Reckless Griselda (17 page)

“Sir Thomas Thorpe at your service,” said Thorpe.

“At my service – I think not! You’re stealing my damned daughter!”

“No-one is stealing me, Papa,” said Griselda, as implacably as she could. “I should never allow that.”

“But you’re marrying him in the morning, you little harlot!” he cried. “And I’ll be bound you have to. Eh?”

“You may think what you like, Papa,” said Griselda, pulling her plaid around her, aware that her shift was falling from her shoulders again. “If you think me capable of such behaviour, then think it. My conscience is clear.”

“I do think it, you impudent little madam,” he said. “Sitting there in your sark! So this is why you ran away. I knew there was a man in the press somewhere.”

“Georgie, Georgie, what is all this commotion? You will raise the whole house!”

The new Lady Farquarson was coming along the landing carrying a candle.

“I’ve found her, Maggie! I’ve found that disobedient chit I’m ashamed to call my daughter.”

“Miss Grizzy, oh?” said Lady Farquarson bustling in. Dressed in the simplicity of her night-gown, cap and shawl, she looked a great deal less repulsively fashionable. “Good evening to you. Well! I dare say you are as surprised to see us as we are to see you.”

It was civilly said, and Griselda was surprised.

“I knew you were coming to Cromer,” she managed to say and added, “My Lady.”

“I shall never get used to that. Now, Georgie what is all this to-do about?”

“Can you not see, my dear – she is eloping with this fellow.”

“She does not look exactly in the condition for houghmagandie,” said Lady Farquarson calmly. “What did you do to your ankle?”

“I had a fall.”

“More than a fall, I’ll warrant,” said Sir George. “Now explain yourself, sir,” he said, turning to Thorpe. “Do you deny that you are getting married tomorrow?”

“No. And it will be to your daughter. I cannot deny it.”

“And what makes you think you can dispense with the common courtesy of asking her father’s permission? And that the marriage should be conducted in such a damnable underhand fashion not at all appropriate to a daughter of Farquarson of Glenmorval? What makes you so insolent to her, my lad, if you’ve not ruined her already? There’s a guilty look in your eye, if I’m not mistaken. What was your name again?”

“Sir Thomas Thorpe,” said Griselda.

“And who might Sir Thomas Thorpe be that I am to believe him to be a gentleman worthy of my daughter? What do you have to your name, sir?”

“That would not be Thorpe of Priorscote?” said Lady Farquarson suddenly.

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, you’ve no need to fret on that score, Georgie,” said Lady Farquarson. “My second cousin Jeanie is married to his old tutor, I think. You remember, Georgie, that sleekit wee curate she picked up for hersel’ at Bath? Mr Clarke. He was full of boasts about having been in the service of Sir Francis Thorpe.”

“So that is what became of him?” said Thorpe. “No disrespect to your cousin, ma’am, but he was an odious piece of work. “

“And I dare say you deserved all the floggings he gave you,” said Sir George. “For it seems you are a sad rake now.”

“Now, come now, Georgie, dina’ take on so,” said Lady Farquarson. “It’s not as if she’s going to marry a pauper in the morning. She couldna have helped herself to a better man if you’d been pushing and shoving her. She’ll be a leddyship in her own right, and since you have nothing to bring to the match, you should count yourself blessed at getting such a good bargain as Sir Thomas Thorpe. For he has long pockets to match his long legs.”

“But the manner of it, Maggie, the manner of it!” he complained. “It’s a disgrace.”

“Well, we shall make it less so, then,” said Lady Farquarson. “You can give her away yourself in the morning. What could be more respectable than that? And if you are not too much in your cups, you can draw up a settlement between each other and get yon landlord to witness it. You may give her that five thousand we decided on for her with my blessing, Georgie. I hate to see the girl go empty-handed.”

“Five thousand pounds, Maggie, are you mad?”

“Maybe, Georgie, but she’s your only daughter and I should like to do something handsome for her. Will you let me, dearie?” she said, turning to Griselda. “I know you think I’m a vulgar old wife, but I must love my husband’s people as my own.”

“You love him, Mrs Skene?” Griselda found herself asking.

“Of course, my dear! Do you think I’d have married such a rackety old fool if I didn’t?”

“Oh, then I’m sorry, so sorry. I thought…” Griselda broke off and stared at her fingers.

“Now, now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is we have a wedding to make tomorrow. Come now, George, let the man bid his lady goodnight in private.”

And she took her husband’s arm and steered him from the room.

“Don’t be too long now, Sir Tam,” she called out as the door closed behind them.

“And you ran away to stop him marrying her?” said Thorpe incredulously.

“She seemed different then,” said Griselda. “Extremely vulgar. And I felt sure they were only marrying for mercenary reasons.”

“If that’s vulgarity, then I don’t care to be noble!” said Tom. “That is a damned fine woman. To give you five thousand pounds in these circumstances – well, she’s nearly a saint.”

“I wish she would give me the five thousand if I didn’t marry you,” said Griselda hotly.

“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “You can’t run away from this. Once your father and I have signed a settlement, there’ll be no backing out of it.”

“Oh yes, and what if I tell him about Caroline and Lady Mary?”

“That won’t matter once the ceremony’s over. If my lords Amberleigh and Wansford choose to sue, they may. And if I lose and have to pay damages at least I will know I’ve done my duty by you.”

“So you are sure you will lose?”

“I did ask Miss Rufford to marry me, yes. I deserve to pay for that. But I cannot leave you to ruin your life, Griselda Farquarson. I do not care if people think I am a man who breaks his word. Better that you are safe.”

“This is not what I want!” she protested. “And I do not believe it is what you want.”

“We cannot always have what we want,” he said. “That is a fact of life.” And he lifted the latch and left her.

“You’re no’ going to wear that?” said Lady Farquarson. She had sent her maid to help Griselda to dress and then, unable to resist it, had come in to see how her toilette had progressed. “You cannot wed in an old habit. It would be bad luck. Now then, Susan, go and fetch my velvet pelisse and hat – and that tussore gown that Mrs Preece made too long in the skirt – it was well lucky she did, though I was terrible cross with her for it. We shall see you decent to church yet, Miss Grizzy.”

Sitting on the hard chair in the middle of the room, dressed in her underclothing, Griselda was making a half-hearted effort to comb her hair.

“You look white as a sheet, my dear. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I tell you.” Lady Farquarson gently took the comb from her hand and delicately started to disengage the tangles. “Oh, your father was wrong. You’ve no need to be dashing to the altar, I can see that in a glance. Sir Tam’ll be getting the best of you tonight, will he not?”

“You are very kind to think so well of me,” Griselda said, desperately trying to suppress the sob that was rising in her throat. “I do not want to marry him. And he does not want to marry me.”

“And what makes you think that?” she said.

“Because he does not love me,” said Griselda. “He is only marrying me to save me from ruining myself.”

“That sounds like love to me,” said Lady Farquarson. “But who am I to say? I don’t have your book learning, Miss Grizzy.”

“It is not love,” said Griselda, looking at her reflection in the blackened looking-glass that stood on the table in front of her.

“And you know what love is?” said Lady Farquarson.

“No, that is the trouble.”

“Well, if you’ll take the advice of a daft old woman, I would say that you could do worse for yourself than marry him. He’s a braw fellow with a good heart and he’s willing to wed. If he does not love you now, he will love you when you are brought to bed with a boy to take his name. That is the way of the world. It’s not what you call romantic, but it works.”

Griselda shivered. She had sometimes wondered what the morning of her wedding might be like, for, despite all her bravado, she had thought of marriage as all girls do. She had never allowed herself to think that she would not marry for love, but it seemed she was about to do exactly that. She was about to catch herself a baronet and all the wealth and consequence that went with it. She would be Lady Thorpe and a girl who had made a heartless, mercenary marriage to save her skin. Lady Mary and dear Caroline, who had much better claims on him, would be brusquely pushed aside. She had, by her conduct, inadvertently won a race which she had never meant to enter – the matrimonial sweepstakes. And she had done it by cheating, by behaving as a decent person should never behave. A heartless, scheming drawing-room miss could not have done better.

“No, I cannot do it, I cannot,” she said.

“You must. He’ll be disappointed,” said Lady Farquarson. “And your father will be, too. He’s quite come around to the idea of his daughter being married to a man with forty thousand a year.”

“Forty thousand?” said Griselda. Her throat went dry. “I thought he had some property, but…”

“Did you not know it was that much?” said Lady Farquarson, shaking her head and smiling. “You’re a very lucky lass. Ah, Susan, here you are. Now, do you think we can turn out Miss Grizzy in a bit of style with these? She’s having an attack of the nerves and she needs to feel as handsome as she can for her man.”

“You’re plenty handsome already, Miss Grizzy,” said Susan. “And what is there to be nervous of? That Sir Tam, I’d take him myself in a flash, he’s that bonny.”

“He’s no for the likes of you, Susan, you cheeky quean,” said Lady Farquarson, holding the russet velvet pelisse against Griselda. “There, I thought that colour would suit. Brings out the green of your eyes.”

***

“Griselda Anna, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour and keep him, in sickness in health; and forsaking all other, keep only unto him, as long as you both shall live?”

The church was enormous given the size of the village, and the tiny wedding party was lost in it. But the Reverend Dr Samuel Hopkins was used to its grandiose scale and he read the service loudly to a large but invisible congregation. To be standing near him at the chancel steps was to be deafened. Because of her ankle Griselda had been permitted to sit on a stool, and felt that the question, which should have been directed at her, was in fact directed at the funerary monuments that littered the east end of the church. She half expected some other Griselda to shout back “I do”, or rather she hoped for it, for her own voice seemed locked in her throat. She did not believe she could get the words out.

Thorpe’s “I will” had been quiet but firm. He had sounded grave and suitably repentant, his head bowed so that he should not be taller than the clergyman. Now it was her turn.

She was looking down at her gloved hands, holding the one in the other so that she should not be seen to be shaking. The bonnet that Lady Farquarson had lent her had a large brim and she could not properly see Thorpe’s expression because of it. But she could sense him, sense his masculine strength, sense the perfection of that long, lean body, sense all that had first drawn her to him and which had made her throw caution to the wind.

Obey him, serve him, love, honour and keep him? The words echoed in her head. Could she honestly undertake all that? So much to promise when she knew so little of him, and worse still when she knew so little of herself.

“Miss Farquarson?” the clergyman prompted her.

She could hear her father fidgeting with impatience beside her. She really did not have any choice. She might be with child, just as Thorpe feared. She had no right to do that to a child, no matter what her scruples. She would just have to try her utmost to keep that promise.

“I will,” she said.

Her father sighed audibly with relief.

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” asked Dr Hopkins.

“I do,” said Sir George, with enthusiasm. He grabbed her hand and extended it to Dr Hopkins. He then offered it to Thorpe. Thorpe stood for a moment holding her hand as if it were a pump handle, still facing the clergyman. Then, unexpectedly, he turned and half knelt beside her, so his face was level with hers. And he looked into her eyes, with such solemn intensity that Griselda felt herself shake.

“I, Thomas Francis, take thee Griselda Anna to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”