Reckless Griselda (8 page)

“Damnation!” exclaimed Tom. “You must be mistaken, Gough.”

“How could I be mistaken, sir?” said Gough.

“Of course not,” said Tom, going to the window. “My God. What does she think she’s about?”

“What shall I do with them, sir?” said Gough.

“You had better clear the cloth,” said Farquarson calmly surveying the remains of their breakfast. “And you, Sir Thomas, had better put your coat on.”

Tom was grateful for this show of implacability and made himself respectable as Farquarson suggested, although he was not sure that Wansford merited any such deference.

In a matter of moments Lady Thorpe, Lord Wansford and Lady Mary Liston arrived.

“Who is this?” said Lady Thorpe indicating Farquarson.

Tom made the necessary introductions.

“Colonel, I’m enchanted,” said Lady Thorpe with languid indifference. She looked around the room. “Well, this is all very drab. I suppose you find this sort of place amusing. Mary dear, don’t skulk there, hiding yourself in the shadows. Come and show Thorpe your pretty new hat. Does she not look exquisite? She is quite grown an inch since you last saw her. And I declare there is no countenance in the world more pleasing.” Lady Mary, lost in the costly magnificence of clothes entirely unsuited to a girl of seventeen, came nervously forward, only to be propelled by Lady Thorpe almost into Tom’s arms. “Come sir, this is no way to greet your future wife. You need not stand on ceremony with us. Kiss her.”

“Ma’am, I should tell you that Colonel Farquarson is Miss Rufford’s cousin,” said Tom.

“Indeed?” said Lady Thorpe, not the least abashed. “That is fortunate. Is it not, Wansford?”

“Very,” said Lord Wansford who had picked up from a side table a fragment of medieval tile that Tom had found on one of his antiquarian expeditions. “Still scrabbling in the mud for trash, I see, my boy.”

There were few things in the world that annoyed Tom more than being addressed as “my boy” by Lord Wansford whom he heartily detested. His temper was not improved when Wansford threw the tile at the empty grate. Fortunately Farquarson caught it deftly and saved it from destruction.

“Mary will cure him of the silly habit, I dare say. Won’t you, my dear?” said Wansford, taking his ease in a chair.

“I don’t know, Papa,” said Lady Mary.

“Gough, bring me a glass of sherry, will you?” said Wansford. “And some ratafia for the ladies.” He furrowed his brow and studied the Colonel. “Farquarson. Where do I know that name from? Who’s your father?”

“Sir George Farquarson of Glenmorval,” said Farquarson.

“I believe we were at Harrow together,” said Wansford. “Mind you, there was quite a crop of threadbare Scotch gentry there at my time. But I do remember an exceptionally proud, long fellow with red hair like yours. So are you his heir?”

“I am, my lord.”

“Heir to what, I wonder? Does your roof leak? I have never stayed in a house in Scotland where one could consider oneself comfortable.” He glanced at his daughter. “Mary, will you not stand there like a piece of cattle. Go and sit down. Sit down with Thorpe on that sofa in the corner and make yourself agreeable to him, for he’s being a stubborn brute, and if we are not to persuade him to do his duty, I think you had better do it.”

“I would thank you sir,” said Tom, “and you, madam, not to confuse the Colonel as to my position.”

“Then I shall make it perfectly clear. My daughter and Thorpe are going to make a match of it,” said Wansford.

“We shall do no such thing!” exploded Tom.

“What did I say? – a stubborn brute. You should have let me thrash him more, my lady,” Wansford said to Lady Thorpe. “I might have been able to get his nonsense out of him, if you’d let me take him properly in hand when he was a boy.”

The miserable humiliation of those occasions when Lady Thorpe had permitted it, were still vivid in Tom’s memory and now brought him near to striking Lord Wansford.

Fortunately Farquarson spoke up, in the mildest tone imaginable. “My Lord, you’ll forgive me saying this, but you cannot force a grown man to marry your daughter. What threat can you possibly enact upon him to do it?”

“You may be a fine soldier,” said Wansford getting up. “But you haven’t much knowledge of the law – or of the particulars of the case. I shall sue him of course, for breach of promise. And I’ll win. I’ve documents to prove it.”

“Then they are fabrications,” said Tom. “I swear to you Farquarson, he is lying.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Lady Thorpe. “Come my dear Mary, let us go and see if this wretched town can offer us any thing remotely resembling a civilised accommodation.”

When they had gone Tom began to protest his innocence, but Farquarson cut him short.

“They travel as a party?” he said, watching the carriage leave from the window.

“Yes.”

“Your mother and Lord Wansford are very…” he hesitated.

“Oh, there’s no need to be delicate about it,” said Tom. “Yes, they’re lovers. They have been since I was a boy. They are an accepted couple in some circles. Wansford had a wife until about a year ago. I dare say they are only waiting for sufficient time to elapse before they marry.”

“And he expected you to submit to him like a stepson?”

“Exactly,” said Tom. “You may imagine how I detested that. The worst of it is that I think their attachment hastened my father’s death – and for that I can never forgive them. And the moment I reached my majority I was determined not to let Wansford rule me any longer. And he cannot forgive me for that.”

“Yet he wants you to marry his daughter. It would be an advantageous match for you.”

“Yes – more than advantageous. She is an only child and the estates are not entailed.”

“Good God,” said Farquarson. “That surprises me. So she gets everything?”

“Everything. She is an heiress sans pareil. I believe he does have some regard for my mother and this is his strange way of obliging her – by forcing Lady Mary and me to the altar. My mother would like nothing better. She hopes I might even be raised to the peerage as a result.”

“To the extent that they would fabricate documents?”

“I hope to God it has not gone so far.”

“No, I think that was said merely to frighten you – a whiff of grape shot,” said Farquarson.

“So Colonel, how do we counter-attack?” said Tom. “Assuming you think my position worth defending.”

“Well, considering you saved my life this morning, I do not have much choice but to reciprocate and help save your skin. Besides, it is abominable to use a child like that.”

“Yes, she’s the real victim of this. And since I shall not marry her, I dare say she will be hawked around town in an outrageous fashion next season and sold to the highest bidder.”

“Poor creature.”

“Perhaps you should offer for her, then. You are welcome to Wansford as a father in law. Better still, persuade her to elope with you,” he added with a grin.

“No thank you,” said Farquarson. “No offence to the lady, of course. She’s pretty but not in my style. She is too fair and pale for me. I like dark hair and dark eyes and a high complexion. That is what I have always admired – that and an elegant open manner with a great deal of playfulness in it.”

That was Caroline Rufford to the letter.

Caroline had dressed Griselda with sophisticated simplicity in white silk with an embroidered silver gauze slip, and sent her maid to attend to her hair and disguise the ravages of the scissors with a matching silver gauze scarf. Now feeling like a stranger to herself in such finery, Griselda sat alone at the pianoforte, diligently reminding herself of the tune of “Caro me bene” in case she was not able to escape performing that evening. The tune sounded more wistful and plaintive than usual as she laboriously picked out each note. She had just decided that she would refuse to play, when the door behind her opened and a servant announced, “Sir Thomas Thorpe.”

She got up and turned around, the apologies for her cousin and aunt all ready to fall from her lips. But then she completed the turn, faced the gentleman and saw exactly who the famous Sir Thomas Thorpe was.

It was her stranger – now every inch of him showing him to be the gentleman of birth and fortune she had guessed he might be. He was impeccable in the discreet elegance of his evening clothes; his black silk stockings and the subtle figure in an ivory waistcoat proclaimed his quality and position. She felt her own stupidity and shame flare up in her cheeks and she longed to walk straight out of the room.

For an instant she thought that he had not recognised her, but then she realised that shock had paralysed his features. He had come into the room with a bland polite expression and it had got stuck in the moment when they faced one another.

“You – you are Sir Thomas Thorpe?” she said, breaking the silence at last. “Well, sir, that is most interesting. You see, I know in what relation you stand to my cousin. I know that you offered your hand to her the day before you met me at the Abbey.” The words came tumbling out. She could not stop them. “Oh yes, I know a great deal about you now, Sir Thomas, probably a great deal too much! I even know that there is some doubt about whether you are actually free to offer for her. There has been talk of some previous attachment.”

She had hoped that saying this would dispel the dreadful sense of disappointment that was clouding over her. To confront exactly what he was and to be brave about it seemed the only way to deal with it, but each word gave her pain. She wanted so much for every word of it to be untrue. She did not want him to be Sir Thomas Thorpe. She wanted her angelic stranger back, not this man whom she had to judge and find sadly wanting. What had seemed glorious, was now tawdry. She did not know how she would look Caroline in the face.

“And you are Miss Farquarson of Glenmorval?” he ventured.

“Yes,” she said and then added with annoyance, “How do you know that?”

“I have met your brother. He told me you were here.” He grimaced as he spoke, pushing both his hands through his hair. “But how can you be her?” he added miserably.

“You would rather I was not Miss Farquarson, of course,” she said.

“Of course! Do you think I would have –”

“No!” she exclaimed. “No, if you had known who I was, you would not have presumed. You would have suppressed any natural feeling. Or perhaps you would not have felt anything at all. Maybe all my charm to you was that you believed I was not that sort of woman.”

“You are very unjust – to accuse me of exactly the thing you are guilty of yourself,” he responded angrily. “If you had known who I was, the result would have been exactly the same. You would not have dared to do what you did.”

“And you think I did not guess exactly what you were?” she said, with a certain amount of bravado. “Believe me, sir, there was very little mystery about you.”

“But you knew nothing of my circumstances or character,” he went on. “I might have been a married man, a practised libertine. I might have been anything.”

“Yes, and are not women always fools to trust men!” she said hotly. “I dare say men would never do anything wicked if women could only be persuaded never to trust them.”

“You refused to tell me who you were,” he said. “What was I to do? I trusted you.”

“You trusted only that I was not respectable,” she said vehemently. “And that is what makes all the difference to me.”

“Respectable women do not behave as you behaved,” he said quietly. “What was I to think? Oh, this is beyond belief. I cannot believe that you did it!”

“But you find nothing odd in your own conduct,” she said. “That is very interesting. Is there nothing odd about betraying the woman you have pledged to marry only the day before? Or does it not count as betrayal because you did not think I was respectable?”

“No, I bitterly regret my conduct,” he said. “I was wicked to indulge myself and I shall be punished the rest of my life for it, knowing that I have been the unthinking cause of your ruin.”

Griselda found herself staring at him. She had not thought of herself as ruined and it was not a description she cared for. There was too much glib judgement in it. She felt she meant no more to him than a piece of fruit he might take at dessert and then throw aside, half eaten.

“Do not waste too many penitent tears over me, sir,” she said as coolly as she could. “I dare say I am not worth the trouble of them. A woman’s virtue can never be redeemed, after all.”

“How can you treat this so lightly!” he exclaimed.

“Do you remember nothing of what you said to me?” she cried out in exasperation. “You called me a perfect child of nature. What do you expect of me now? Simpering conventional regret? Tears? I have never behaved like that in my life and I do not intend to do so now.”

“Good God, I should have known better! I should have seen what you were,” he said. “I do not know what I thought you were. But it should have been perfectly plain to me. Why did I allow myself to be…” He broke off and looked at her, just as he had done the day before, and then frowned, angry at himself. “I should have left you to get wet, Miss Farquarson. That is what I should have done!”