by Jude Morgan
‘Her name was Maria,’ said Louisa, wonderingly.
‘Why the amazement? You surely did not suppose it to be Frederick.’
She smiled, and felt the strangeness of it on her face, as if it were an entirely new sensation. ‘It is just that I do not recall ever knowing her first name. Somehow it makes her more real. I beg your pardon – this is impertinent.’
‘Not really. I do not speak of her overmuch. Because—’ He paused, took off his hat, made his hair more untidy than before, and continued in a firm voice: ‘Well, that is the past. It is the one thing we cannot change.’
‘But I remember you saying once, at Pennacombe, that you did not regret it,’ she said hesitantly.
‘Oh, I do not. Much to the annoyance, no doubt, of my well-wishers.’
‘Yes. People are so very pleased to see us fall down that they can barely conceal their disappointment when we get up unhurt. But how cruel my father used to be to you on the subject! I always wondered how you could bear it.’
‘I would not have done, if it had been anyone else. But if I had ever answered him back, he might well have banished me from Pennacombe – such, as you well know, was his temper; and that was the one thing I always sought to avoid.’
‘Because then you would lose Valentine’s friendship – and the ability to look out for him. Yes, I do see it.’
‘Not only that,’ he said; and then, with an air of turning the subject: ‘So, you have been settling for yourself that I was in love with Sophie Spedding.’
‘It was only a suspicion that you might be. And it was not conceived in idle curiosity, believe me. More than once of late I – I thought to speak to you of it; even to speak a word of caution. There has been much, in recent events,’ she said, colouring, ‘to make me know the value of caution.’
‘Good – though I hope it will not make you turn to psalms and needlework.’
‘No – but Valentine and I have talked of going back to Devonshire. I do not think he will be … tempted again by such enticements as the faro-house: still, to be away from the scene, to be in a place where we may be quiet and – well, not lavish in our living, seems eminently sensible.’
‘He has lost a good deal of money, I take it.’
‘I should not speak of it without his consent, but – it cannot signify, as he wishes most earnestly for your friendship to be renewed, in all its old confidence, and would have no secrets from you. He is rather high and dry, as The Top would say.’
‘I thought he must be. Well, as long as he does not put himself in the hands of money-lenders, he will surely get clear, if he does as you say, and tends his garden a while.’
‘But, Mr Tresilian, the sum you paid Colonel Eversholt – the great gesture you made – this is what we cannot get over. That is why you must have our assurance that it will be paid, if not immediately. There is Valentine’s pride, too: you must consider that.’
‘I do: I did, when I made the transaction. But that is not all that lay in the balance.’ Mr Tresilian stopped walking, and for a moment seemed absorbed in the study of a crushed dandelion on the gravel at his feet. ‘I have the greatest regard and affection for Valentine, believe me. But from the moment Colonel Eversholt threatened his action – all along – I have had a further aim, a further care. Whatever trouble and scandal came must affect not only Valentine, but you. Your name, your liberty, your happiness were at stake; for I knew that you would share every pain of your brother’s, even take the greater part upon yourself.’ He raised his eyes to hers. ‘It was done— Louisa, it was done for you.’
The sun – the sun must be making her so stupid, because she found herself hardly able to understand him. Yet the sky was clouding over: it could not be the sun. ‘I thought – no, I thought perhaps you were thinking of Kate, when you—’
‘For once I was not. I was thinking of you – as I always think of you, every waking moment. You were not meant to know of it; but it would secure you from all those dangers I saw threatening your content, and that was enough. Or I thought it was enough. But now I cannot help myself. The thought of you being made unhappy over that whelp Lynley was the last spur to – to this. What I have long wanted to say—’
‘Will you make room there, sir?’ grumbled a fat gentleman wishing to get by.
‘Sir, I am trying to declare myself to a lady, and I am exceedingly ill at it, and I would be obliged if you would clear away,’ cried Mr Tresilian, in a seaman’s voice: the gentleman scuttled.
‘Mr Tresilian, you are surely jesting,’ Louisa said, with a dizzy feeling about her head, or heart – she could hardly identify her own anatomy. ‘I know we are accustomed to speak jokingly, but this—’
‘This is something else entirely: yes. I love you, and I must be serious about it: I have loved you for a long time, with a love I thought steadfast and unchangeable; but I was wrong: it has grown greater and deeper. It is everything I base my life upon.’
She half turned from him: it seemed her mind simply could not accommodate any more surprises, and certainly not such a profound, life-changing one as this; but she turned again, and the terrible pressure of confused feeling found a little angry vent. ‘You say it was done for me. That bargain. But you could not surely conceive I was to be bought – that I would accept your – your love out of gratitude for what you had done.’
‘You were never meant to know of it,’ he said, with a grimly sorrowful look. ‘And I know you are not to be bought. But I would do it again – three, or thirty thousand pounds, or everything I possess, yes. Because I would do anything for you.’
The gaze he fixed on her – tender, powerful, and sad – was too much: with a broken word of apology she turned and hurried away from him.
She had been unjust, she knew, in that last remark; but still she struggled to see the situation in any true, clear light. James Tresilian in love with her! – long in love with her, he had said. How could it be so, when she had never any suspicion of it? And why was this so different – so different from her feeling when Pearce Lynley had presented his arrogant suit at Pennacombe, entirely different, too, from any emotion she had experienced in her relation with Francis Lynley? She plunged on, leaving the path, darting between the trees: once again desperate only to be moving, dreading to be still. All their history passed before her: there was nothing in it to puzzle or agitate; always Mr Tresilian had been there, sturdy, humorous, unimpressible, firm in friendship and solid in sense: always, she saw now, his had been the watchful care, the unobtrusive advice on which she and Valentine had relied. And always he had loved her. Not Sophie – how wide of the mark she had been there was a consideration that might have amused her, if she had not been at such an intolerable pitch of feeling. But she found she was glad of it: Sophie could not have deserved the kind of devotion that it was plainly in his nature to feel – that he felt for her.
Her exertions outdid her will: she was forced to stop, to lean against the trunk of a tree and fetch her breath. It was hard on him, to run away like that, but she could no longer meet those intensely blue eyes without— Well, without what? Impatiently she turned on herself: why must she answer all these infernal questions? And there was another question. And where was he now? Where was Mr Tresilian? Perhaps this day was not real at all. Perhaps she slept still and dreamed: could she remember waking? But, yes, she remembered all too well, there had been Sophie’s letter pushed under her door. She looked down at her hands: they were trembling violently, almost as violently as when she had opened that letter. – When she had thought, for an appalling moment, that the one who had committed himself to Sophie was Mr Tresilian.
And there, at last, she saw herself revealed. How wretched, how unbearable she had found that thought! – out of solicitude for him, she had supposed. But solicitude could not have made her tremble like that; and it was not solicitude that was making her tremble like this. There was nothing else for it but to recognise it, with a sensation like a great shout within her, as love.
Where w
as he? Here. He had pursued her, and was now walking more slowly across the grass towards her, with a shadowed look.
‘Oh, Mr Tresilian,’ Louisa cried: almost tearful; but, no, she found she was smiling. That was Mr Tresilian: the feeling of smiling. ‘Oh, James, you never said.’
He checked himself; gazed: then, with a trembling to equal her own, reached for her hand. ‘You know me,’ he said. ‘Never over-hasty. Why did I never say? Doubt, I suppose: doubt that someone as beautiful and enchanting as you could ever feel for someone like me.’
‘You should not speak so. Not the first part, that was very nice – but about yourself.’
‘A bad habit. But that was what I started, blunderingly, to say before: how little your father’s asperities bothered me. He could say anything he liked about me, as long as I could be there to see you. And so I got into the way of – simply being in love with you: finding enough in your smiles, your talk, your very existence to content me. And then you wanted to try your enterprise of living. I did not want to stand in the way of that: though, as you know, I could not long rest without coming to London after you.’
‘And I thought it was Sophie.’
‘When will we have done with Sophie? Away with her on a broomstick. It is Louisa, Louisa only, that must be our theme. Why did I not say? Caution. The influence of my marriage, perhaps, after all, cautioning me against venturing my heart; but that was a wrong idea. Influences can always be shaken off. Caution, detestable caution: it has long been my pride, and like most things we are proud of, I have used it too much.’
‘I have always considered myself cautious too,’ she said, smiling, ‘though from the figure I have cut in London, you might well doubt it.’
‘No, no; I have admired: when you have walked into a reception-room, and turned every head, I have admired: when the men gathered round you pressing for a dance, I have – well, in truth I have gnashed my teeth somewhat. But in all your loyalty to Valentine, in all that good and generous feeling you never failed to show even when sorely tried, I have admired. – Do you recall that day at Pennacombe when Kate’s kitten ran up the tree, and you climbed up to get it?’
‘I do. And I rather hurt myself jumping down, though I would not admit it.’
‘Hm, I thought you did. Well, there was a lack of caution, if you like: but how I loved it; and how I wished, cautious wretch that I was, that I could catch you in my arms as you came down.’
Louisa looked from his glowing face to the branches above them.
‘I could climb into this one, if you like.’
‘Let us omit the tree,’ he said, and took her in his arms.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A LITTLE FOLLY. Copyright © 2010 by Jude Morgan. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
ISBN 978-1-250-02227-1 (hardcover)
First published in Great Britain by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, an Hachette UK Company
First U.S. Edition: March 2013
eISBN: 978-1-250-02226-4
