The Temptation of Torilla (16 page)

She was speaking in her frivolous voice, which made Torilla wince.

She knew that if she was in Beryl’s position at the moment she would have been desperate with anxiety.

Whether it was conventional or not, she would have been unable to prevent herself from grushng to the Marquis’s side.

Beryl rose from the sofa.

“I only hope that this does not mean that Gallen will cry off taking us to the Opera tonight. It is to be a very smart occasion and we are to be in the Prince Regent’s box.”

“We?” Torilla questioned.

“But of course – the invitation includes you, dearest. The Prince said some very flattering things about you to Mama and, after the Opera is over, we are all going to supper at Carlton House.”

Torilla turned her head to look at the letter she had been writing to her father.

“I – suppose, Beryl,” she said in a low voice, “you really – want me to stay with you for your wedding? I feel I ought to – return to look after Papa.”

Beryl gave a scream.

“Are you crazy? Of course you must stay for my wedding! You are my bridesmaid and I want you. You know full well there would be no fun for me if you are not here to laugh about everybody and seeing the amusing side of it all.”

With an effort Torilla replied,

“I will stay, if you really want me, dearest. It was – just a thought.”

“And a very foolish one,” Beryl said. “Now you are back in my life again I have no intention of losing you and if you raise more objections I shall write to your father myself.”

She smiled as she added,

“I shall point out to Uncle Augustus that Parsons are supposed to be unselfish and if he takes you away from me it will be very very selfish indeed!”

This was Beryl’s parting shot as she left the room.

Torilla put her hands up to her face.

She was still feeling rather faint from the shock of thinking that the Marquis might have been injured and it brought home to her very forcefully how much she loved him.

She had lain awake all last night after they left the ball, feeling one moment a strange, unearthly happiness because he had said he loved her and the next cast into the darkness of hell because she knew they could never be together and that Beryl stood between them like a flaming sword.

She could not believe that what she felt for the Marquis and he for her was wrong or wicked.

Love could never be that.

What they were feeling was sacred, but Torilla knew it would soil and defame what was Divine if they hurt Beryl and took their happiness at her expense.

She had been right when she told the Marquis she would not let him do anything that was dishonourable.

She knew enough of the world to be aware that, however reprehensibly the Marquis might have behaved where his love affairs were concerned, he had never done anything that broke the unwritten code expected of an honourable gentleman.

Just as he would never pull his horses on a Racecourse, cheat at cards or, like Sir Jocelyn, fire in a duel before the count of ten, so he could not refuse to marry Beryl, having once asked her to be his wife.

‘I love him for what he is and nothing I will ever do must spoil the standing of the man who is admired as a Corinthian and a sportsman,’ she said to herself.

When she thought of all he had done at Barrowfield because she had asked it of him, she thought that no man could have been more generous or open-minded.

He had not made excuses for his neglect of the pit in the past, he had condemned his own ignorance and made what retribution he could.

He had said that her father was satisfied and she knew that in that case the changed conditions at his pit would surpass all the others in South Yorkshire.

The Marquis did not go to the Opera that night on, Beryl was told, his doctor’s orders, but Torilla fancied that there was perhaps another more personal reason.

They both had to adjust themselves to what had been said in the privacy of the boudoir at the ball. It was going to be difficult to meet in public without revealing their feelings.

In the days that followed Torilla only saw the Marquis when a large number of other people were present and he made no attempt to speak to her alone.

Because they were so closely attuned to each other, she knew, even when she looked at him across a crowded room, that he was suffering.

He appeared to have grown thinner, the lines of cynicism on his face were sharply etched, but to Torilla they were lines of pain.

She learnt inadvertently from one of the grooms that the Marquis was riding his horses to the point of exhaustion.

She herself found it almost impossible to eat the rich meals she had enjoyed when she first came South, and, as the day of the wedding drew nearer, Beryl asked her anxiously,

“What are you doing to yourself, Torilla? You are so thin that my gowns are beginning to hang on you like a sack! If you go on like this, we will have to have your bridesmaid’s gown altered!”

“It fits very well,” Torilla protested and did not add that she had already had the waist taken in by two inches.

It was a very beautiful gown and she knew that she should be grateful to her aunt for giving it to her. But she felt almost as if it was a shroud that would cover her last glimpse of happiness.

She had already determined that when she went North after the wedding she would never return.

It would be impossible to see the Marquis without feeling, because Beryl was his wife, an irrepressible pang of jealousy, if not bitterness.

Every night Torilla prayed that she would feel neither of these things.

‘I love them both,’ she said to herself, ‘and I want them to be happy. Help me, God, to make my love overcome all other emotions. Help me! Help me!’

It was the cry of a frightened child and she was afraid because it was impossible not to feel her whole body and mind yearning for the Marquis.

She longed for him so desperately that at times it threatened her self-control.

Beryl had designed Torilla’s bridesmaid’s gown herself. It was of white satin, decorated around the hem with white roses that glittered with diamante as if they were little drops of dew.

There were roses in a wreath, which was very becoming on Torilla’s fair hair and she was to carry a bouquet of the same flowers.

Beryl came to the last fitting.

“You look absolutely lovely, dearest!” she exclaimed, “and almost like a bride yourself.”

“That’s true, my Lady,” the dressmaker chipped in. “I hope I shall be making a wedding gown for Miss Clifford in the very near future.”

“I think that is very likely,” Beryl smiled and Torilla knew she was thinking of Lord Arkley.

She wanted to repudiate such an idea, then she told herself there was no point in protesting and saying she had no intention of marrying Lord Arkley – or any other man for that matter.

She knew Beryl would not understand and she was quite certain her aunt, when she had time, was still intriguing on her behalf.

Fortunately the Countess was so engrossed with the innumerable arrangements involved in Beryl’s wedding that she had little time to worry about her niece.

But Torilla knew that it was at the back of her mind and she was determined as soon as the ceremony was over to return to Barrowfield where it would be impossible for her aunt to concern herself with her.

“I don’t think there is any more we can do to the gown,” said Beryl.

“No, your Ladyship. It’s finished and I’ll send it to Curzon Street tomorrow.”

“Thank you – and my gown as well.”

“Very good, your Ladyship.”

“Do you realise I have not yet seen your wedding dress?” Torilla piped up. “Do show it to me!”

Beryl shook her head.

“I am keeping it as a surprise. I have not allowed even Mama to look at it.”

“I thought Aunt Louise must have seen it.”

“No one has seen it,” Beryl answered, “have they, madame?”

The dressmaker shook her head.

“It’s going to be a very big surprise, my Lady, not only for your family, but all the other ladies who have been exceedingly curious as to what you’ll be wearing.”

Torilla looked rather apprehensively at her cousin.

She knew Beryl well enough to guess that she was ‘up to something’, and she could not help being curious as to what it might be.

The wedding was to be the last big event of the Season because after it was over the Prince Regent had announced that he was going to Brighton.

Already it appeared that there would not be a seat to spare at St. George’s Hanover Square and the Countess was growing more and more frantic as wedding presents poured in to Curzon Street and the Marquis’s house in Park Lane.

They all had to be listed so that later they could be properly acknowledged.

“If anyone thinks I am going to spend my honeymoon writing letters of thanks for this collection they are mistaken!” Beryl exclaimed.

She and Torilla were unpacking a dozen parcels, which had been delivered that morning.

“Some of the things are nice,” Torilla remarked.

“As far as I am concerned they are a lot of junk!” Beryl replied scathingly. “Look at this garnet brooch! Can you see me wearing garnets when Gallen has a collection of rubies worth a King’s ransom?”

“It was sent to you by an old lady who knew us when we were children,” Torilla said. “She says in her letter that it belonged to her great-grandmother and she has really made a great sacrifice in giving it to you.”

“I don’t want people to make sacrifices for me,” Beryl replied sharply.

She stood up from the floor where she had been sitting to open the parcels.

“Leave all this for the servants to clear up,” she pouted, “I am tired of presents.”

Torilla looked at her in surprise.

Beryl had been irritated and on edge for the past two days and had ceased to take any interest in the arrangements.

Torilla had a feeling that she was not happy.

“What is wrong, dearest?” she asked.

“Wrong? Why should there be anything wrong?” Beryl retorted.

Torilla told herself that she must be suffering from pre-wedding nerves or perhaps she was getting a cold.

“Let us put on our bonnets and go out for a little while,” Beryl suggested.

Torilla looked at the clock.

“It’s after four. Aunt Louise should be home soon.”

“Then that is all the more reason for getting away. I am sick of hearing about the size of the congregation and wondering whether we should have more meringues and fewer cream puffs at Carlton House.”

Torilla did not reply and they went up the stairs in silence.

As they reached the landing outside Beryl’s bedroom, her maid appeared to say,

“Your wedding gown has just been delivered, my Lady, and I’ve put Miss Torilla’s in her wardrobe.”

“Thank you,” Torilla said.

Beryl walked towards her bedroom door and then as she reached it she looked back at Torilla.

“Come and see my gown and I hope you admire it.”

She opened the door and Torilla followed her.

She had expected from what had already been said that Beryl would wear something original, but the gown, which lay on the big bed, was certainly different to anything she had expected.

It was pink!

A very pale pink, and it was an exquisitely beautiful creation.

But who, Torilla asked herself in astonishment, had ever heard of a bride wearing pink?

The gown was of tulle and like Torilla’s had roses round the hem. The train, which was very long, was encrusted with roses all glittering with diamante dewdrops.

It was original, slightly theatrical, and at the same time Torilla knew that Beryl would look outstandingly beautiful. The only question was – would the Marquis mind his bride being married in so unconventional a colour?

“I shall have a pink wreath on my head,” Beryl said, “and as you see there is also a pink veil which will reach right to the ground.”

She looked at her cousin almost defiantly as she spoke and after a moment Torilla answered,

“It is lovely, dearest, and you will look very beautiful, but you would have looked just as lovely in white.”

There was a moment’s pause.

Then Beryl replied in a hard tight little voice,

“That is a colour I am not entitled to wear!”

Torilla looked at her in surprise, then her eyes widened.

“Beryl!” she exclaimed. “What – are you – saying?”

“I am telling you the truth.”

Torilla drew in her breath.

“Do you mean – are you really – saying, Beryl – that you – ?”

“ – that I am not a pure, virgin bride?” Beryl finished. “That is
exactly
what I am telling you, Torilla. You might as well know the truth.”

“But – dearest,” Torilla stammered. “If it is – Lord Newall you love? Then why not – ?”

“Charles Newall has nothing to do with it. The man to whom I gave myself was – my husband!”

Torilla stared at her as though she thought she had taken leave of her senses.

Then with a little cry Beryl sat down on the stool in front of her dressing table and put her hands up to her eyes.

“Oh – Torilla – I wanted to tell you before – but what’s the use? I have been so – desperately unhappy – but it does not – help to talk about it – ”

Torilla ran forward to kneel beside Beryl and put her arms around her.

‘Tell me now,” she pleaded. “Tell me, dearest.”

The tears were running down Beryl’s face.

“I love him, Torilla. I love him with – all my heart – and it was just what you and I s-aid love would be like – only much, much more – wonderful!”

“Who was it? Tell me,” Torilla begged.

“Can you not guess?” Beryl asked half-smiling through her tears.

Torilla looked at her and suddenly she knew the answer.

“It was Rodney!”

Beryl nodded.

“Yes, Rodney. I suppose I was in – love with him ever since I was a child – but I did not –understand that it was love – not until he was – going away to j-join his Regiment.”

“I remember that,” Torilla said in a low voice, “but I never realised – ”

“Aunt Elizabeth had just died, and you were – too unhappy to pay much attention to me. I intended to tell you, but both Rodney and I were so afraid that, if anyone guessed we were in love with each other, he would be forbidden to enter the house.”