“And how do you imagine I shall do that?” he said, disentangling himself. “With you turning up like this, dressed in such an outrageous fashion?”
“It is not that outrageous. I think my clothes are very sensible,” she said. “For travelling, nothing could be better. You should try travelling in women’s clothes, Hugh.”
He sank back in his chair. He looked seriously alarmed.
“What have you done?” he said.
“I have only travelled from Glenmorval,” she said. I had to come and speak to you in person. I could not think what else to do.”
“You have not travelled from Scotland alone?” he said after a moment. “Tell me you did not.”
“I did, and I shan’t say I’m afraid I did, because I feel I have nothing to apologise for.”
Hugh had put his hand over his face, presumably to hide his gawping astonishment. He shook his head.
“I cannot believe you could have done such a thing,” he said.
“Well, think what you like. What matters is that I am here, quite safe and sound, and that I am seeing my dearest brother at last!”
“You expect me to enjoy our reunion in such circumstances?” he exclaimed.
“Of course,” she said. “Aren’t you at all pleased to see me?”
“No, nothing could be more distressing. You have clearly taken leave of your senses.”
“I think I have found them. To stay would have be entirely irrational. Action was required and I acted.”
“What has happened? Has some man – what? Tell me!”
“It is Papa,” she said. “He has decided to get married.”
“What?” said Hugh. “Is that all? You expect me to believe that is the cause of this outrageous behaviour? No, that cannot be right. It must be something else to make you lose all sense of decency and to parade yourself about the country thus, to risk your reputation – that is if you still had a reputation when you left my father’s house.”
“How dare you accuse me of that?” said Griselda angrily. She did not like his tone at all. It was nothing like his long affectionate letters. And after that afternoon it felt too much like the point of a sword touching her heart. “You know me better than that.” It was a clumsy defence and she knew it.
“I evidently do not,” he said rather coolly. “You were a child when I last saw you. Who knows what you have been about these last ten years or what you have become? Now tell me the truth, or I shall be further disillusioned.”
“I am telling you the truth,” she said, crouching beside his chair. “Papa is going to marry again and he must be stopped.”
“There is nothing in what you say to justify this extraordinary behaviour…”
“There is everything,” she protested. “Believe me, Hugh, it is the most horrible thing in the world. She is a tobacco widow from Glasgow – she has an enormous fortune and he is only marrying her for her money.”
“I cannot believe he would do that,” said Hugh.
“Believe it,” said Griselda, “for he will unless we stop him. He is being entirely ambitious. That is his only thought. He is already strutting about like a man of fashion, running up bills on his expectations.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“Not at all. She will make him a laughing stock – no, she has already made him a laughing stock! Mrs Skene is the most odious, ignorant creature you can conceive of. She only wants his consequence, to be called my lady and gull some other poor sad fools into marrying her dreadful daughters. And he does not care, because he will be rich. It is so mercenary, so very beneath him – I cannot believe he could stoop to it. We have managed without money before, why not now?”
“A man often finds a woman’s flattery irresistible, Grizzy,” said Hugh. “Is she handsome?”
“Yes, I suppose so – and her looks have all the advantages that her money can buy for them. In fact, I should say fashion is the only thing she takes seriously.”
“I fancy she takes her money seriously,” remarked Hugh.
“How can she? She would not marry my father then, for he’ll run through it as quickly as he can. He will gorge himself on silk waistcoats, and pipes of port and bad carriage horses. If she were a sensible woman she would have chosen to marry a man of her own sort, and marry her daughters likewise. It is too disgusting! And Papa, oh Hugh, how can he?”
“Perhaps he wishes us all to be a little more comfortable,” said Hugh. “He must be thinking of you in this.”
“Yes, he talks endlessly of my marrying well, which you know I shall never do. I cannot bear the thought of it.”
“You are too young to make such a decision,” said Hugh.
“Why not? From what I see of my father’s courtship, I see little to recommend anything of the sort to me. All that sham affection. It is the greatest hypocrisy. And to find that my own father, whom I have been disposed to respect and take as my guide in all important things…”
“That is mere rhetoric,” cut in Hugh, a little sharply. “You would not be here if you were really guided by him.”
“And what else was I to do?” she exclaimed. “Sit in silence and consent to it all? Is that the part a woman must play, even when she knows that a very great evil might come of it?”
“You do not know that for certain,” said Hugh. “How do you know that they care nothing for each other, that they will not deal quite splendidly together? For aught you know our father is acting for the greater good of our family. For my part, I am glad that his situation will be improved. I should hate Glenmorval to be crippled by debt. I should want it set to rights, and if this woman is the way to do it…”
“Hugh no!” she cried. “You cannot be in earnest. If you are, you are as bad as he is, and that I could not bear. Tell me you do not mean this.”
“All I mean to say is, that I cannot judge when I have not made the acquaintance of the lady…”
“She is not a lady,” put in Griselda with force.
“That remains to be seen,” he went on. “Neither have I heard our father’s account of the matter. All I have to judge by is your impassioned and intemperate version and no rational person would regard that as sufficient evidence upon which to make a judgement.”
“You do not trust my word in this?” she said.
“How can I? Your very conduct leads me to suppose you have taken leave of your senses.”
Furiously, she retorted, “Does it not occur to you I should never have acted thus, unless the situation were desperate?”
“An express letter would have done just as well,” he said.
“No, I do not believe it would have done. It would not have roused you from your complacency. It would not have called you to action.”
“You are quite wrong,” he said. “A well reasoned letter would have made me act. For your letters have impressed me – from them I had imagined you an intelligent young woman, with a well-ordered and sensible mind. A few carefully-written pages expressing your doubts would have been sufficient to alert me to the dangers of the situation. I should have then written to my father and asked him to put his side of the case. The very act of writing might have made you see that your violent objections are quite uncalled for.”
“I tried to write, but I could get no sense of it on paper. I had to see you in person. Dearest Hugh, do not disappoint me. This must be stopped. You alone can stop him.”
“I very much doubt that,” said Hugh. “And whatever made you imagine I might, I do not know.”
“If you had heard him talk of you as I have, you would know. There is no object in the world more dear to him.”
“Oh Griselda, I wish you had not done this!” he exclaimed suddenly. “What am I to do with you?”
“You will not make me go back there,” she said, seeing his weakness. “I will not live with him if he marries her, you must understand that. And you will not be able to tolerate her.”
He sighed and finished his glass of wine.
“That remains t
o be seen. What we must decide first is what shall be done with you, my wild, foolish child. You cannot stay here – at least not beyond tonight. Tomorrow you will go to your aunt.”
“My Aunt Amberleigh? Is she here? You did not say.”
“No, I did not know until this morning,” said Hugh. “And it is a fortunate thing for you that she is.”
“Very fortunate,” said Griselda with a smile.
“She will not be amused by this escapade,” said Hugh.
“She will be even less amused by her brother’s escapade,” said Griselda calmly.
“I suppose I should at least be grateful that you came to no harm on your journey,” he said. “And there is no need to explain the manner of it to anyone. We will say you came with some friends from Scotland who were making a pleasure trip about Norfolk. That ought to satisfy our aunt.”
“Thank you, Hugh!” she said, kissing him. “And I am sorry for all this, but there was nothing else I could do.”
“Well, what you can do now is sit down now and write directly to our father. He will be tormented with worry – think of that, Griselda – think of the distress you will have caused him.”
“Then I trust he may already be thinking better of his actions,” said Griselda, getting up and going over to the writing slope which lay on the table.
“How you must have quarrelled,” he said. “This is a bitter business.” He sighed and looked away from her, his quiet displeasure very tangible.
“You are disappointed in me,” she said.
“I am sorry to say I am,” he said. “This in not how I expected to see you again. I have for so long looked forward to the day when I would see you a grown woman. When I was ill on the voyage back from New Orleans, my only comfort was the thought of being in a carriage driving up to Glenmorval and seeing you standing in a white dress waiting to greet me. For you wore a white dress the day I left. Do you remember it?” Griselda nodded. “You begged me to take you with me, did you not?”
“I wanted to be a drummer boy in your regiment.”
“And I thought you had outgrown your childish fancies.”
“If I had been a boy you should not have thought them childish fancies,” Griselda felt she must point out. “You would have encouraged them. For when you were eleven, I am sure you dreamed of being a soldier.”
“Yes, but I was a boy. You are not. It is an inescapable fact. You must accept what you are.”
“You know nothing of the slavery of being female!” said Griselda with a flourish of her hand.
“No, of course I cannot,” said Hugh mildly. “But I know what it is to be a man and I should not wish that on you, my dear girl. For it seems there is a very reckless spirit in you, Grizzy, which, if you were a man, would probably have killed you by now.”
“A hero’s death on the field, perhaps,” said Griselda.
“Do not wish that on yourself,” said Hugh with sudden gravity. “You do not know what that really means and I hope to God you never shall.”
Chapter 5
“All your boxes lost?” said Lady Amberleigh. “How very unfortunate.”
“There was very little of value in them,” said Griselda, who decided that if she had arrived with her own clothes she would have wanted to lose them. She had not realised how shabby and dull they were. One glance at her cousin Caroline’s smart morning dress made her wish she had stuck to her breeches and appeared outrageous. In her dark brown habit she knew she was merely dowdy.
“It is very lucky we are just about the same height and build. You may borrow everything you need from me,” said Caroline. “Though I think you are a little taller, cousin Griselda.”
“And I dare say there is a tolerable dressmaker in Cromer. I shall make a few enquiries,” said Lady Amberleigh. She gave her a long scrutiny and then shook her head. “How like my brother you look, child. It is a pity you had to cut that lovely hair. I hope you are quite recovered now.” Lady Amberleigh assumed she had been ill – why else would a woman cut her hair?
“Yes, very much. The journey from Scotland has done me a power of good.”
“I think your hair is perfect as it is. It is so very Grecian,” said Caroline.
Griselda could not think this was strictly true. Caroline had glossy dark hair that had been beautifully arranged in a high chignon, wrapped with a white gauze scarf. She seemed the embodiment of all that was Grecian. And certainly it seemed to impress Hugh because he had been sitting looking at Caroline as if she were a statue in a gallery.
“So long as you do not think it Gothick,” remarked Hugh, dryly.
Caroline laughed.
“Short hair for ladies is very fashionable now, Colonel Farquarson,” she said.
“I must agree with you, nephew,” said Lady Amberleigh. “I cannot like it. A scarf like yours, Caro, that would hide the damage a little. I don’t think my brother would care to see you looking too wild, even in a quiet place like Cromer.”
“Is Cromer quiet?” said Griselda.
“You sound very disappointed,” said Caroline with a smile. “It is a shame we are not all at Bath.”
“Oh no, I don’t think I should like Bath at all,” said Griselda. “Well, I should be interested to see it, of course, but this is a very beautiful place and the sea is always something to delight anyone with a shred of poetic feeling.”
“Have you only a shred?” said Caroline. “I cannot believe you could have so little.” Hugh looked amused at that.
“I dare say I have a great deal too much,” said Griselda.
“How do you get on with the sea bathing, nephew?” asked Lady Amberleigh, turning to Hugh.
“It seems to agree with me,” he said. “Indeed I must beg to take my leave of you now to continue my treatment.” He began his painful rise from his chair.
“Of course. You will dine with us tonight, I trust?”
“I should only be too delighted, ma’am.”
“Sir Thomas Thorpe will be joining us too,” said Lady Amberleigh. “Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve not had the pleasure.”
“Then we shall have quite a party – now that your dear sister is with us,” said Caroline. “I hope you play and sing, Cousin Griselda, for there is nothing Sir Thomas likes more than music.”
“A little,” said Griselda, with dread. She hated having to perform in a drawing room. She had no confidence in her talents and she suspected her cousin was very accomplished. There was a harp as well as an open pianoforte in the drawing room.
“I hope we shall have the pleasure of hearing you play,” Hugh said to Caroline. “Indeed, I remember how well you played that summer I spent at Weningsford.”
“You cannot remember that,” said Caroline, laughing. “I was thirteen, Colonel, and I am sure I played very ill indeed. That is mere flattery.”
“Of course you must be modest,” Hugh said. “But you were quite a prodigy and unless you have given up practising since then, I can only look forward to hearing you with the greatest expectation.”
“I shall admit to diligence but as to having improved, only you may judge that.”
He took his leave of the ladies, leaving Griselda with a peck on the cheek and a whispered entreaty not to disgrace herself.
“Is he in much pain, do you think?” Caroline asked Griselda when they were alone in the room that was to be her bedroom. “I cannot help but be concerned. When I last saw him he was so active, so energetic.”
“He has greatly understated the matter in his letters,” said Griselda. “I must confess I was shocked.”
Caroline sat down on the stool in the window and said, “I am glad to see him again, though. I was never so surprised as I was yesterday when I saw him on the sea front. I could scarcely believe it was him, but then there is something about his expression that one could never forget. Ten years have changed him so much and yet so very little.”
Griselda considered the matter for a moment, taking her seat on the edge of the bed which had,
in the latest style, been pushed against the wall and had a canopy of cherry-coloured striped chintz over it. When she thought of her bedroom at Glenmorval with its old furniture and musty hangings, she could not but enjoy the freshness of this room, with its window overlooking the bay and its sparse, light furniture.
“I have never forgotten that day when he took leave of us at Weningsford,” Caroline went on. “He left very early, but I was determined to see him off. He kissed me goodbye – and I felt sure that those kisses were meant for you, for he spoke of you with such affection. I found it hard to imagine that a man of twenty could have such a feeling for a child. I felt a little guilty for supplanting you. I wish your father had brought you to Weningsford. Then we might have been friends these ten years.”
Reckless Griselda Page 4
