Reckless Griselda

by Harriet Smart

  Suddenly there was another great crack of thunder and the sound of distressed whinnying.

  “My horse!” he exclaimed and dashed out of the chapter house.

  Griselda followed and soon saw the cause of the noise. The mare had got loose and was bolting through the field, threatening to charge through a gap in the hedgerow.

  He went tearing ahead to catch the mare. But the moment he reached her, she turned and started to charge towards Griselda. There was nothing to do but to jump for the bridle and do what she could to restrain her, although it felt for a moment that she was going to be dragged across a muddy field.

  “Not frightened of horses either,” he said, when he returned to Griselda’s side and took the bridle from her.

  “I could not be afraid of anything so perfect,” said Griselda, watching with some admiration as he gently brought the mare to order again.

  “Would you like to ride her?”

  “In this weather?”

  “Well, I think we should try and find a decent shelter,” he said. “I think there is a tolerable inn not to far from here where we may at least get our clothes dry.” Then he glanced away a moment and said, “but of course, I should not impose upon you in any way. And you may wish to be on your travels to wherever. Is it to Samarkand or Arkangel or…?”

  “No, a tolerable inn will do me very well,” she said. “I am beginning to feel uncomfortably damp.”

  It was, of course, the height of impropriety to agree to his suggestion. But apparently they were not playing by those rules. They were playing some different game altogether, one that Griselda found far too exciting to call to a halt.

  So he tied Griselda’s pack to the mare, along with his sketching outfit, and handed her up into the saddle. He assumed she would ride astride and for a moment she was a little uneasy, never having done so before. But she felt a little safer when he climbed up behind her and taking the reins in one hand, put his arm about her waist.

  “I’m sure you’re a famous horsewoman,” he said, “but you haven’t the benefit of the stirrups.”

  “Oh, I’ve no objection,” she said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to have his arm about her waist and her whole body pressed against his. On the contrary, it was as intimate and as exciting and as downright dangerous as the wild gallop he now pushed the mare into. They hurtled along as if he were riding to hounds, even taking in a couple of jumps.

  “She loves to jump,” he said, his arm pressing a little more tightly around Griselda's waist.

  At moments it seemed that the entire escapade might end with broken necks, but the journey to the inn was accomplished without any mishaps. As the horse slowed to a sensible walk, Griselda exclaimed breathlessly, “Oh, but I could have gone on like that for ever!”

  “Yes, so could I!” he rejoined. “But her ladyship will not allow us to do that. She can smell a nice dry stable – she’s a delicate creature at heart and she doesn’t like the rain.”

  Chapter 2

  The inn was a pleasant, rambling old place, with lavender bushes growing on either side of the front door. A boy ran out to take the horse to the stable while Griselda and the gentleman went inside.

  For there was no doubt that he was a gentleman – albeit a rather unusual one. His manner and address commanded the instant attention and respect of the landlady who came bustling out to greet them.

  “A private parlour, sir, of course. Our best private parlour is upstairs, with a bedchamber off it – would that suit, sir?”

  “Perfectly. And send up a jug of claret and a cold fowl, if you’ve such a thing in the larder.”

  “Certainly we have sir, and would you take a nice plum tart? We’ve a tree in the orchard that always fruits early.”

  “Plum tart would be excellent,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and grinning like a schoolboy at Griselda. She had been attempting to melt into the dark shadows of the oak wainscoting, hoping that the landlady would just take her to be his servant. “Do you not love a plum tart?” he said.

  The landlady gave Griselda a long, suspicious glance as she passed her by and began to climb the stairs.

  The blackened looking-glass hanging between the two windows of the private parlour made it perfectly clear why. Griselda saw how strange she looked. Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain and her old clothes, now soaking, looked dreadful. She did not look the least like a gentleman’s servant. She looked thin, hollow-eyed and desperate – in short, like gallows meat. Yet he had said she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.

  And now he was staring at her again, while the landlady lit the fire, staring at her as if she were the only thing in the room. He had grown abstracted in his contemplation of her and stood with his dripping coat half shrugged from his shoulders.

  As aware of the landlady’s scrutiny as of his, Griselda picked up her pack and went into the adjoining bedchamber.

  The room was large, well-furnished and dominated by a big old oak bed, neatly hung with a fresh chintz that had Chinese gardens printed on it. It was still warm from the sunshine that had been chased off by the storm, and the fire soon added its own cheerful glow. There was a pile of fresh towels lying by the washstand, a steaming copper of hot water nearby and the room smelt of lavender, beeswax polish and wood smoke.

  She turned from her inspection to see him standing in the doorway.

  “Would you like a towel?” she enquired.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the one she offered. “I shall leave you to your toilette.” He made a slight bow and closed the door.

  For a moment she wondered if she should turn the key in the lock and then decided she could trust his sense of honour.

  She pulled off her clothes, draped them over various items of furniture to dry, and had a good wash. Then, dressed only in a towel, she unrolled her pack. She had formed it from an old plaid blanket that had done its work well, for its contents were only cold, and not wet. It contained her peat-brown riding habit and the body linen she had abandoned before she assumed her disguise that morning in Perth: a shift, a flannel petticoat, her habit shirt and her stays. She held her shift in front of the fire to air it for a few minutes and had just pulled it over her head when there was a gentle knock at the door.

  “I have ordered some chocolate,” he said. “Would you care for some?”

  “Yes, very much,” she called out. Chocolate was a luxury that did not appear often on the table in her father’s house, and she found she had a raging appetite. Quickly she struggled into the rest of her clothes. She buttoned the last button of her habit jacket with one hand, while with the other she settled her messy curls into the best order that she could.

  Satisfied, she made her entrance quietly in her stockinged feet. Her boots were still too wet to put back on.

  He was sitting by the fire, apparently lost in thought, and did not notice her come in. He had pulled off his stockings, breeches and boots and sat in only his shirt and linen under breeches, with one bare foot resting on his knee. The room was gloomy in the storm light so the fire shone out, casting his face in an eerie, intense gold brightness that went well with the abstracted melancholy of his expression.

  The window casements rattled in a violent gust of wind, and he glanced up and saw her standing in the corner. For a moment longer he looked, and then he smiled, rose and greeted her, quite the respectable host again, despite his rather unconventional lack of clothing.

  “Ma’am,” he said, and a brought a chair to the fireside for her.

  She sat down, quite as if she were paying a morning visit on a neighbour at Glenmorval, her hands folded in her lap. He helped her to a cup of chocolate but just as he handed it to her, their eyes met and their fingers touched. The cup rattled in the saucer, and continued to rattle, for Griselda found she was shaking unaccountably. He did not move away when he had handed her the cup but stood looming over her. She put down the cup on the little tripod table and was about to fold her hands togeth
er again, when he reached out and caught her right hand in his.

  He crouched down and kissed her hand, cradling it in his, and then pressed his face to her palm, as if her touch was the thing he most wanted in the world. Griselda swallowed – she was bewildered but not offended. She could find no reason to pull her hand away.

  He looked up at her and his face was serious, his blue eyes fixed on her with unwavering intensity. She reached out and pushed back the hair that was falling over his forehead. He smiled and she realised it was in answer to her own smile of pleasure. For his hair felt as soft as it looked, in texture like the silky coat of a spaniel, but thicker, she discovered, as she succumbed to the irresistible urge to plough her fingers through it. She let the last lock drop from her fingers with reluctance.

  Then, he pressed his hands to her cheeks and kissed her on the lips, with such eager warmth that for a moment Griselda did not know what to do. Or rather, her mind did not know what to do. Her body seemed to know perfectly well, for she kissed him in return. She felt like a bird who had only ever flown in the limited compass of a gilded prison, but who knew in her soul how to soar in the heights. She reached for his shoulders and let him wrap his arms about her waist and raise her to her feet. His lips were still hot against her and now as they stood by the fire, their bodies were as close as their lips.

  Words were not necessary. They were as unnecessary as the knowledge of his name. She only felt the insistent call of her own desire for him: that seemed to transcend everything. She had never felt so alive as in that moment – every sense was magnified. The linen of his shirt which her fingers gathered up in an involuntary spasm felt smoother and finer than any linen she had felt before.

  And all the time he came closer and closer, pressing his body against her, with quiet but repetitive insistence. Even through the thick skirt of her habit she could sense the urgency of his passion and she could smell him so clearly now – his sweat mingling with the smell of the wood burning in the grate.

  He unfastened the buttons of her habit jacket and bent to kiss her breast, pushing open the lawn ruffles that trimmed her habit shirt. His kisses were gentle, yet urgent, like the touch of the summer rain outside. He kissed her where no man had even touched her before, in the delicate valley between her breasts, the tip of his nose as cool as his lips were warm. He undid the buttons holding up her habit skirt and it pooled to the floor with her petticoat, leaving her to shrug herself out of the tight restraint of her habit jacket. She had not put on her stays again – she had had no maid to lace her in and her habit shirt and shift did little to hide her breasts from his eager exploration.She had never imagined that they were so sensitive, yet when his fingers brushed against her nipple she felt a tingling deep inside her that made her clench her muscles with longing.

  “Shall we?” he said with a gesture towards the bedchamber door.

  Dry-throated, she nodded.

  Resting on the bed, propped against a pile of pillows, she felt relaxed to the point of abandonment. She let him bury his face in her breasts, and stroked his hair as he kissed them with such tenderness. Then, growing bolder, she pushed her hands under his shirt and caressed his warm, firm back, exploring every ridge of bone and muscle, watching his face flinch with pleasure as she touched some particularly acute spot. Kneeling over her, he pressed his cheek to hers and begged her to continue. She slipped her fingertips beneath the linen of his under-breeches, feeling the warmth of his bare flesh. A few gentle touches of that and he groaned with pleasure and began to kiss her ardently again, now with a sort of frenzied haste, and stretched himself along side of her, pressing himself against her.

  Then growing impatient of further barriers, he got up, stripped off the rest of his clothes and completely naked now, straddled her.

  She gazed up at him. In his nakedness he was magnificent. The sun had escaped the clouds again and for a few minutes the room was suffused in rich yellow gold light. He was a magnificent hero in an old painting – muscular, lean and noble. She could picture him in the dappled sunlight of some classical glade – a Theseus or an Alexander resting for a moment between heroic endeavours. Yet, a glance revealed to Griselda realised how much those old artists had left out. All they were permitted to show was a strictly allegorical unsheathed sword lying on the ground by the hero.

  Griselda had heard the frank talk of servants. She had lived in the country all her life. She might have been inexperienced but she was not entirely ignorant. And now it seemed her curiosity was going to be satisfied.

  He paused for a moment, stopping to take both her hands in his and kiss them, with unexpectedly gallantry. It was as if he was asking for her leave to continue. Griselda, who would at that moment have walked the world barefoot for him, could only smile up at him, and then reached out again to push away the hair that seemed always to fall forward over his eyes.

  He lifted up the hem of her shift. He bent and placed a kiss on her now bare stomach which made her giggle and shake, for his hair was tickling her. Then he pushed up her shift and kissed her lower down. This made her rigid with surprise for a moment, but only for a moment, for as he persisted, she found she could not stop herself writhing, her hips jerking. Without thinking about it, she raised her knees and widened her legs to this devastating invasion of his. She recognised the sensations he was drawing from her. Occasionally, at night, when restless and in a passion about something, she had touched herself there and found that she could work herself into a sweet but somewhat shameful state of pleasurable excitement. But it was nothing, nothing to this. She simply could do nothing but lie there, allowing all the feelings that this most intimate of caresses provoked to flow unchecked through her, like flames eating up a piece of dry tinder. Then suddenly it was almost unbearably exciting. She groaned, half wanting him to stop but knowing she could not bear it if he did. Then it came – a burning, deep explosion in her womb that made her flush all over and exclaim.

  He came and kissed her lips again, pressing himself against her. She could feel the rock hardness of him against her thigh and could see the urgency in his eyes. He guided himself into her and she could offer no resistance – she wanted to feel the power of him inside her, to feel it touch the core of her. He gave one tremendous push and she felt some discomfort and pain, and it made her gasp slightly. For a moment he stopped, surprised.

  “You’re a…” he began.

  She pressed a finger to his lips.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I want you.”

  He closed his eyes and pushed again, with the sense of a man granted something he felt scarcely able to deserve. She felt the reverence in it. There was nothing cheap about it. How could this be cheap, this deep, intimate locking together of man and woman? She stretched and encircled his legs with her own, feeling shattered and yet renewed at each deep slow thrust into her, her fingers massaging his shoulder blades. Then suddenly his movement quickened and she saw the strain of suppressed tension cloud his face. He grimaced, seemed to try and hold back for a moment but failed and came crashing against her one last time.

  She felt it, felt his spasm as he fell panting onto her.

  A few moments later he withdrew from her and lay close beside her, on his back. As she stared up at the carved oak of the bed canopy, at the blackened wooden garlands of lilies and pomegranates, she heard him say:

  “I wish I knew who you were.”

  “No,” she said. “No, that would spoil everything.”

  Chapter 3

  When Tom Thorpe woke, he found the place beside him empty. She had gone. He propped himself on his elbows and stared about him, looking for traces of her presence, but there was nothing but a heap of crumpled towels by the washstand.

  He staggered out of bed, wondering how he had slept so soundly. Usually he found it impossible to sleep during the daytime – even after such sensual exertions. Yet he felt drugged with exhaustion, as if he had tasted opium on her lips. He could never remember feeling so overwhelmed by the act as on th
is occasion. He had felt entirely satisfied but now his body was aching for her presence.

  He went into the parlour to see if she was there. She was not, but she had taken some cold chicken and a piece of plum tart. The bottle of claret was untouched, however. He was just reflecting on this, cutting himself a slice from the tart as he did so – for he had discovered he was incredibly hungry – when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said, absently.

  It was the landlady, who instantly gave out a shriek of horror at the sight of a naked man eating plum tart with his fingers.

  “Sir, if you please!” she said, looking very pointedly away while Tom snatched up his coat and held in front of him. “I beg to remind you, sir,” she said, now daring to look at him, “that this is a respectable establishment.”

  Tom could not help colouring slightly, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught in the act by his dame. Fortunately this venerable lady could not make him report to his tutor for a flogging.