Reckless Griselda

by Harriet Smart

  “I am to be damned to misery because of you,” he said simply, looking at the glove and not her.

  “No, you will not. You will either get a pretty heiress or my beautiful cousin. Most men do not disdain such prizes.”

  “What if I said I didn’t want them any more?”

  “Then you are as much a fool as I am,” she said. “An ungrateful fool.” He looked across at her, his blue eyes shining in the brown gloom of the parlour, and it made her tremble with anger. “Oh, why did you do it? Do you not love her?” she exclaimed. “Do you not love Caroline?”

  “I don’t know any more,” he said, getting up so that he loomed over her. “I forgot her the moment I saw you. It is as simple and as complicated as that. The rest of the world ceased to exist. There was only you. May God forgive me for it, but that was how it was.” He put down her glove down again and stood looking intensely at her. “But perhaps I don’t really repent. Of all the rest, yes, I am sorry for that, but how can I regret something so real? I used to read the plays of Shakespeare and wonder if such love could exist – the love between Orlando and Rosalind, of Viola and Orsino. Those girls dressed up as boys had always piqued my fancy, and when I saw you, saw what you really were…” He picked up the glove again, and twisted it in his fingers. Then he looked at her. “I’ve had no sleep these last two nights for thinking of you.”

  He advanced on her a step and, unable to know what to do any more, she remained in her seat. That same, other-worldly atmosphere of the inn seemed to have filled the room and she felt her resistance to be weaker than a stalk of barley in the wind. But she made an effort.

  “Those are just words – fine words, yes, but just words. Lord Wansford told me you could turn a pretty phrase. I wonder what you said in your letters to Lady Mary.”

  “There are no letters. I have never written a love letter in my life before.”

  “Oh, how do you expect me to believe that?” Griselda said, throwing up her hands. “How?”

  “I would write letters to you, though,” he said. “Heavens, I could fill a ream for you. But I have no pretty turns of phrase. You should ask my friends. They are lucky to get a line from me twice a year. Wansford was lying. If he produces these so-called letters of mine he will be a laughing stock. Tom Thorpe does not write letters except on business.”

  “Some might say that writing love letters to an heiress was business,” Griselda retorted.

  “You are determined to see me damned,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said. “I know what you are.”

  “And I know what you are. Remember that,” he said. “We are alike. And that you cannot deny. You may deny it to me but you cannot deny it to yourself. You are too intelligent to do that.”

  “Might I have my glove back?” she said, getting up from her seat. The way he was turning it in his fingers disturbed her.

  “I should much rather keep it,” he said.

  She reached out to snatch it from him but he caught her hand, and would have pressed his lips to her open palm had she not clenched up her fist. So he kissed her knuckles instead, while all the time she tried to pull her hand away. But he had her strongly in his grip – his arm was suddenly clasped about her shoulders. She could not retreat. He was determined to kiss her – his lips were against hers but there was no gentleness in those kisses. There was a force of angry passion there that made her angry also. She felt he was determined to subdue her, to bring her to heel like some disobedient dog, to show her exactly who was master.

  She found her strength and pushed him away.

  “Oh, so you think I will forgive you everything just for a kiss? That I will be your slave?” she said, backing away from him. “Is that what you think I am like, Thomas Thorpe? Remember. I am a Farquarson of Glenmorval, sir, a gentleman’s daughter. Do not ever forget that again!”

  “No, I should not dare,” he said, throwing down the glove on the table with something like disgust. “How could I when I was never so disillusioned in my life? I liked the brave creature with no name a great deal better.” He picked up his hat. “Give your excellent brother my compliments, Miss Farquarson.”

  Chapter 9

  “Now, Thorpe, have you met Miss Farquarson yet?” Wansford said.

  Griselda was sitting on the sofa next to Lady Mary. She was playing the innocent young lady once more, in a becoming silver-grey silk dress with green ribbons.

  “I have had that pleasure,” said Tom, bowing to her.

  He had not wanted to have dinner with his mother and the Wansfords, but it had been impossible to get out of it. And here was Griselda Farquarson, making her curtsey, all modesty and charm. The latter was unfortunately undeniable.

  Even if he had said he did not like her in her incarnation as a gentleman’s daughter, he had not exactly meant it. If she had been desirable in her ragged breeches, she was even more so in the elegance of fashionable clothes. The low cut of her bodice hinted at the enchanting curve of her breasts and the soft silk of her skirts clung about her long, strong legs. Nothing she had said to him could alter the fact that he found her face and figure hypnotically interesting. Had he met her in conventional circumstances he felt sure she would have made a devastating impression on him. He would still want to kiss her, and worse still take liberties with her. He had never felt such urgent desire for Caroline nor for any woman of his own class before, not even the Countess.

  His mother was presiding over this gaudy hired drawing room as if it were her own, although Lady Mary was the nominal hostess. “Dear Wansford,” as she always called him, was being slickly agreeable as he always was with strangers, and Tom was wondering what he was about, asking Griselda and Farquarson to dine with them. Probably the plan was that they would report back to the Ruffords on the strength of Lady Mary’s evident attachment to him. And of course Wansford pressed him to sit down with the young ladies.

  “How are you finding Cromer, Lady Mary?” Griselda Farquarson inquired. “You have just arrived, I think?”

  “Yes. It is delightful. I have never seen the sea before. I am very glad to be here.”

  “There are some excellent drives round about,” Griselda went on. “Are there not, Sir Thomas? I believe there is a magnificent ruined abbey a mile or two inland. Do you love a ruin, Lady Mary?”

  The question confused Lady Mary. It had her glancing at Tom for guidance, as if she were his wife already, a gesture that was obviously not wasted on Miss Farquarson.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Lady Mary. “I don’t think I’m clever enough to understand such things. I like to look at modern houses though,” she added as a rather daring afterthought, and giggled.

  “Then you are a connoisseur of everything comfortable and practical,” Griselda said, “and you will make your husband very happy.”

  “My husband, oh!” said Lady Mary. “But I don’t have one, Miss Farquarson.”

  “But you will, I am sure,” said Griselda. “Very soon?”

  “Perhaps,” said Lady Mary with another glance at Tom. This time she blushed, and Griselda smiled rather acidly and raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I should like nothing more in the world than to be married,” Griselda continued. “How delightful to have the love and respect of a gentleman and take one’s proper place in the world as Lady So and So.”

  “The man who marries Miss Farquarson will be fortunate,” Tom said, “for he will know that she appreciates all that he can give her.”

  Griselda’s eyes flashed at him for a moment but she settled on a sweetly radiant if satirical smile.

  “But a man should never be as grateful as his wife. For what is a woman without a husband?” she responded. “Nothing, nothing at all. He gives her a name, a place in the world, an occupation. She owes everything to him. But for a man, a wife is a comfort, an ornament and a valued distraction from the cares of his life.”

  “You underestimate the benefits to men, Miss Farquarson,” he said. “Marriage is the making of many men.” />
  “Then they should take the greatest care for whom they offer,” she said tartly. “Don’t you think so, Lady Mary?”

  Mary again looked bewildered, as she usually did when the conversation turned from the pattern of sleeves or the training of a pet dog. Tom at that moment would gratefully have turned the conversation to an equally harmless topic. Griselda in this mood made him feel a little as if he were fencing a maitre d’armes with only a broomstick. Then the image of her dressed in breeches, handling a foil and out to scar his face, swam into his mind and he was half sick with the craving to have her again.

  Fortunately, at that moment the servant announced that dinner was served.

  ***

  As on the previous evening, Griselda found herself seated next to Thorpe. This dining room was more intimate, the table smaller and she could not ignore him. Even though she had chosen to reject his kiss, the world had felt wintry since she pushed him away and no matter what she told herself, she found it painfully enjoyable to be so close to him. It was enough to destroy her appetite, and his too, apparently, for when she offered him the corner dishes, he declined them and she noticed the only thing he seemed to take in any quantity was the wine.

  Lord Wansford began complaining loudly to the waiters about the indifferent food as the second remove was cleared away.

  “This chef has not the least idea how to dress the simplest fricassée. I do apologise, Miss Farquarson,” he said turning to her with. “To ask you to dine, and then this…” He shook his head, as if it were the greatest matter in the world.

  “Can a fricassée ever be simple, my lord?” she enquired. “Certainly we would never ask our cook at Glenmorval to attempt one.”

  She noticed that Tom Thorpe smiled briefly at that.

  “Then you are very wise, my dear,” said Wansford. “Such things are indeed beyond the province of mere cooks. But this establishment claims to have a French chef.”

  “Then he is probably as French as you and I,” remarked Thorpe, refilling his glass. “And he would do himself a great service if he was not ashamed to cook like an Englishman. But French cooking is what the world demands, I suppose. We are victims of our own desire to be fashionable.”

  “You need not match your mood to the cooking, Thorpe,” drawled Lady Thorpe.

  “Well, here is the dessert, ma’am,” said Thorpe. “I promise to be as sweet as the syllabub.”

  Griselda had noticed that hardly an affectionate word had passed between mother and son. Lady Thorpe never addressed him as anything but “Thorpe” and he had not been less formal.

  The dessert was showy. A sponge castle in a sea of whipped syllabub, decorated with crystallised violets, gilded almonds and little paper pennants was placed in the centre of the table, flanked by two large silver stands of fruits.

  “Just the thing to amuse a young lady’s appetite,” said Lord Wansford. “You’ll take a piece, Miss Farquarson?”

  “Just fruit, thank you, my lord. I could not possibly destroy such an edifice as that.”

  She chose a fig and noticed that Tom Thorpe had chosen the same.

  “Your favourite fruit?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “There are two very large fig trees at Priorscote – they must be a hundred years old at least. They are very productive. I used to climb them as a boy. The figs are better than any I have ever tasted.”

  Hugh who had been helping Lady Mary to some syllabub, smiled and said, “That makes me think of the apricot at Glenmorval. I used to dream of it in Africa, even though we had the fruits of paradise there. Tell me, Grizzy, does it still prosper?”

  “Not this year. I think it is a little old now.”

  “Then I shall plant a new one directly I return,” said Hugh.

  “You must ask our cousin Caroline what sort would be best,” Griselda said. “She is very au fait with such matters, is she not, Sir Thomas?”

  “Yes, she is very fond of gardening, I believe.”

  Griselda thought she saw a flicker of annoyance cross Lady Thorpe’s face. She turned rather pointedly to Lady Mary.

  “Mary dear, I had the sweetest letter from the Duchess this morning,” she said. “She is quite determined to throw a ball in town to celebrate your marriage. She has always been so very fond of you and Thorpe. She could not be happier that you are making a match of it.”

  Thorpe who had been in the act of lifting his glass to his lips, put it down.

  “You wrote to the Duchess of Renfrew?” he said rather quietly.

  “But of course. She is such a dear friend,” Lady Thorpe said rather pointedly to Griselda. “Perhaps you know her?

  “No, I have not had the honour to know Her Grace,” said Griselda. She had heard of the Duchess, of course. She was one of the most brilliant and distinguished women in society, a legendary hostess and a patroness not to be trifled with. In truth she never expected nor particularly wanted to know her.

  “Then we should arrange it,” said Lord Wansford. “Kitty Renfrew loves to surround herself with clever young women, and now all her girls are married off, she is badly in want of occupation. The beautiful sister of a war hero would be just to her taste, wouldn’t you say, my dear Lady Thorpe?”

  “I had thought the very same thing myself,” said Lady Thorpe. “You have not yet had a season, have you, Miss Farquarson? That must be remedied, indeed it must. Colonel, you must not hide this darling creature away any longer. You must prevail on her papa to let her go to town. She will be brilliantly married, I am sure of it.”

  They are trying to turn my head, thought Griselda in angry astonishment, to buy me off with promises. It was quite extraordinary but it was plain enough. Lord Wansford was trying to tempt her into disloyalty to her own cousin with all this flattering attention.

  “Oh, and you must find a wife for the Colonel too,” said Lord Wansford. “One of the Petersham girls, perhaps? They are as handsome a set of sisters as I ever laid eyes on, Colonel, and they all have fifty thousand a piece.”

  “The eldest has sixty,” remarked Lady Thorpe and ate a grape.

  Hugh, entirely calm and smiling, said, “I am sure they are charming.”

  “Oh, they are. Aren’t they, Thorpe?” said Lady Thorpe. Sir Thomas did not answer but concentrated on draining his glass. “Well, of course my son is in no position to call any other woman charming but dear Mary. He is too gallant, is he not, my dear?”

  Lady Mary blushed appropriately and looked down at the remains of her syllabub.

  Why does he not defend himself? thought Griselda, glancing at him. He was sitting very still, looking only at the ravaged ramparts of the sponge cake castle. Perhaps he did not because he could not. Perhaps he had written those letters, and in the presence of Lady Mary he could not deny that the marriage was going to take place. He could only make denials to other people. Now she remembered with disgust the way he had kissed Caroline’s hands in public the night before and all his apparent assurances to her. And only that afternoon, he had told her he did not care for Caroline and tried to kiss her again. Who could say what he was capable of?

  She was very glad when Lady Mary suggested that they leave the gentlemen to their wine. She hoped they lingered over it.

  Lady Thorpe and Lady Mary were not the sort of companions she would have chosen to sit with but she decided she must turn the situation to her advantage and try to find out the truth of the matter.

  So as Lady Mary poured out the tea, she asked, “Have you bought your wedding clothes yet, Lady Mary?”

  Lady Thorpe smiled very pleasantly at that.

  “No, not yet,” said Lady Mary. “But we shall soon, I think, Lady Thorpe?”

  “Very soon, my dear,” said Lady Thorpe. “One might even go to Paris for them now. Perhaps you should come with us, Miss Farquarson. I think you would like to see Paris.”

  “Oh, very much.”

  “We shall see what we can do,” said Lady Thorpe.

  “Though I should have th
ought Lady Mary might wish to save Paris for her wedding journey,” Griselda said, accepting a cup of tea.

  “Oh, perhaps. I had not thought…” Lady Mary trailed off. Again the bewildered, rabbit-like glance at Lady Thorpe for guidance. “Sir Thomas has not spoken of the wedding journey yet. We have not even settled a date.”

  “A mere formality,” said Lady Thorpe.

  “That is such a pretty gown, Miss Farquarson,” said Lady Mary suddenly.

  “Thank you. It is my cousin’s,” Griselda could not resist adding.

  “I see,” said Lady Thorpe. “She is a charming girl, of course. I do not know Miss Rufford but she is spoken of so highly everywhere. It has quite concerned me that she could have come under such a disagreeable misapprehension concerning Thorpe. I do hope you will clarify the matter with her, Miss Farquarson.”