Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  “Have you seen the show at the Vaudeville, Betty?” he asked. “There’s an absolutely wonderful woman playing in the revue; knocks Delysia into a cocked hat. By Jove, she is hot stuff! Beautiful too. Shows just about as much of herself as she can, without overstepping the limit.”

  “How horrible!” Elizabeth said.

  He was not at all abashed, but roared with laughter, and would have pinched her arm if she had not quickly withdrawn it.

  “No good my asking you to come and see it then, I suppose?”

  “No,” she said.

  He ought not to say these things to her. She could not imagine why he did it.

  On their way out of London on Sunday they drove through Hyde Park. Elizabeth, to her surprise, saw Nina and Mrs. Trelawney. They saw her, she knew, but they looked away quickly and became interested in a nearby tree. Elizabeth blushed hotly, and was silent for a long while. For the first time in her life someone had cut her.

  Sarah, who met Elizabeth and Wendell at Roehampton, was downright to the point of rudeness in her disapproval. She went to tea with Elizabeth, and asked,

  “Who was that man you were with at Ranelagh yesterday?”

  Elizabeth did not appreciate that tone from Sarah. Coldly she answered,

  “You’ve met him. Charles Wendell.”

  “Oh, that weed!” Sarah said scornfully. “What on earth do you see in him?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes began to flash.

  “I like him. He is a friend of mine.”

  “Yes, so it seems. You ought to be jolly careful whom you go about with, placed as you are.”

  Criticism of her actions from an unmarried girl was something Elizabeth could not brook.

  “Thank you, Sarah, I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

  “Looks like it,” Sarah said. “Personally, I never had a weakness for brown-eyed fops. Furthermore, I don’t like his round and vacant face.”

  “Indeed?” Elizabeth said sweetly. “But did I ask for your opinion?”

  Sarah glanced at her critically.

  “Um, yes. You’re waking up a bit. A year ago you’d have been too soft to snub me. Seriously, however, be careful, Elizabeth.”

  “Have some more cake,” Elizabeth said. “I know Charles rather better than you do.”

  That ended it. Sarah wanted to say much more, but she dared not in face of Elizabeth’s changed attitude. All she said was,

  “Funny what a queer streak of obstinacy you’ve got.”

  Elizabeth was kinder than ever to Wendell after that, just to show “people” how little she cared what they thought. Mrs. Trelawney’s snub had enraged her, made her feel brazen and devil-may-care.

  Wendell was delighted with this mood, and became more audacious. He dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder one evening, and was surprised that Elizabeth recoiled.

  “Charles!”

  “Fascinating little devil!” he retorted, fumbling in his case for a cigarette.

  “You mustn’t do that,” she said. “I—I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, sorry—sorry! Have a Turk?”

  “No, thank you. I mean it, Charles.”

  He laughed; he didn’t believe her; she saw that. She knew then that she ought to keep him at a greater distance, but the gay life they were leading, coming as it did after a long stretch of dull, eventless days, had excited her. There was risk, too, in playing with Charles, and that she could not resist. After all, he knew that she was married, and there wasn’t really anything serious in their flirtations. Only she would have to be careful.

  She had never been on terms such as these with a man. Before she met Stephen her flirtations were hardly worthy of the name; she had been too shy. The primeval instinct within her urged her along this dangerous path. It was fun, and there was no harm in it; she believed fondly that it would be quite easy, always, to keep Charles at arm’s length.

  In Bond Street, standing outside a hat-shop and wishing that she could still afford to buy hats here, Elizabeth met Mrs. Ramsay.

  A hand was laid on her arm; a voice said,

  “Elizabeth, are you going to cut me? Please don’t! I hate people to cut me.”

  Elizabeth turned, blushing, and could not meet Mrs. Ramsay’s eyes. She could hear the constraint in Mrs. Ramsay’s voice, and the forced lightness. She shook hands, stammering, and saw that Cynthia’s car, with Cynthia at the wheel, was standing a few yards away from them.

  “My dear, why haven’t you been to see me all this time?” Mrs. Ramsay asked. “Don’t you remember the bargain we made, when we were watching those adorable ducks?”

  Elizabeth hesitated; she thought, You never asked me to come. Mrs. Ramsay seemed to read the thought.

  “Oh, I know! I didn’t write or come to see you. Horrid of me. I think I’m sorry. Will you come? Not if you don’t want to, of course. I promised Stephen I wouldn’t bother you.”

  “Th-thank you,” Elizabeth said. “It’s—very, very kind of you. I—I know that—and I think it’s sweet of you—”

  “But you won’t come. Well, don’t forget that I’ve asked you. If you do want help at any time or—or advice —don’t forget that I’m there, waiting. Dear me, that sounds as though I should sit at home all day, listening for the bell to ring. What a dreadful occupation! Don’t forget, Elizabeth. I’m—I’m not really—so terribly biassed. At least, I try not to be, and anyway we were friends, weren’t we? What crowds of people! I can’t possibly talk here. Goodbye, my dear.”

  She was gone in a moment, leaving Elizabeth softened, and unhappy. Mater was so awfully nice. Not many mothers would speak to their erring daughters-in-law as she had spoken. Of course she hated you; how could she help it? You couldn’t blame her for that; Stephen was her son.

  Cynthia let in the clutch with a jerk.

  “Good Lord!” she said. Her tone was eloquent.

  “Yes. Well, I know, darling, but what could I do?”

  “I should have thought you’d have run a mile sooner than meet her.”

  “Oh, no, Cynny, not at my age and certainly not in this skirt. And if I—what’s the word I want?—indulge (how clever of me!) indulge my private feelings I shan’t make matters any better between them. And I want to do that, Cynny.”

  “He’s well rid of her,” Cynthia said.

  “That’s just what he isn’t, darling. Or if he is, he’ll never realise it, so what’s the good of talking like that? He’s miserable—and she’s miserable too.”

  “Oh?” Cynthia looked at her for a fleeting moment.

  “Yes, darling. And so pale and thin.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. She’s spoiled Stephen’s life.”

  “I won’t believe it. She’ll go back to him. She must go back to him.”

  “Like a romance. Not she. Far more likely to hop off with the Tertium Quid.”

  “Oh, no! Elizabeth would never do that. She isn’t that sort a bit. Besides Thomas liked her.”

  “Quite conclusive,” Cynthia said.

  “Moreover, darling—what a gorgeous word!—Anthony thinks it’ll come right in the end.”

  “Anthony’s a fool, then.”

  “Not a bit, Cynny. Anyway, that doesn’t matter a bit. The only thing that matters is that Stephen loves her.”

  “And she doesn’t love Stephen. A hopeless situation.”

  Mrs. Ramsay sighed.

  “I know. Dear me, how tiresome and awful it all is! I’m sorry for Elizabeth. I can’t help being sorry for her. She was too young. She couldn’t possibly know her own mind.”

  “Hasn’t got one to know. No grit either. Having married Stephen she ought to have stuck it out.”

  “Yes, darling, but it wouldn’t have improved matters. Not in the long run. She couldn’t have made Stephen happy that way.”

  “Nor this.”

  “You don’t know, Cynny. We none of us know yet. Since I’ve seen her I feel ever so much more hopeful. Because she is so palpably wretched.”

  “You think sh
e’s fallen in love with Stephen when he wasn’t there to be fallen in love with?”

  “How quaint! Of course I don’t. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Only more often than not it doesn’t. I think she misses Stephen.”

  Cynthia lifted one gauntleted hand and struck the steering wheel with it, smartly.

  “Well she may! I can’t think of her without boiling over! That she couldn’t see how dear Stephen is, and how absolutely white! He ‘got on her nerves’! I could have cried when he told us that. Stephen! Got on her nerves! My God, she doesn’t deserve to have him back again! Why couldn’t the silly, silly fool fall in love with Nina? Why must he eat his heart on a selfish, empty-headed little nonentity like Elizabeth?”

  “Darling, I wish you wouldn’t. You’ll run into something in a minute, and we shall be killed. So unpleasant. Nina and Stephen were never attracted to one another that way, though I must say I did think so at one time. Stephen marries a nonentity, and Nina becomes perfectly maudlin about a fond, foolish youth whose name I never can remember. Which reminds me that I do wish she’d get married and have done with it. She’s positively wearisome in this love-lorn condition. Another thing, Cynny:—If Elizabeth returns to Stephen, it’ll be a very good thing that Nina’ll have gone with her horrible soldier to India. Nina was partly the cause of the trouble. I’m perfectly sure of it.”

  “Probably,” Cynthia said. “Elizabeth’s silly enough for anything.”

  “For goodness’ sake, mind this ’bus!” implored Mrs. Ramsay. “I can’t possibly be killed to-day; I’ve got Colonel Farncombe coming to dinner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At Ripley on Sunday, Elizabeth met John Cary. She was lunching with Wendell in a room crowded with holiday-makers when Caryll and two other men appeared in the doorway. She exclaimed when she saw him, and was carried back, mentally, to her wedding-day, on which occasion he had been such an efficient best-man.

  He came now to her table, and shook hands.

  “Er—how do you do? Very delightful to meet again like this. You’re—er—staying in town, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Oh, Mr. Wendell—Mr. Caryll!”

  Caryll looked hard at Wendell, then bowed, and said, “How do you do?” in a voice that was quite expressionless. He turned again to Elizabeth.

  “Beautiful place this, isn’t it, Mrs. Ramsay? I suppose you motored down?”

  “Mr. Wendell brought me,” she nodded. “I mustn’t keep you from your friends. Perhaps we shall meet again some time.”

  “I hope so,” he said. Then he bowed again to Wendell, and walked away to where his friends were sitting. Elizabeth began to crumble her bread, eyes downcast. Wendell’s voice made her look up.

  “Cheery sort of bloke, what? Got a face like an unripe apple. Who is he?”

  “One of Stephen’s friends,” she said unwillingly. The gaiety had gone out of her; Caryll had spoiled this day’s enjoyment. She felt that he thought her contemptible, and was sorry when she met him again, outside the hotel when Wendell had gone to fetch his car.

  Cary spoke of the lake, and asked Elizabeth whether she had seen it in spring, when the rhododendrons cast their reflection deep into the water. Then abruptly, and not looking at her, he said,

  “I met Stephen in Paris, Mrs. Ramsay.”

  “Yes?” she said, not very steadily.

  He was silent for a moment, but turned to face her presently, and held out his hand.

  “I’m infernally sorry that things have gone wrong between you. I hope they’ll right themselves—eventually.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She put her hand in his, and was surprised at the warmth of his clasp.

  “I’m very fond of Stephen, you know. You mustn’t be offended at my—shall we call it officiousness? Gave me a bit of a shock when I met him in Paris without you.”

  “Wasn’t he well?” she asked, tugging at her gloves.

  “He looked very ill. Bodily he was all right, I suppose.”

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  “I can’t help feeling responsible,” Caryll went on, with a smile. “I steered you through the actual ceremony, you see. And, as I say, Stephen’s a great friend of mine. You’re not offended with me?”

  “No,” she said. “Of—course not.”

  He saw Wendell’s car, coming towards them.

  “The worst of this place is that it’s so public,” he said. “Trippers always spoil beauty when they come in hoards, don’t they? I’ve seen half-a-dozen people I know already.”

  He was drawling slightly; Elizabeth wondered what lay behind his words. She would have liked to ask him, but she could not summon up sufficient courage. And Wendell was coming towards them.

  He did not like Wendell; that was obvious. It was as though he disapproved of him, probably because Wendell was with her. Yet there was nothing wrong in going out with Wendell, she argued. It was all perfectly above board, besides which nowadays everyone had men friends and no one thought anything of it. . . . Above board . . . Well, was it? She hadn’t tried to conceal anything; she didn’t go with Wendell secretly, but she had not told her aunt or her father of her close friendship with him. She hadn’t told Mr. Hengist either; she hadn’t mentioned Wendell’s name to him. Why, she did not know, for again and again she told herself, as now, that she was doing no wrong.

  She wondered what Stephen would think, if he knew. But Stephen had introduced Wendell to her. He was broad-minded, too, and—after all, since her life with Stephen was at an end it didn’t matter what he would think.

  Only she wished that Wendell’s car, with her in it, had not drawn up beside Cynthia’s in a hold-up in Piccadilly that day last week. At the time she had felt ashamed to be with Wendell; Cynthia’s cold bow had made her feel hot and wretched. Again she had argued herself out of that state of mind. What right had Cynthia to criticise her actions? Cynthia of course was prejudiced. Elizabeth was very glad Mrs. Ramsay had not been there also. You could not help being fond of her; it would be dreadful if she bowed as Cynthia had bowed, as to a chance acquaintance—no, not even as cordially as that.

  Towards the end of August, when Miss Arden was still out of town, Elizabeth again fell a victim to influenza. She fought her illness for days, but at last succumbed, aching from head to foot, wanting only to sleep, never to wake again.

  Mrs. Cotton thought she should write to Miss Arden. Lonely and unhappy though she was, Elizabeth would not do this. She did not want her aunt; she thought she wanted no one.

  Wendell was away, Sarah, and Mr. Hengist. Only the doctor came to see Elizabeth, and Mrs. Cotton. She thought, Last time I had ’flu how good Stephen was to me. People sent me flowers too, and they rang up to enquire. It seems as though no one cares now. Mater sent great Madonna lilies . . . like my wedding bouquet . . . How heavy their scent was ... in the church.

  It was funny how desperately ill influenza could make you feel. You only wanted to die; you could get no rest, and the hot August nights seemed interminable. Silly to have stayed in town all August. She had never done that before. Those holidays of her childhood! Cromer and St. Margaret’s Bay, and Swanage where you met everyone you least wanted to meet. All that was long ago, ever so far away, lost in the past.

  Mrs. Cotton was kind, but how she talked! She stayed for what seemed hours, at the foot of the bed, telling Elizabeth how she had once had a nephew what died of “’flu turned to double pneumonia.” It was not very cheering, and it was horrible to be called “pore dear” by your landlady. Still more horrible was it to lie in bed all day long and all night, alone, too ill to read, and too ill to sleep. She longed for someone to come to see her, someone who would be kind and sympathetic, and bring her flowers to put on the table by the bed. Yet still she would not let Mrs. Cotton send for Miss Arden. Her aunt would say, I told you so, and she would insist on taking her away to the sea. Elizabeth did not want that, and pride refused to allow her to tell anyone that she was ill.

  Convalescence came, and with it still de
eper depression. Elizabeth crawled about the house, and later, round the streets. She thought then that being ill was perhaps better than convalescence. You were miserable, yes, but not so miserable as when you were up, and dressed, and trying to pursue your life’s ordinary course.

  She had to think of meals again; that was dreadful when the contemplation of food made you feel sick. And Mrs. Cotton suggested every morning that she should cook Elizabeth a nice dish of tripe and onions. In desperation Elizabeth would say, I’ll have fish. Turbot. Boiled. When it was put before her she recoiled from it, and lunched off bread and butter, and, occasionally, an egg. Mrs. Cotton said, It do seem crool to waste all that beautiful turbot. In a peevish mood Elizabeth answered, It isn’t beautiful; it’s ugly. Mrs. Cotton shook her head and murmured, Ah, pore dear! If only you could get out more an’ take the air!

  It was just what Elizabeth could not do. She thought her legs were made of cotton-wool; they would not bear her many yards. Vaguely she felt that she ought to hire a carriage to drive her round the Park, but she had never done this, and she didn’t know how one did it, or what it would cost, or what one tipped the coachman. It was all too difficult and too worrying. She let the matter slide, entirely apathetic. Instead of driving out she sat in an armchair by her window, and for the second time read Stephen’s new book.

  Even that wearied her. The book would lie open on her knee while she looked dreamily out of the window, listening to the muffled roar of traffic in the distance.

  When she had made up her mind to live alone, five months ago, she had had no conception of the difficulties that would rise up to grin at her inexperience. She had imagined that it would be easy to regulate her life. Big obstacles there might be, she had thought; she knew now that there were none. It was the tiny details that harassed her so: small household matters which sounded so trivial when one mentioned them. When you were ignorant and nervous these obstacles became almost insurmountable. How could you know what groceries you would need when you had never done any housekeeping without assistance? How could you know about tips when someone else had always done the tipping, without consulting you?