. She had no idea what was her father’s income; to speak of it would have been almost as grave a solecism as was the discussion of a prospective will. Such subjects were considered to be extremely delicate, and as such were kept hidden. She imagined that Stephen must feel as uncomfortable when he laid his affairs before her as did she. She supposed he had made some sort of declaration to her father. She knew from novels that this was usual, but she would have died sooner than have asked Lawrence what had been divulged. He did not volunteer to enlighten her; such a course was counter to his creed.

  Stephen spoke of bequests and investments, and book-rights. She sat silent, with eyes downcast at first, then laid a gentle hand on his arm.

  “Stephen dear, I—I don’t want to know all this.”

  “Does it bore you, precious? I’m awfully sorry, but we’d better have it out. Then you’ll know how we stand.” His eyes twinkled. “If I grow stingy you’ll know whether it’s from poverty or miserliness!”

  “You needn’t tell me,” she said earnestly. “Truly, you needn’t!”

  He looked at her, and the truth dawned on him.

  “You quaint little morsel! Why should you be embarrassed?”

  Mentally she squirmed under the teasing note in his voice. She hated him to make fun of her.

  “Oh—embarrassed! It’s just that I don’t think money a particularly interesting topic. Do you?”

  “Not as compared to some others. Isn’t it interesting to know where your money comes from?”

  “I—do you think it is?”

  “I want to know what you think.”

  “Well, no. At least—I’ve never thought about it.”

  “What a haphazard training!” he smiled. “Didn’t your father talk to you about his business and how he makes his money?”

  “Oh, no!” she said, shocked.

  “Good Lord! You know, ’Lisbeth, that attitude’s awfully Victorian. Artificial and insincere. You’re not a Victorian.”

  “Isn’t it nice to be one?”

  “No. Of course it isn’t. Not in that way.”

  “I suppose Aunt Anne’s Victorian, though?”

  “Out and out.”

  She was up in arms at once.

  “You speak as though you don’t like my aunt.”

  “Rot! I like her very much—parts of her. I don’t like some things about her, naturally.”

  “Naturally?”

  “Hang it all, darling, you probably don’t like some things about my mother!”

  “I like your mother very much. And anyway I shouldn’t say I didn’t to you.”

  “Wouldn’t you? Why not?”

  She thought him extraordinary; she had never imagined that he would be so difficult to understand.

  “It wouldn’t be polite—or considerate to your feelings.”

  “But, Elizabeth my dear, there’s no such thing as that kind of politeness between husband and wife! If there is you’re building up a barrier between us.”

  “How can you say such a thing? Of course I’m not!”

  “Of course you are. Tell me now, do you like Cynthia?”

  “I—I hardly know her.”

  He pulled her on to his knees, where she sat stiffly, ill-at-ease.

  “Say right out that you don’t, you little humbug!”

  She winced at that, and her eyes filled with tears. It was as though Mr. Hengist had spoken.

  “If you think—that—of me—!”

  He was remorseful at once, and petted her back to happiness. When she smiled again he reverted to the discussion of his affairs, telling her what he proposed to settle on her for her private use. She did not like that; it seemed wrong, and she tried to protest.

  “But, Stephen, I’ve—I’ve got quite a lot of money of my own. You know I have—from my mother.”

  “I want you to use my money, beloved.”

  “It—it isn’t necessary! I’d rather—” She stopped, seeing the look of hurt steal into his face. “Are you sure you can afford it?” she ended lamely.

  That delighted him; he roared with laughter, and thought her adorable.

  The days flew past; Elizabeth felt as though she had been married a very long time and yet was not acclimatised to the new conditions of life. Physical contact with Stephen grew less revolting, but no less unpleasant. She went through a phase of feeling herself degraded, and although she put the fancy from her, knowing that it was absurd, it preyed upon her nerves so that they became jangled and on edge. She began to jump at sudden noises, and grew restless, sometimes even morbid. Deep in her soul lingered a tiny fear that Mr. Hengist had been right when he said that she did not really love Stephen. The fear was so terrible, so shocking, that she stifled it and would not admit of its presence. The complications that must inevitably arise, did she acknowledge the fear, effectually prevented her from doing so. She assured herself that nothing was wrong, that she would grow accustomed to her new life, and would, in after days, look back upon this phase as the morbid imaginings of a nervous bride.

  Just as she had first been thankful that her honeymoon should be spent abroad, so now, was she desirous of returning to England. Hotel life was becoming tedious; much as she enjoyed sight-seeing, the constant round of amusement began to pall on her. She thought that it would be easier to settle down if she were installed in her own house, with work to do, and time to rest. Stephen too would have work to do, and something besides his love for her to occupy his thoughts. They would have a chance to learn to live together, not at fever heat, but in the “take it for granted way” that she had dreamed of. She wanted placidity not passion, because she was very young and undeveloped, and did not understand that placidity comes in middle-life, not in the first years of marriage..

  In more senses than one the honeymoon was strenuous. She began to wish for more society; perhaps, if she had really loved Stephen, she would not wish that. As it was she was anxious to see Sarah again, and her other friends, but she did not like to suggest to Stephen that they should go home.

  In the end it was he who broached the question. Typewritten letters came to him, and he became sometimes rather distrait. At last he spoke to Elizabeth, tentatively suggesting that they should leave Italy.

  “Jackson—my agent, darling, you remember—writes that Edwards and Tollemache are agitating about my next book. Would you mind very much if we thought about returning soon? I ought to get to work on �
��Caraway Seeds’ as soon as possible.”

  “Of course not,” she replied instantly. “We’ll go as soon as you like.”

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not a bit. I’ve loved being in Italy, but I’d like to go home now and see everybody again, and—oh, and hear English spoken!”

  He was relieved. He had been afraid that she would not like to have her honeymoon curtailed. They had arranged to be away three months; they had stayed only two.

  “I say, I am glad! I was afraid you’d be disappointed. I’ll write off at once to Nana and tell her we’re coming. By the way, what date shall I fix?”

  “I don’t mind, Stephen. Just when you like.”

  “Nice, adaptable person! I had a sort of an idea that we might put in a week in town before we go down to Queen’s Halt, and see all our respective relations?”

  “Oh, how lovely. Can you really spare the time?”

  “Yes, rather. I’ll go and write to Nana and a hotel in town at once.”

  “I must write to Aunt Anne,” she said. “If you’re going to write your letters here I’ll go down to the lounge. I know what it is when you start.”

  “All right, my lady,” he retorted, seating himself at the table. “You needn’t think I don’t know why you’re going into the lounge.”

  She paused, her hand on the door-knob.

  “Oh, why?”

  “To flirt with the Italian Count,” he said solemnly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elizabeth stood at the window of her room at Queen’s Hotel, and looked with contented eyes down into the dusky street. The sounds, the dull, lovely greyness, even the smells, were London, and therefore, home. She stood for a long time, resting her cheek against the window, watching the traffic and the scurrying pedestrians. She was tired, for she and Stephen had arrived in London that same day in the early afternoon, but she had been resting on her bed, thinking how important she would feel this evening when she entertained her father and her aunt to dinner. It was sweet of Stephen to postpone the invitation to his mother until to-morrow; little things like that, which he did, warmed her heart towards him and made her think that, after all, she was lucky in her choice of husbands. She had protested at the time, saying that of course they must ask Mrs. Ramsay, but Stephen had stood firm.

  “Your turn to-day,” he had said. “Mine to-morrow.”

  “Stephen, it’s dear of you, but really I’d rather you rang up Mater and—”

  “Naughty little fibber! You wouldn’t.”

  “But I’d simply hate to offend your mother—or hurt her—”

  “She won’t be offended or hurt, darling. She isn’t that sort. I shall go along to see her this afternoon. She’ll understand.”

  “Then I shall come too,” Elizabeth said.

  “No, you won’t. You’re going to rest. You’re dog-tired already. You shall give me all the messages you like for Mater, and I’ll do my best to deliver them.”

  She gave way to him, hoping that it was not wrong to do so. It was nearly time to dress for dinner now, but Stephen had not yet returned. She was watching the street for him, wrapped in a blissfulness she had not felt during all her honeymoon. In England things would be easier. Curiously enough, now that the honeymoon was over and she was to meet her aunt and father as a wife of two months I standing she felt a great pride in Stephen, and in herself for possessing him for a husband.

  The bitterness she felt towards Miss Arden was still there, but so hidden and smothered that she was hardly conscious of it. At the moment she felt only excitement at the prospect of seeing her again: excitement and importance. Now at last she was grown-up, and a creature of account.

  She turned from the window to survey her room again, letting her eyes dwell lovingly on each solid and massive piece of furniture, emblems of respectability so sadly lacking abroad. It was warm, a golden September evening, but she had had a fire lit in the grate just so that she might look at it and feel that she was really in England. Central-heating was all very well, but it was not companionable.

  Lunch on the dining-car of the train up from Dover had been delightful, because it was so dull and English. There was boiled cod—on dining-cars there always was—and roast beef, and fruit tart, things she had never imagined she would yearn for. And here, in this solid and respectable bedroom she had had tea—real Tea with a capital letter—triangular morsels of bread and butter, and deadly plum cake, cut in strips. It was horrible, but no other country in the world could—or would—manufacture it. She ate it all.

  The chamber-maid came in, heralded by a discreet knock. She was prim and middle-aged, heavy-footed, and clumsy. Elizabeth loved her.

  “What a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” she said, just to hear an English answer.

  “Yes, madam. Will you have the blinds drawn now?”

  “Please,” Elizabeth said, coming away from the window.

  The blinds were jerked down, curtain rings rattled along a brass rod.

  “Is there anything else you’d like, madam?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The maid went out, and Elizabeth opened the door of her wardrobe to select a frock.

  She had almost finished dressing before she heard Stephen in the adjoining room. He called through the communicating door.

  “Can I come in, ’Lisbeth?”

  “Yes, do. You’re awfully late. I’m nearly ready.”

  He entered.

  “Am I? Doesn’t matter. You’ll want to see your people alone. I shan’t be long. London looks good, doesn’t she?”

  “So quiet and restful,” she nodded. “Was Mater in?”

  “Rather, the darling! Sent her love to you. She’s coming round to see you to-morrow morning. That all right? I said I’d ring her up if it wasn’t.”

  “Oh, quite all right! Only it’s I who ought to go to her. Are you sure she didn’t mind?”

  “Not a bit. She quite understands that you want to see your own people first. Did you sleep at all this afternoon, dear?”

  “I dozed. I was too happy to sleep. Tea was so glorious—with plum cake.”

  “O, Lord! Don’t, don’t start rhapsodising over that cod again, darling! I can’t bear it, and I know you’re going to!”

  She laughed.

  “You don’t understand. It was because it was so typically English.”

  “God-forsaken.”

  “You can’t have a God-forsaken cod,” she said.

  “How topping! Of course you can. God-forsaken cod. What a brilliant inspiration! Wish I’d thought of it.”

  “You did. And it really hasn’t any sense at all.”

  “None of the really funny things have. Lord, look at the time! Have you got my studs?”

  “They’re in the little silver box on your dressing-table. You’ll find your dress-shirts in the second long drawer. Hurry up, won’t you?”

  “’Lisbeth, you haven’t unpacked my things?”

  “Yes, I have. Naturally.”

  “Darling, I wish you hadn’t. You’re really most disobedient. Didn’t I expressly command you to rest?”

  “Stephen, do hurry up! I did rest—and anyway what cheek to talk about your express commands!”

  “Love, honour and obey,” he quoted severely.

  “Oh, go along!” she begged.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” Elizabeth called, opening her jewel-case.

  The door was opened slightly and a page-boy announced that Mr. and Miss Arden were in the lounge.

  Elizabeth slipped a ring on her finger, and jumped up, snapping a bracelet round her arm.

  “All right, I’ll come. Stephen, go and get dressed quickly! I’d no idea it was quite so late. That clock must be slow. I’m simply dying to see Auntie—and Father! Do I look all right?”

  “Perfect,” he said. “Give me one kiss before you go, and I’ll be quick. Otherwise I won’t.”

  “You’re idiotic,” she said, but she kissed h
im, hurriedly.

  The Ardens were watching the lift eagerly; Elizabeth stepped out of it and almost ran towards them.

  “Auntie! Father!”

  There was laughter and kisses, Miss Arden’s arm about her waist, countless questions, none answered, and then more kisses.

  “Let me look at you, my darling!” Miss Arden said at last, and stood back to survey her niece. She sighed, and took Elizabeth’s hand. “Oh, my dear child!”

  “You’re looking well,” Lawrence remarked, with satisfaction. “Never seen you look better.”

  “Oh, she looks tired!” Miss Arden cried. “I do hope you haven’t been overdoing it, dear?”

  “Not a bit, Auntie. I’m not really tired, either. It’s just the effect of the journey. How are you? and you, father?”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” Miss Arden said.

  “We miss our little girl,” Lawrence added, in a melancholy voice. “And where is my son-in-law?”

  Elizabeth gave an excited little laugh. She was seated between them on the sofa, one hand held by Miss Arden, the other by Lawrence.

  “Isn’t he dreadful to be so late? He went to see Mater and only got back a few minutes ago. However, he promised to hurry. I want you to myself for a bit.” She squeezed their hands. “It’s so lovely to be back and to see you both again!”

  “How did you enjoy Florence?” Lawrence asked.

  “Yes, tell us all about it!” begged Miss Arden.

  “Oh, it was beautiful! I can’t tell you how beautiful! Rome too, in a different way. And Paris! I took heaps of snapshots. I’ll show them to you after dinner. Stephen was awfully rude about my photography. He says I shall develop into an album-fiend. Isn’t it horrid of him? Auntie, I’ve liked cod to-day for the first time! They had it on the train, and it thrilled me. Only I daren’t say so to Stephen because he hates it.” So she chattered, switching from one triviality to another, conscious of being unnatural. She felt that she was talking somewhat as Stephen talked, and wondered why. It was curious that she should do it to the Ardens and not to him.