Griselda could not answer. She found herself blushing. Sir George turned to Thorpe, shaking his head.
“I thought you were damnable keen to take my Grizzy. Ha!” Sir George gave a disgusted snort. He turned to Lady Farquarson. “I told you he’d tumbled her, Maggie, I told you so. But you would tell me all that romantic clap-trap about elopements. Well, Thorpe, you’re a damnable blackguard sir, and you well deserve the piece of trouble you’ve got for a wife. And you could have had my pretty niece instead of this disobedient chit. She would have been a better bargain, and no mistake.”
Caroline’s puzzlement seemed to be dissolving into pain. She turned away, steadying herself with her hand on the chair rail.
“This cannot be true,” Caroline in a small dry voice. “I cannot believe this is true. Sir Thomas, you did not…? Griselda?” She turned back and looked across at Griselda. Griselda, red-faced with shame and misery, could only manage a slight nod.
Caroline gripped the chair back a little more tightly, her eyes closed, her face deathly pale. She swayed slightly and then staggered and would have fallen in a heap on the floor had not Thorpe stepped forward and caught her in his arms. He cradled her with such tenderness that Griselda could not bear to look at it. She turned away to the window, her arms folded around herself, the tears starting in her eyes.
“I have the salts here,” she heard Lady Farquarson saying. “Here, hold her, Sir George – you, Thorpe, you take yourself and your lady out of here. We shall see to Miss Rufford, and take her back to her people. This is all too much for her. Now, come, my dear…” Caroline spluttered and coughed on the salts as she came round again.
Griselda felt Thorpe’s hand on her shoulder. But only briefly.
“Come, we had better go,” he said.
Chapter 14
“It is a bachelor’s house,” Thorpe said, when they were alone in the library at Priorscote. “I dare say you will want to make some changes. Do what you like. You had better make yourself as comfortable as you can.”
Griselda was mortified by the cool carelessness of this speech.
“Or perhaps you would prefer to live at Hanstead,” he went on, pouring them both a glass of Madeira. “That is my mother’s house at present, but if you prefer it – ”
“No, no, I have no wish to change anything.”
“That is just as well. My mother detests the very idea of the dower house.”
She took the wine he offered to her – she felt she needed it. She went to look out of the window at the park. A large expanse of well-tended green turf stretched out in front of her, edged all about with sheltering plantations of trees. It was dusk and she could sense the cool decay of autumn in the air.
She glanced back at Thorpe. He was on the floor by the fire, making a fuss of his dogs – two pepper and salt wolf hounds who had made her no friendly overtures. Their eyes were only for their master. She wished she could have said the same for the servants. Their surprise, their curiosity and in some cases their disapproval had been all too obvious as they stood lined up in the marble-floored entrance hall waiting to pay their respects to their new mistress. Dressed in her old brown habit, Griselda had not been a worthy object and she had no doubt what the topic of conversation over the small beer in the servant's hall would be that night.
She wondered what this moment would have been like if Caroline had arrived there as the expected bride. There would have been church bells ringing and the tenants invited to dance in the evening. There would have been new bride clothes and bride cake, flowers and favours. And Thorpe would have been happy, she supposed, and wondered why she cared about his happiness so much. He did not look particularly happy now, for all that he was at home and playing with his dogs on the floor.
“I shall have to get some clothes,” she said. “We will have to pay our respects.”
“If the neighbours think fit to receive us,” he remarked. “We had better find you a good saddle horse too. The roads around here in winter are no good for carriages.”
“Thank you,” Griselda said, stung by his tone of indifference, “but I dare say I shall be breeding before too long, and it is never advisable to ride then.” He glanced up at her. “Well, that is the usual result of marriage, is it not?” she went on. “You are my husband now and it is my duty to submit to you when you wish it.”
She had meant to be provocative and she saw that she had succeeded. He took some moments to answer her, getting up from the dogs, and draining his glass before he did.
“If that is what you wish to think of me, ma’am, then think it,” he said quietly, looking over his letters.
She bit her lip and turned back to the window. The grey light was dissolving the parkland before her eyes, and her breath clouded the glass of the window as she stood there. She wished that she herself might vanish, somewhere in that gloomy distance, and not have to stand there feeling so acutely the reality of this situation, which was as painfully tangible to her as her injured ankle.
“The apothecary said you should not stand too long on that ankle,” he said breaking the silence. “You should sit down.”
There was a generous and comfortable-looking armchair by the fire. Presumably it was his favourite chair, for one of the dogs lay nearby. It looked inviting, and her ankle was still very sore, but she hesitated.
“Which will be my ordinary sitting room?” she said. She felt sure that this was his private domain and that she would not be tolerated there long. It was best to find her own space at once.
“You may choose which ever room you please,” he said. “There is a prettyish sort of room at the end of this range that my grandmother used to sit in. It gets the sun most of the day and there is a good prospect of the gardens. It might suit you but you will want new hangings and furniture, I am sure. But come and sit by the fire now. That room is not ready for you and I will not have you ruin your ankle for good.”
He took her arm and brought her to the fireside. He insisted she put her foot up on a stool, and refilled her glass with wine. She did not, could not, object. It was done civilly; why should she expect more of him?
He returned to his silent study of his letters and Griselda imagined how he might have sat here with Caroline, having a lively domestic conference, discussing chintzes and work tables. He would have been anxious to show her that this place was her home and more than eager to show the neighbourhood what a fine woman he had got for his bride. Instead he had an object of shame, a constant reminder of his own folly, to be borne dutifully.
The butler came in.
“The Rector and Mrs Austin are downstairs, sir,” he said. “Will you receive them?”
“Send them up, Manton,” said Tom. He glanced at the ceiling, and muttered, “News travels fast in this neighbourhood.”
“You must forgive us, Sir Thomas,” said the Reverend Austin, as he came into the room. “We were driving home when we saw the lights and guessed you had returned. We could not resist the impulse to pay our respects.”
“That is fortunate, sir,” said Thorpe. “For it means I have the pleasure of making my wife known to you and Mrs Austin.”
“Your wife?” said the clergyman, unable to conceal his surprise for a moment, but then quickly recovering himself. He turned to Griselda and bowed. “My lady, you cannot conceive the pleasure this news brings us – all the more so, by being unheralded.”
It was well said, and Griselda felt she must instantly like him.
“Do you hear this, Anne, dearest?” said Mr Austin to his wife.
“Of course my dear,” said Mrs Austin, a pretty, well dressed woman in middle age. “Sir Thomas, Lady Thorpe, I wish you every joy.”
The compliments were paid, the wine was poured and the guests were seated round the fire.
“I had a suspicion of this, of course, Sir Thomas,” said Mr Austin, “when you were here for the harvest and ate your mutton with us last. You had a matrimonial air about you then, I think.”
Griselda realised he mu
st have hinted to Mr Austin about Caroline and found herself flushing.
“Indeed, that was my object in going into Norfolk,” said Thorpe
“Are you from Norfolk, then, Lady Thorpe?” asked Mrs Austin.
“No, I am from Perthshire.”
“A Scotswoman, but of course!” said Mr Austin. “Your husband – well, I hardly need tell you this – has an inclination for all things Scottish. At one time, he was all set to spend a year in Edinburgh studying at the university, and he tells me that there are no poets in England of genius any more, only in Scotland. Sir Walter Scott and that ploughman Burns get all his praise. So he has brought the native air to his own fireside. That is very well done.” The Rector finished with a friendly twinkle at Griselda which she had to answer with a smile. But she hated herself, knowing that she would be deceiving such decent people into thinking that this was a love match.
“Will you be attending the Assembly at Stamford this coming Saturday?” Mrs Austin enquired. “It is the first of the season.”
“We had not really considered it,” said Thorpe.
“The whole county will be disappointed if you do not,” said Mrs Austin. “But perhaps you believe in the new fashion that newlyweds should not show themselves to anyone for at least a month.”
“For my part I find that a sad custom,” said the Rector. “Nothing pleases me better than to see a new husband, squiring his wife to church the first Sunday – she in all her magnificence and he in a new coat – at the very least.”
“Then we will try not to disappoint you, Mr Austin,” said Griselda wondering where she could get some decent clothes at such short notice.
“No indeed,” said Tom, a little dryly. “And Mr Austin will be pleased with me for once, for I am not as frequent at church as perhaps I should be. And I will satisfy Mrs Austin by bringing Lady Thorpe to the assembly – though I do not know if she will be able to dance yet. Perhaps you will do us the honour of accompanying us?”
“We should be delighted,” said Mrs Austin, rising. “Now, come Mr Austin, we must drive home before we lose the light – and we must not impose on these weary travellers any longer.”
“Will you dine with us tomorrow?” Griselda asked, sure that Thorpe would be as glad as she would be for some other company at the dinner table.
They agreed and left.
“That was well done,” remarked Thorpe. “They will give you a good report throughout the district.”
“Because they are the sort of people who never think ill of anyone,” said Griselda. She stirred in her seat, her ankle suddenly throbbing, and she could not help wincing.
“Might it be possible to have a bath?” she asked.
“I have already ordered one for you,” he said.
***
The bath stood ready in her dressing room, in front of a hot, clear fire. Griselda had never had her own dressing room before, nor a bedroom so grand as the chamber next to it. The style was decidedly elegant and luxurious – colourful Chinese papers covered the walls and the large bed was hung with moss-green silk damask. The dressing room, moderately sized and neatly furnished, answered perfectly to its purpose, and the copper tub had been lined with a linen cloth. The air was full of sweetly scented steam – the expensive scent of oil of orange, as Griselda identified it as she sank into the deep, warm water.
Baths at Glenmorval had never been as pleasant as this. There, the cost of every candle and stick of wood had to be worried over. Here at Priorscote, that did not matter. There were candles in all the sconces and fires in every grate. It seemed like extravagance to Griselda who did not feel she deserved any of it. Around her on the walls in the glowing pale gold candle light, Chinese birds flew and exotic flowers blossomed, while closed shutters and heavy curtains kept out the blustery September evening. It made her feel a little giddy, as if she had taken an opiate, and it was with some struggle that she got out of the bath. She wrapped herself in a large towel and sat on the rug by the fire, too tired to bother drying herself. The quietly-spoken, efficient maid who had been sent to attend her had put her body linen out to air on a rack by the fire. Fortunately it was decent, culled from her new step-mother’s extensive supply of such garments and Griselda felt she would not need to be ashamed of it when the maid returned to help her into her gown.
But when she put them on, she decided that decent was not quite the word for it. The shift was made of almost transparent lawn, with a cobweb lace trimming, the stockings were pale violet-blue silk and the ribbon garters a deep purple, embroidered with scrolls. She caught sight of herself in the long dressing glass that stood in the corner and was surprised to see how little the thin material concealed her body. They were seductive clothes, the clothes of a bride chosen to delight a new husband. She turned away from the glass, suppressing the longing that overtook her, trying not to be aware of the gentle but exciting caress of fine cloth against her bare skin.
She sat down and tried to compose herself but she could not resist letting her hand stray to her bodice. Irresistibly, she stroked her nipple. Through the thin lawn it felt hard. She wanted to rip open her shift and let him feast on them, as he had that day at the inn. She slipped her hand down to her lap and could not resist gently touching the inside of her thighs.
The door opened. Hastily she folded her hands in her lap. It was Thorpe.
***
“Forgive me, I should have knocked,” Tom said. He wished to heaven that he had. To have come in on her like that, dressed only in her linen, looking so beautiful, desirable and vulnerable, made his whole body ache with longing. And she must have seen it or at least guessed at it, for in a moment, she was up and stumbling across the room, grabbing her old plaid, covering herself in it as soon as she could.
How he wanted her! Yes, he had married her to do his duty, but he could not deny the pride of possession, to know that this strange creature would now be always in his house, at his table, in his bed.
In his bed. She would not truly be his wife until he had had her but no matter what the law said about a husband’s rights over his wife, Tom could not conceive that any man could force such an issue. He might feel like a barbarian but he would strive not to behave like one. He would only take her if she came to him with the same willingness she had shown that day at the Abbey.
“I would prefer it if you were to do so in future,” she said, wrapping the plaid about her more tightly.
“Of course, ma’am, as you wish.”
“What did you want?” she asked after a moment.
“To say I have asked them to lay supper in your room. You probably do not want to sit downstairs tonight.”
That was his excuse. He knew that he had wanted to find her just as he had, in a state of dangerous undress. He had hoped as he climbed the stairs that she might suddenly soften towards him, perhaps forgive him, and that she might look at him as she had done at the inn when he handed her that cup of chocolate, with genuine desire unfettered by knowledge.
But she did not; she looked away from him. He had intruded on her. He was not welcome.
“Thank you, I am too tired,” she said and brushed a loose lock of hair away from her forehead. The action, so simple and so private, made him want to pull her into his arms and kiss her violently, but as he had no wish for her to add any more brutality to the catalogue of his sins, he looked away, and dug into his pocket.
“Here is that novel of Scott’s we spoke of the other day,” he remarked, taking it from his pocket and turning it in his hands. “Will you read it now? You will want some occupation.”
“Thank you,” she said, and opened the door to her bedroom and went in. The supper was set up on a table by the fire. It had been laid for two. That had not been his intention, but the servants were of course expecting them to occupy the same room. What newlyweds would not want to sup in splendid comfort before their bedroom fire?
She glanced at him.
“A mistake,” he said, from the dressing room doorway. “I will
eat downstairs.”
He followed her into the room and put down the copy of Waverley on the bed. She picked it up and studied it, absorbed in it for a moment or two. The plaid slipped as she did so, taking a little of her shift with her, revealing a white shoulder which Tom wanted desperately to kiss.
“Thank you,” she said, “it is nicely bound.”
“I have a man in Stamford who binds all my books for me,” he said. “You may order what you want in the way of books now,” he added. “And he will bind them for you just as you like.”
“It will be a great consolation. Indeed, I should not be ungrateful. My lot will be a very enviable one. And I will do my duty, sir, just as you would like.” The taunt stung him like a lash. He felt she was deliberately testing him and waiting to have it proved again that he was as bad as she believed him to be.
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