Reckless Griselda

by Harriet Smart

  “You can’t run for ever!” he shouted at her. “There is no point in that.”

  “Go away!” she shouted. “I don’t want to be rescued.”

  That was a mistake. Determined to be defiant, she tripped over a particularly large rock and went crashing onto her stomach. Her pack flew out from under her and she got no protection from it. She lay there for a moment, winded, feeling that her ankle must be broken at least, for the pain was instantaneous, and her eyes filled with tears. But she had to get up and get on.

  She struggled to get up but he was suddenly there beside her, trying to help her.

  “No!” she said, wrestling to get out of his grip. She was in agony but she was not going to give in.

  “For heaven’s sake,” he said, catching her by the wrists. “You’ve hurt yourself. Will you…”

  They were both on their knees and fighting with each other. He was holding her wrists tightly and Griselda kept trying to punch him, in the hope that would make him let go of her. Finally she succeeded – and the result was spectacular.

  Her fist landed somewhere in the region of his nose, knocking him off balance. He gave a primal bellow and then another as his head collided with a large and very solid-looking stone. For a long second he was horribly still, his eyes closed.

  “My God, I’ve killed him,” thought Griselda and went lurching forward on her knees, for there was no way she could stand up. She threw herself on his chest and was profoundly thankful to hear his heart beating. She lay there panting for a moment or two and then he began to stir. She hauled herself upright and loosened his cravat as his eyes flickered open.

  “What the devil?” he said and then winced. “Oh God…” Slowly he heaved himself onto one elbow and then pressed his hand to the back of his head. “Oh…”

  There was blood on his hand.

  “Oh dear Lord,” exclaimed Griselda. “Oh no…”

  She helped him sit up a little more and then with careful fingers explored the wound.

  “I don’t think it’s too deep,” she said. “At least I hope not.”

  “Good,” he said. “Because I don’t want to die in a field. How are you, Miss Farquarson?”

  “I don’t think I can walk,” she said. “I don’t want to die in a field either.”

  “No, that would make a very pretty scandal. We’d better see if anything is broken.”

  “Owww!” He had pulled off her boot and it made her shudder with pain.

  “I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he said, and delicately felt along her calf and ankle. She still had to grit her teeth. “No, I don’t think you need a bone setter, thank God.”

  “Your nose is bleeding,” she said.

  He wiped it away with his sleeve.

  “That’s nothing. I had plenty of those at Eton. First time from a woman though. You would have done well at Eton, Miss Farquarson. Perhaps you were there – in disguise.”

  “Harrow,” said Griselda.

  Slowly he got to his feet and stood towering over her.

  “Do you wish to be rescued now?” he asked, as he pressed his handkerchief to the back of his head.

  “Unfortunately I don’t have any choice about it. Yes, thank you sir, I would be obliged to you if you were to rescue me.”

  He smiled, but only briefly, and then removed the handkerchief. It was sodden with blood.

  ***

  Tom was not quite sure how they got to the inn. Carrying her up the field was hard enough – it was fortunate she was thin, but she had the long, strong form of a boy and that made her heavy. He felt weak with pain and somewhat dizzy. He wondered if he would pass out again. Presumably this concerned Miss Farquarson too, for she suggested she take Juno’s reins.

  “I’m used to side-saddle,” she said. “I only need one foot.”

  So she arranged herself on the saddle, with her damaged leg hooked up where the pommel would have been, and he shortened the stirrup for her before heaving himself up behind her.

  “No jumping today,” he said, putting his arms about her waist.

  “No, I think not,” she said, and set Juno off in a steady walk.

  There was not an inn on the road for miles. They did not dare go at much more than walking pace and their progress seemed interminably slow. The wind dropped and the day grew surprisingly warm. Either that, or he was running a fever. He had a flask of brandy in his pocket which helped only a little. He splashed some on his head which made it sting in addition to throbbing, and then he forced Miss Farquarson, who was looking a little pale, to take a draught herself. She choked on it.

  At last they reached a village with a large, respectable-looking inn – the Blue Bell. In fact, he would not have cared if it had been the shabbiest tavern in England. He just wanted to get in out of the sun and have something cold to drink. His entire head was aching now, not just the wounded portion, and he felt faint and nauseous. Dismounting from Juno was a most inelegant affair and an oafish looking village boy who was idling in front of the inn, smirked at the sight until Tom barked at him to hold the reins while he lifted Griselda down.

  He had not the strength to carry Griselda and instead she had to hop in, leaning on him as a rather inadequate sort of human walking stick. They slumped onto the nearest settle by the tap room door and called for attention.

  The landlord looked them over rather dubiously.

  “We met with an accident,” Griselda said. “And we should like two good rooms, if you please.”

  “We’ve only one room to spare,” said the landlord. “We’re expecting a party from Yarmouth later on.”

  “We’ll take it,” said Tom. He did not care any more. “And fetch a surgeon. The best in the neighbourhood.”

  “There’s no surgeon except at Cromer, sir,” said the landlord. “There’s an apothecary in the next village. I can send the boy for him.”

  “If you would,” said Tom, getting to his feet. “Show us the room.” Gathering what strength he had left, he lifted Griselda into his arms, and draped her over his shoulder like a sack of corn. She did not protest.

  The room was small, hot and stuffy. It was dominated by a high old oak bed which would just accommodate two people who were small-framed and extremely fond of each other. Tom deposited Griselda on the bed and saw that the landlord was still standing in the doorway.

  “Half payment now, if you please, sir,” he said.

  Tom reached for his pocket book and gave the man his shillings.

  “Make sure my horse is well stabled,” he said, and closed the door in his face.

  He crossed the room and climbed up onto the bed beside Miss Farquarson.

  “I’m sorry, there is nowhere else to sit,” he said, and sank back onto the one pillow. “And I must lie down.” He closed his eyes. “We must send for Gough.”

  “Who is Gough?”

  “My servant, my nursemaid, my…” he gave up.

  “We will fetch Gough,” he heard her say, and her cool hand stroked his forehead. “I will see to it.”

  ***

  The apothecary had been found on the road into the village. Griselda was very relieved to see him – not for her own sake, for she was sure that her ankle would mend soon enough, but Thorpe’s wounded head was giving her a great deal of concern. He seemed to be in more pain than he was admitting to, and he lay so still and pale on the bed beside her that she was beginning to grow very alarmed.

  The apothecary, Mr Harris, was a sensible, cheerful fellow, who cleaned and dressed the wound expertly, gave Thorpe a sleeping draught, had the landlord fetch more pillows and allayed Griselda’s fears about any lasting damage.

  “Your husband will be perfectly himself soon enough,” he said. She glanced at Tom, startled by this assumption, but he was too drowsy to notice. “Now, let us see what we may do for this ankle of yours, ma’am.” She was pleased he made no mention of her strange clothes – he could not treat many ladies dressed in breeches. “I shall have them make up a poultice for you,” he said. “A
nd I should recommend you take a little of the draught yourself. It will be painful for a while, so you will be best to sleep it off.”

  “Yes, of course. Perhaps I could get you to take a message for me?” she asked. “To Sir Thomas Thorpe's servant, Gough, at Cromer, lodging at…”

  “12 Marine Terrace,” murmured Thorpe, his voice thick with sleep. “Tell him to hire a post chaise and get here as soon as he can.”

  “I will send my own servant with the message,” said Mr Harris. “Be assured, Sir Thomas, my Lady.”

  And he went to see about the poultice, leaving Griselda with a little cup of sleeping draft.

  “He thinks we are married,” she said.

  “We will have to be after this,” muttered Thorpe and then fell asleep.

  Mr Harris returned and bound up her foot with the cold poultice, and then a maid came in with some extra pillows so that she could put her foot up on them. Then, left alone with Thorpe, she struggled out of her breeches – no easy task with a bandaged ankle – retrieved her shift from the pack, and put it on. If the world was inclined to believe she was Lady Thorpe, she must at least look a little less strange.

  Lady Thorpe – Griselda as Lady Thorpe. That was not the role she had planned at all. She drank the sleeping draught and having hoisted her foot up onto the pillows, lay down once more to share a bed with Tom Thorpe.

  Chapter 12

  He was kissing her. Not on the lips. No, he was kissing her back. He had pushed her shift from her shoulders and was kissing her bare back, and as he kissed her, he stroked her sides, and then reached forward and cupped her naked breasts. Her shift slipped to the floor. He was pressed against her now, body against body – he was as naked as she was, and his body was warm, hard with muscle. He held her in his arms and rocked her back and forth, with gentle urgency that made her own need mount explosively up. He buried his face in her hair, kissing her ear lobes while his hands brushed over her stomach and started to explore lower and lower…

  Griselda woke with a start. The room was dark. For a moment she was completely confused, unable to work out where she was. She flung out her arms and hit Thorpe. He muttered and woke up.

  “Sorry,” she said, straightening herself, alarmed at how close to him she was. “Sorry.” She felt she was half apologising to herself for having such a shockingly enjoyable dream.

  “I was nearly awake anyway,” he said. “Well, you haven’t bolted this time.”

  “How could I?”

  Her eyes grew accustomed to the dark.

  “I wonder what time it is?” he said. “Heavens, I am so hungry. Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, and thirsty too.”

  “Then we shall have to do something about that,” he said, sitting up. “Now, I wonder if there is such a thing as a candle in this room?”

  “There is one on your side, on the table. And a tinder box too, I think. Do you feel better?”

  “Much. Thank you,” he said, groping for the tinder box. He struck a light. “And you?”

  “Better, thank you.”

  He lit the candle and looked at her. For a moment his lips twisted into a smile but then he looked away. She was glad he had done, for she realised her shift was half off her shoulders. Quickly she made herself decent.

  He got up from the bed and reached into his waistcoat for his watch.

  “Nearly eight o’clock. I shall have to go and see if they’ll bring us some dinner. Some wine?”

  “Some tea,” said Griselda. “If you please, Sir Thomas.”

  He sat down on the single hard chair provided and put on his boots. Griselda propped the pillow up against the wall (there was no bed head) and half sitting up, watched him as he put on his coat. She shivered suddenly, for the warmth of the day had vanished completely and now, deprived of his warm body beside her, she felt the cool of the night.

  “You need a wrap,” he remarked.

  “My plaid will do,” she said, pointing to the heaped remains of her pack which she had tossed on the floor.

  He picked it up and laid it over her.

  “Thank you,” she said. Half of her, still in the fever of that dream, wished he would do more. For a moment she longed for him to kiss her, especially when he stood over her a fraction longer than was strictly necessary, his eyes intently upon her. But then he took the other candle from the mantelshelf, lit it from the one beside the bed and without a word left the room.

  He returned with a maid carrying a tray. She was pink-cheeked and somewhat flustered.

  “I’ll bring you some tea as soon as I can, my lady,” she said to Griselda. “We’ve a large party downstairs and very demanding they are. But here’s roast pork, potatoes and carrots for you, and a nice custard tart. ”

  “And a bottle of claret,” said Thorpe, brandishing a bottle and two glasses.

  The maid put the tray down on the foot of the bed and left them.

  They ate inelegantly, mostly with their fingers, Thorpe pulling the chair up to the side of the bed. It seemed to be the most efficient thing to do in the circumstances. Griselda was so faint with hunger that she did not care what he thought of her table manners, and to judge by the way he was attacking his meat it did not matter to him either.

  “So,” he said, his mouth half full. “Why did you really run away? You’re not with child, are you?”

  Griselda was so astonished that she choked and spluttered on the piece of crackling she had been crunching her way through.

  “I beg your pardon?” she managed to say. He was tearing apart a slice of pork with his fingers and did not look up. “What did you say?”

  “I said: are you with child?”

  She swallowed down the last of the crackling and reached for her wine glass. His matter-of-fact tone was extraordinary.

  “I wonder how often you’ve asked that question of some poor unfortunate girl,” she said.

  “Never,” he said. “I’ve never fathered a bastard. Not to my knowledge, at least, and I don’t intend to father one now. Are you with child, Miss Farquarson? Is that why you ran away?”

  “No,” she said. “You need not concern yourself on that score.” She saw the relief flicker cross his face as he drained his wine glass. Needled slightly, she could not help adding, “At least I don’t think so. “

  He put down his glass and rubbed his hands across his face.

  “It’s too much of a risk whichever way,” he said after a moment. Then he looked her. “I wonder how we get hold of a licence.”

  “A licence?”

  “A marriage licence. Reading the banns would take three weeks.”

  Griselda sank back on her pillow and stared up at the cracked plaster in the ceiling.

  “Are you proposing marriage, Sir Thomas?” she said at last.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Good God,” she said. “How dare you? How can you?”

  “Because I have no choice about it. If you are with child…”

  “Do you think I will marry on such terms?” she said incredulously. “Because I might be with child?”

  “You will,” he said. “You have no choice about it either. Are you honestly prepared to bear a bastard, Miss Farquarson?”

  “What I do is my concern,” she said, drawing her plaid around her and looking away. “Why is this suddenly so important to you, Sir Thomas? It was not important to you when we first met. And you have not showed the least inclination to be honourable to me since then. Why now?”

  “Probably because a broken head has brought me to my senses,” he said.

  “You will be sued by the Amberleighs as well,” she pointed out. “And Caroline will hate you. She will hate me.”

  “Better that than having you ruined utterly,” he said, getting up. “I’m going to call on the parson. With any luck, he will be able to marry us in the morning.”

  “Do as you like,” said Griselda. “I shall not do it. You are the last man alive I would dream of marrying.”

  “For God’s s
ake, Miss Farquarson, be sensible!” he said. “We must live with the consequences of our actions – and since I seduced you, I must marry you. What would you rather I proposed: that I keep you in Putney as Mrs Thorpe? That might satisfy your strange notions but it will not calm my conscience.”

  “Marriage should not be a question of calming a conscience!” she exclaimed. “And I wish to heaven that I was not the sort of woman you felt a need to behave honourably towards. At least if I were your mistress I could steal your silver and run away again.”