Reckless Griselda (16 page)

“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 sake, 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.”

“And end up on the streets as a common harlot, no doubt,” he retorted.

“And never trouble your conscience overmuch, I dare say. No, it is only because I am the daughter of Farquarson of Glenmorval that you feel obliged to marry me. You would not want to marry me if I were a servant you had seduced, would you?”

That had hit home. She could see the discomfort in his face. He turned away from her and picked up his hat.

“I am going to find the parson,” he said and left.

***

“Tell me, Sir Thomas,” said the Reverend Dr Hopkins. “Do you love this young woman?”

The chair in Dr Hopkins’ study was suitably hard. There was no fire and he had not been offered a glass of wine. Tom felt like a schoolboy again. The Rector, an upright, dignified gentleman of sixty, had the sort of eyes to scourge even the most unblemished conscience.

“What is love?” he responded. “To tell you the truth, sir, I don’t know. But that is hardly the issue here. I have done wrong and I must repair that wrong. You can’t think I should not marry her?”

“No. It is your only course. I am speaking out of concern for the young woman. She will undoubtedly be in love with you.”

“I do not think so,” said Tom. “She is not at all willing.”

“Then how will you get her to church?” said Dr Hopkins, taking up his pen.

“She will come to her senses – I hope,” said Tom.

“Marriages may exist without love – good marriages,” said Dr Hopkins. “But where there is acrimony and resentment there can be no happiness. For the sake of your future, I hope you may find sufficient charity and affection for this young person.”

“I will,” said Tom meaning it.

“There is a danger in these cases – and you will not mind me speaking plainly, Sir Thomas, I am sure, for I sense you are truly repentant – when a marriage is forced through seduction, that the husband may end up resenting his wife and as a result reverts to the path of the libertine. Can you promise me you will strive to be faithful to her and not break the sacred promises that you will make before God?”

“I will do my utmost, sir,” Tom said.

“Then I will marry you tomorrow,” said Dr Hopkins, and began to write out the licence.

He returned to the Blue Bell with the licence in his pocket, not feeling the least like a bridegroom savouring his last night of freedom. He was tired and in need of a glass of brandy. He decided to postpone going upstairs and tussling with the future Lady Thorpe. He found her barbs too painful and too well aimed and he had not the strength to defend himself. So he settled himself by the fire in the common parlour, hoping that she would come to her senses and see that this was the only course open to them.

“Will you drink a glass with me, sir?”

He looked up from his study of the fire, hardly in the mood for the customary sociability of an inn parlour.

“Thank you, sir, but I am poor company tonight,” he said.

The gentleman who addressed him was very tall, and extremely smartly dressed in a well-cut drab riding coat and a splendid striped waistcoat. He had long, white straggling hair swept back from his forehead and the sort of face that would not have disgraced the marble bust of a Roman patrician.

“Then let me stir you from melancholy,” said the gentleman. He sounded quite intoxicated, but not disagreeably so. “For I can’t bear to see a young man in his prime, brooding like an auld wifie by the fire. Come sir, take a glass of usquebaugh with me.”

“You have the wisdom of age, perhaps,” Tom said, indicating the empty chair.

“A pretty compliment,” said the gentleman, sitting down opposite him. “And you will find the usquebaugh far better than your French brandy for your temper.”

“I have never tried it,” said Tom.

This made the gentleman twinkle with pleasure.

“You Englishman have no conception how to live,” he said, pouring out two generous measures from the bottle he had brought in. “Now see what you think of that.”

“Your very good health,” said Tom and downed the whisky in one gulp. It was certainly very different from brandy. It was rough, fierce and undeniably stimulating. A little like Griselda Farquarson, he thought, as he relished the burning taste it left in his mouth.

“Splendid,” said the gentleman and drank his own. “Now another. To the ladies,” he said, pouring out two more measures. “God bless ‘em.”

“The ladies,” said Tom, smiling wryly at that.

“Another,” said the gentleman the moment the glasses were down on the table. Tom did not protest as the glasses were filled again. “Your toast sir?”

“You are my host,” said Tom.

“Then let us drink to matrimony!”

Tom stared.

“Matrimony?” he said. How did the fellow know?

“Aye, that blessed state. Are you married, lad?”

“No, not yet,” said Tom with relief. “But soon. Very soon. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”

“Tomorrow?” said the gentleman. “Well I’m be damned. And sitting here with such a long face. I cannot credit it. Is she not pretty?”

“No, not precisely,” said Tom. She was more than that. Pretty was too bland a word for Griselda.

“Is she wealthy, then?”

“No, not exactly.” In fact, he realised he had not a clue whether her worldly goods extended to anything more than those old breeches.

“Then she’s trapped you, then?”

“No, far from it.”

“A strange marriage then, if you don’t mind my saying, lad.”

“Not at all. It is.”

“Well, I wish you joy of your lady, sir. For I am recently married myself and I can heartily recommend it.”

“Congratulations,” said Tom raising his glass.

“It is paradise,” said the gentleman. “I am in my second childhood. She is as bonny and bawdy a creature as a man could desire and more. She’s twenty thousand a year as well, but that’s by the by. I’d have married her if she only had her sark to stand up in.”

“Her sark?” said Tom.

“Her shift, man,” said the gentleman with a wink. “And very fine she looks in it too.”

“I am sure,” said Tom. “My compliments to Mrs…?”

“Lady Farquarson,” said the gentleman.

Tom dropped his glass.

***

Without meaning to, Griselda had fallen asleep again when he came bursting into the room.

“Wake up!” he said, shaking her.

“I’ve woken up, thank you!” she said. “What is it?”

“I’ve just met your father,” he said.

He stank of whisky.

“You’re drunk,” she said. “And certainly mistaken.”

“No. Not at all, I’m afraid. I’ve just been drinking toasts with him. No mistake. I wish there were, but…”

“I don’t believe this,” said Griselda. “What on earth is he doing here?”

“He’s on his wedding journey, apparently. Sailed to Yarmouth from Leith.”

“No,” said Griselda, shaking her head. “No, it cannot be.” She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “And that woman, of all people.”

“So what do we do?” he said.

“What do we do?” she said, looking at him with incredulity. “You are the one making all the decisions. I haven’t the least idea what we should do.”

“Fortunately he does not know who I am,” he said. “I only just managed to get away. He was intent on ordering another bottle of whisky to celebrate my forthcoming marriage.”

“You told him you were getting married?”

“Yes, but not to you.”

“That’s just as well, because I shall not be marrying you even if you have got your precious licence.”

“Oh, I think you will,” he said. “If he finds you here – ”

“There’s no reason why he should, is there? We shall just have to sit tight until they leave for Cromer in the morning.”

Just then there came the sound of footsteps on the landing, accompanied by a very familiar voice, saying, “Where have you got to, young fellow? Come out and pay your compliments to Lady Farquarson. She’s no abed yet and she will want to wish a bridegroom good fortune.”

He began to rap on various doors. Griselda froze and stared at Thorpe.

“Quick, bolt the door!” she whispered.

But Thorpe was too slow. The door was flung open and Sir George marched in. Thorpe stood at the foot of the bed, trying, somewhat feebly to screen Griselda from view.

“Aha, so you’ve got your bride in here,” said Sir George, vastly amused. “Let’s have a look at you, Miss. There’s no need to be afraid. I’m a Scotsman – I take a liberal view of these things. If you are the bride…” And he burst out laughing and slapped Thorpe on the shoulder, before giving him a hearty shove.

“Good evening, Papa,” said Griselda, who decided she was not going to be caught looking guilty. “How delightful to see you.”

“The devil take my brain for squab stuffings!” exclaimed Sir George. Then his amazement turned to righteous indignation. “What are you about here, Griselda? And who, pray, are you, sir?”