The Temptation of Torilla (12 page)

What she did not realise was that, however fashionable the gown she was wearing, there was in her face and eyes a spirituality which made her appear different and somehow apart from the other people in the room.

Because she was so slim and so graceful, she seemed almost to float rather than walk across the salon. Then as her eyes met the Marquis’s Torilla felt her heart behave in a very strange manner.

Quickly she looked away from him.

He did not speak to her or come near her all the evening, but seemed intent on making himself very pleasant to the guests who drank his and Beryl’s health.

They all proclaimed in fulsome tones the virtues of the engaged couple over and over again to anyone who would listen.

“It could not be a more suitable marriage,” Lady Clarke said to Torilla.

“Yes – indeed, ma’am,” Torilla agreed.

“And it must be your turn next,” Lady Clarke went on, who had known Torilla’s family when they lived in Hertfordshire.

She put her hand on Torilla’s shoulder as she said,

“I am sure you will find there are plenty of young men anxious to marry you and who will not be put off by the fact that you are from a Vicarage and have no dowry.”

She was an elderly woman and meant to be kind, but she made Torilla feel her own lack of position.

Despite the fact that she had known many of the guests in the past, Torilla was glad when the evening was over.

They had departed, still expressing their delight at the engagement, and promising that all sorts of expensive presents would be delivered to The Hall in the near future.

“They are a lot of old hypocrites!” Beryl said when the last one left. “If I was not marrying Gallen, I doubt if I should get anything better than a silver toast rack!”

“They are all very fond of you, dearest,” Torilla said.

“Nonsense!” Beryl retorted. “They have never ceased expressing their disapproval of me ever since I grew up. It is only now that I am on the way to becoming eminently respectable that they have found that they always admired my outrageous behaviour!”

Torilla thought that one of the most endearing things about Beryl was that she could laugh at herself.

“Well, thank goodness that is over!” the Earl said coming into the salon, “and when you get to London, Beryl, make it clear to your mother that I have no intention of putting up with any more junketing until the actual day of the wedding.”

“I am sure Mama will be very disappointed if you refuse to escort us to the parties that are being given in my honour,” Beryl replied.

“I will turn up in time to shake hands with all the fools who have nothing better to do than stuff themselves into St. George’s, Hanover Square to see you married – otherwise I am staying here with my horses and my dogs.”

“I think that makes a lot of sense, Papa,” Beryl said. “You know how unhappy you are among the
Beau Ton.”

She kissed her father and added,

“Tell Gallen when he comes in that I have gone to bed.”

“Where is the Marquis?” Torilla asked curiously.

“I expect he is walking in the garden, feeling romantic all by himself, but I have no intention of joining him – I am far too tired.”

She linked her arm through Torilla’s.

“It is going to be amusing when we get to London. Gallen told me tonight that he is not joining us for a few days, so you will be able to meet Lord Newall. I am longing to hear what you think about him.”

“Oh, Beryl, is that wise?”

“It may not be wise, but it is a lot of fun!” Beryl replied. “And don’t try to stop me, Saint Torilla. Every woman is entitled to a last fling before her wedding day.”

She kissed her cousin and whisked off into her own bedroom before Torilla could reply.

Torilla lay awake for a long time thinking over the day and remembering with a sense of embarrassment all that she had said to the Marquis.

Could he be thinking over what she had told him, she wondered, while he walked around the garden alone?

She wished now that, once having started to speak of the mine, she had talked to him quietly and earnestly, explaining the horrors of what was happening rather than raging at him accusingly.

‘Perhaps that was my chance to ask him to make a few reforms,’ she thought, ‘and I made a mess of it.’

She felt the tears come into her eyes and gradually begin to run down her cheeks.

It all seemed such an inexpressible mix-up – the manner in which she had become involved with the Marquis and the worry she felt about Beryl marrying without love.

And most of all, although she tried not to think of it, the wonder of his kiss which she had treasured deep in her heart but which was now spoilt and besmirched because it had been –
wrong
.

*

London was, Torilla thought, even more fantastic than she had expected.

Her Aunt Louise had greeted them in characteristic style by telling Beryl sharply that she should have been there earlier and hoping that Torilla intended to help rather than hinder her cousin.

It was just like the old days, Torilla thought, with her aunt breaking up their games because it was time for bed, or punishing them for quite inoffensive actions and ignoring completely those that were far more reprehensible.

The Countess of Fernleigh was different in every way from her younger sister Elizabeth.

Sometimes Torilla wondered if the reason she was often so sharp and even at times disagreeable was that she was not as happy in her marriage as her sister had been.

It was painfully obvious that the Earl and Countess did not get on together and they were, both of them, content to live most of the year apart.

The Countess, who was still extremely good-looking, had a large number of admirers who were always ready to squire her in her husband’s absence.

As the Earl was completely content, as he put it, with his horses and dogs they both lived the lives they wanted, which did not include each other’s company.

‘Perhaps all women need the protection of a husband,’ Torilla thought, but it was obvious that the Countess thought in many ways she was misused.

“I suppose your father, as usual, is going to do nothing about the wedding, and leave everything to me,” she said sharply soon after Beryl and Torilla arrived at Fernleigh House in Curzon Street.

“You know what Papa is like, Mama,” Beryl replied.

“I do indeed,” the Countess said acidly, “and I only hope he is prepared to meet the bills without making too much fuss about them.”

“I am sure he will do that, especially if we don’t ask him to do anything else except to write his name on the cheques.”

“As long as he does that I suppose I must accept the inevitable,” the Countess remarked. “The first thing we must do tomorrow is choose your gown and, I suppose, Torilla’s.”

“It is very kind of you, Aunt Louise,” Torilla said humbly.

“I cannot think why Beryl wants you to be her only bridesmaid,” the Countess said in the tone of one who is determined to find fault. “I should have thought a retinue of at least ten would have been very effective.”

“I wish on my wedding day to be alone in my glory,” Beryl said positively, “with, of course, the exception of Torilla. She can hold my bouquet, while a lot of gawky girls clumped behind me would spoil the whole effect.”

“I see your point,” the Countess agreed reflectively. “Is the Marquis sending the flowers for the Church from The Castle?”

“I have not the slightest idea,” Beryl answered. “I leave those details to you, Mama.”

“As I might have expected – I have to organise everything,” the Countess moaned. “What you would do without me I cannot think.”

Beryl threw out her hands.

“If you want me to say there would be a complete muddle, all right, Mama, I have said it!”

“You wait until you have to do everything yourself,” the Countess said warningly, “you will then appreciate my difficulties for a change.”

“You love every moment of it, Mama!” Beryl retorted. “You know quite well that, if Torilla or I tried to interfere, we should soon be put outside the front door.”

She laughed and added,

“Arrange everything your own way and don’t forget you have to twist the Prince Regent around your little finger.”

“I can do that when it comes to ceremonial occasions,” the Countess said smugly. “His Royal Highness always says he likes my quite professional powers of organisation – which is more than can be said for that fatuous Lady Hertford.”

“He loves her, Mama.”

“God knows why,” the Countess muttered.

She flounced out of the room and Beryl laughed as she said to Torilla,

“Poor Mama! She set her cap at the Prince Regent at one time, but she was a little too young for him and much too thin. He likes fat, maternal, elderly women, and Mama did not qualify!”

When she saw the Prince Regent and met him the following night, Torilla could not imagine at first why anyone was interested in him as a man.

But she found when he talked to her that he had an aura of irresistible charm that made one forget that he was enormously fat, almost gross-looking, or that his face was heavily powdered and his stays creaked when he sat down.

“You are very pretty, my child,” he said to Torilla, “and like your cousin you will soon have the Beaux buzzing round you like bees round a honeypot.”

“I am afraid I can never compete with Beryl, Sire,” Torilla smiled.

“A very captivating young woman who has proved it by capturing the most captivating bachelor in captivity,” the Prince said.

He liked the play on words and Torilla heard him repeating the sentence several times during the evening.

Everyone was asking where the Marquis was, in fact his name seemed to be on everybody’s lips, and more than once Torilla heard in the crush at Carlton House remarks which made her apprehensive.

“The ‘incomparable’ does not know what she is taking on where Gallen is concerned!” one Beau with his back to Torilla announced.

“Gallen would need a regiment of ‘incomparables’ to keep him in order,” a woman replied.

There was loud laughter before someone said,

“Can you imagine Havingham shackled in Holy Matrimony? Though I imagine it will not be in the least holy!”

“Not if he has anything to do with it,” someone else quipped.

So Torilla moved out of hearing.

It hurt her to hear such things and she told herself that she was concerned only for Beryl.

She could not help remembering how the Marquis had saved her from the odious attentions of Sir Jocelyn or how kind he had been in looking after her until the last few minutes of their dinner together.

Even then he had done nothing to hurt or shock her.

She would not have been honest if she did not admit that she had been a willing accomplice to his sin, if that is what their kiss had been.

She had the inescapable feeling that, had she struggled or shown that she wished to be free of him, he would have let her go.

Instead she had surrendered herself completely and utterly to his lips and to the ecstasy that she knew, if he married a thousand times, she would still be unable to forget.

When it was time to leave Carlton House, the Countess said,

“There is no sign of Beryl.”

“I will find her, Aunt Louise,” Torilla offered.

“She knew we arranged to leave at two o’clock,” the Countess complained irritably. “It is just like Beryl to disappear when she is wanted. Look in the garden, Torilla – she is doubtless with some ardent swain and has forgotten the time.”

With a little difficulty, because Carlton House was large and complex to anyone who had never been there before, Torilla found her way through an open window onto the terrace, which overlooked the garden.

She stood against the stone balustrade searching in the shadows under the trees that were lit with Chinese lanterns for Beryl’s turquoise blue gown.

It was impossible to distinguish her among the many women perambulating about on the arm of some splendidly decorated gentleman.

‘I shall have to go and look for her properly,’ Torilla thought.

She walked along the terrace and found a flight of stone steps leading into the garden.

She went down them, looking to right and left, but there was no sign of her cousin.

Then, just as she was about to turn back, thinking that perhaps Beryl would be at her mother’s side by this time, she found what she sought.

At the very furthest end of the garden on the other side of a twisting artificial stream arranged with fairy lights there was a patch of turquoise.

Torilla could not see very clearly, but there was no doubt it was Beryl and she was clasped passionately in the arms of a tall man.

Torilla stood indecisive, wondering what to do.

It was quite impossible to think of interrupting them, but at the same time the Countess was waiting.

She stood looking at Beryl and now that her eyes were more accustomed to the darkness, she could see that because the man who was kissing her was so tall her cousin was standing on tiptoe.

Torilla had never before seen two people kissing each other passionately in an embrace that vaguely she realised had been symbolic of love between a man and a woman all down the ages.

There was a strange, emotional beauty about it and the mere fact that they were so close and oblivious of everything except each other made her feel a little strange.

It was what she had felt, she thought, when the Marquis had kissed her.

She could not help wondering if Beryl was feeling as she had done, as if she was being lifted off the ground out of the world into a place that was part of the Divine.

The man holding Beryl so closely raised his head and now Torilla heard him say hoarsely,

“I love you! God in Heaven – how I love you! I cannot live without you!”

“I am afraid you will have to,” Beryl answered him, “for I intend to marry Gallen.”

“How can you be so cruel? How can you torture me in such a manner? I swear I will kill myself!”

“And what good would that do?” Beryl enquired. “I shall not be able to join you in hell, if that is where suicides go, for at least another forty or fifty years!”