Reckless Griselda
by
Harriet Smart
Published by Anthemion Software Ltd. at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 by Harriet Smart
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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* * * *
Reckless Griselda
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Norfolk, England, 1816
After five nights, Griselda had got used to sleeping in ditches.
On the first night the prospect was horrifying, but there had been no choice. There was no inn for miles and she had been too tired to do anything but roll herself in the capacious folds of her father’s old shooting coat, make a pillow from her pack and hope for the best. She had fallen asleep before she knew it. The fact that it was a still, warm night had helped and she had woken with the first light; a little stiff, but more refreshed than she had imagined possible. Certainly she felt better rested than she had done in that odious inn at Kings Lynn.
Having survived that, Griselda decided it was a better plan to walk and sleep where she chose instead of taking the mail coach. The late August weather was holding fine and fair, and Griselda could think of nothing worse in such weather than to be shut up in a mail. She was used to vigorous exercise and she was pleased to discover that her body did not fail her. She had always loved to walk alone and her spirit relished the complete liberty she now had at her disposal. Her coat and breeches no longer felt like an indelicate novelty, but were simply her clothes. They were good and suited for their purpose. She had never guessed that men’s clothes could be so comfortable. To be without stays was a revelation and it was wonderful not to be hung about with petticoats. She was sure she was wearing the old breeches, shooting coat and that broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat with real conviction now, for no-one had questioned her suspiciously. She began to wish that she could go on wandering in this way indefinitely.
But she must head on for Cromer and present herself to her brother.
She was at last within a day’s walk of the place, according to the milestone in the last village. Now, as she stood at the fork in the road, she wondered if her reluctance to proceed was from fear that she would not meet with a very civil reception from Hugh. After all, it had been ten years since she had last seen him. She had been a child of eleven when he had sailed for the Cape of Good Hope with his Regiment. She knew him only in the warmest remembrance and from his letters. He had written to her so often and at such length that she had felt certain that he would at once understand why she had been forced to leave Glenmorval and embark on this journey. Or rather it was her fervent hope that he would understand.
She lingered still at the edge of the hamlet, watching an old gig lumber down towards her.
“This is the road for Cromer?” she asked, in her best gruff and boyish manner.
“Aye, it is,” said the driver of the gig, “but you’ll save yourself a mile or two if you go over the fields.” He gestured up to the right, towards a gap in the hedge which presumably led to some well-known local path. “You’ll need it, too, for it’s going to rain.”
The path was a good one and Griselda made her way along it, through a well-gleaned stubble field and over a stile into pasture land. She could not share the gig man’s conviction it would rain. It was too warm and clear for that, and she began to look forward to catching a first glimpse of the sea. It was certainly better to think of that than worry about what Hugh would say when he saw her.
The path snaked and turned into a little covert of welcome shade. She trotted through it, pulling off her hat, enjoying the dappled sunlight and the sweet, fresh smells of the woodland. She even found a few ripe blackberries to supplement her rather meagre breakfast of bread and cheese. She was determined to be careless and enjoy what she felt sure must be the last few hours of her freedom. As soon as she reached Cromer she would be forced to become Miss Griselda Farquarson of Glenmorval again, and to behave accordingly.
At the edge of the covert the path led along a high stone wall made up of great stones, heavy with ivy and as far as Griselda could judge, of some antiquity. She wondered what lay behind it – the park belonging to some gentleman’s seat, she supposed. Hugh had said in his first letter from Cromer that there were plenty of great houses to be visited in the area, but that “I think the sea bathing and some good books will be enough distraction for me at present.” Recalling that, she felt a trifle guilty that she was about to disturb his tranquil convalescence.
The wall suddenly turned into a great archway and Griselda stopped and looked through it. She saw that she had been skirting the edge of a very venerable old ruin. Her heart pounding, she ran in, astonished at her discovery. It was an old abbey, dripping with creeper, wonderfully melancholy and painted by the bright light and deep shadows that the encircling band of trees cast over it. Directly in front of her there was half a crumbling cloister of carved arches, the cracks in the stone pavement thick with long grass. A few steps led up into the roofless chapel, whose old windows were hung with cobwebs of stone tracery. Griselda pictured the monks filing through it – and then fancied that they might not have been monks at all, but nuns.
Eager to see inside the chapel, she crossed the cloister but stopped at the doorway. She was not alone. There was a man standing in the old nave, his face turned towards the east end of the chapel. He held an open sketchbook and was diligently drawing the west window.
Griselda frowned. She did not wish to share this exquisite place with anyone else. It deserved to be enjoyed in perfect solitude. Any moment now, she was certain that a prosing clergyman would appear, with his wife and daughter leaning on his arms, to break the silence with banal observations.
She sighed, but too loudly, and the man looked around.
He had thick brown-gold hair, with a loose wave to it that made each lock catch and flash in the light. His hair fell back softly from his forehead revealing a high, smooth brow and a dazzling pair of limpid blue eyes that entirely overshadowed the rest of his well-sculpted face. He looked levelly at her for some moments. He did not smile but his features clouded with puzzlement as he continued to look at her. She felt disturbed by his scrutiny, and looked away, aware that her observation of him had been just as open. She crammed her hat back onto her head and walked as boldly as she could into the chapel. She was relieved to observe he had begun to sketch again.
She did not give the chapel her full attention. She could not help watching him as he stood there in his white linen shirt sleeves, his drab olive-green riding coat tossed on the ground by his feet. He was sketching very energetically and with a great deal of serious concentration. She wondered if he were a professional artist but she decided his clothes were too good for that. His riding boots had been polished to a deep nicety – they still shone through the dust they had picked up. He has a man to see to them, Griselda thought, and then observed that his waistcoat and riding breeches, though as sober as his coat, were of excellent cut and fitted his long lean form extremely well. That suggested an expensive tailor. Without doubt, he was a person of considerable means. Griselda was completely sure of it when she spotted his horse tethered under a tree in the next field – an elegant bay mare and exactly the sort of horse she would have chosen herself had she the necessary guineas.
She decided to forgive him for being there. A gentleman antiquary sketching in a ruined abbey added a great deal to the picturesque qualities of the scene. Griselda could imagine it transformed into the black and white of a steel engraving hanging in a print shop window.
And what am I in this picture? she mused, as she sat down on what once must have been the chancel steps. Her boots had no polish left in them. They were merely very dirty, like her breeches. There was dirt under her fingernails too, she observed, and the cuff of her old shirt was fraying badly. That little detail set off the worn fustian of the shooting coat to perfection. She took off her hat and raked her fingers through the hair which she had clumsily cropped only a few days ago. She knew she must look very disgraceful. The gentleman was probably wondering whether she was going to set upon on him and rob him or merely annoy him with village idiot impertinence.
She gazed up at the sky, turning her face up to the sun and not caring if she grew any more brown or coarse. The damage was done and she was not going to spoil these last hours of freedom with such considerations.
The storm the gig man had promised now felt perceptible, if still distant. There was a heaviness in the warmth and the insects were hanging low, as if they knew what was imminent. She knew she should be getting on with her journey but she could not find the will to move. She no longer wished to reach her destination. Nothing mattered except this still, almost silent moment of high summer perfection, where she could sit, disguised and undisturbed. She could not deny the pleasure she felt in behaving disgracefully in the presence of such a man. She was sure he would be very shocked to know that she was the daughter of Sir George Farquarson of Glenmorval.
She leant back and stretched herself out on the dry turf, looking up at the sky through the interlaced fingers of stone vaults which were all that remained of the chapel roof. She cradled her head in her folded hands and watched a skylark’s giddy progress upwards for a while. Then she closed her eyes, gave into the gentle insistence of her tired body, and fell asleep.
* * * * *
It was the thunder that woke her. An instant later she felt the first drop of rain on her face and heard a man’s voice say, very close to her ear:
“Oh, damn it!”
She opened her eyes and sat up quickly to find the gentleman artist sitting cross-legged on the ground nearby. He was looking down at his sketchbook, brushing the raindrops from it with his sleeve. Then he looked across at her, frowned again and flipped the sketchbook closed.
“We’d better take shelter,” he said, getting to his feet. He stretched out his hand to her to help her up. She did not take it but scrambled up herself.
“What were you doing?” she demanded.
“Drawing you. A very pretty pose. I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist it…” He broke off, then added, “Ma’am.” He hesitated and then said again, but this time in a tone of enquiry, “Ma’am?”
She did not answer but turned to pick up her hat and her pack. The latter he seemed determined to help her with.
“Thank you sir, I can manage perfectly,” she said, hoisting it onto her shoulder. “I’ve carried it myself this far.”
He put up his hands for a moment to show he would not fuss with her any longer, for which she was grateful. She was wondering which was the best way to make her escape and where the path she had begun to take, began again. Quickly, she started off across the chapel.
“There is a roof of sorts over the old chapter house,” he called out. “I think this is going to be…” He was interrupted by a white gold flash of lightening. They both paused, Griselda silently counting until the thunder came.
“Three miles off, if that,” he said, pulling on his riding coat. “You’d be ill-advised to start off over open country for a while.”
She hesitated, watching him turn up his coat collar. Then he gathered together his sketching outfit and headed off through a gap in the wall which presumably led to the old chapter house. The rain was pelting down now and she knew she had no choice but to wait a while. She dashed after him.
The chapter house roof was nothing more than four feet of leaky old tiles that made a small canopy. He was already standing under it, rubbing his face dry with his hands.
“I was a fool to come out today,” he said. “My man said it would rain.”
“We have been very lucky with the weather this last week,” she observed, and felt her lips twitching with a smile.
“Well, at least the harvest is in,” he said.
Now she had to laugh. The incongruity of this conversation was too much for her.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not expect to have a drawing room conversation.”
“No,” he said with a grin, “Neither did I.” He hesitated a moment and then added, “And perhaps we should not have one.”
“No, perhaps not,” she agreed.
“Although I suspect you are well acquainted with drawing rooms, I cannot believe that they are your natural element,” he said.
“By necessity they have been. But I must confess I prefer a place such as this to the grandest drawing room. Even in the rain.”
She glanced at him, to see his reaction. He smiled, and there was a warmth about that smile that illuminated his entire face, and made those glorious eyes seem brighter and clearer than before.
“You are a perfect child of nature, then,” he said, with some satisfaction.
“Yes, I believe I must be,” she said.
“Who are you?” he said, and then added, “no, but I must not ask you that. That would be impertinent.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I would rather not say.”
“And yet I should dearly love to know your story. The moment I laid eyes on you I thought there was something: one glance and I knew you were not the uncouth creature your clothes suggested. But I was not sure of it until you fell asleep. And then I saw you were in disguise and I was longing to wake you so you could tell me what you were about. But you were too perfect in your sleep to be disturbed so I took the liberty of drawing you. And the thunder woke you instead.”
His eyes searched over her as he spoke. His voice was rich with lively, warm curiosity. Griselda felt herself blushing and looking away. She sensed his enthusiasm and that she had inspired some great excitement in him, an excitement which she found she understood perfectly, for something similar was jumping up inside her.
“I only hope you have not found yourself in this situation through some awful tragedy,” he then said, sobering slightly.
“No, not exactly,” she said. “You may be assured of that. I am here because…” – she hesitated – “because I am here.”
“That is a very unsatisfactory answer,” he said. “But perhaps my curiosity is better left unsatisfied.”
“Oh, I think so,” said Griselda. “If you knew who I was and what the circumstances were you would be forced to behave quite differently. As should I. And that is what I particularly wish to avoid.”
“Well said. I have often thought that but I have never achieved it. But you have.”
“Many people would not consider it an achievement,” she pointed out.
“But I must,” he said. “Believe me, you inspire me more than you can imagine.”
Griselda had never had such a conversation in her life before. It made all that had passed before fade into insignificance to be standing here with this glowing young man. He continued:
“You seem to be the embodiment of freedom herself. You are not human. You are Liberty!” Then he laughed – a deep, pleasing, self-mocking laugh, shaking his head as he spoke. “This storm is making me wild.”
“No, wildness is inside us,” Griselda said, her own emotion bubbling up. “It comes from our own hearts, our own souls.” She laughed as she spoke, feeling an extraordinary sense of exhilaration.
He stared at her.
“I think you are the most beautiful creature I ever laid eyes on,” he said. He reached out and touched her cheek with his knuckles, his hand unfolding like a flower as his skin touched her. “And you are real. I can feel the warmth of you skin.”
Griselda had never been so aware of her body as in that first gentle touch. He turned his hand and traced his fingers down her neck. She shuddered as he did so, for his little finger was delicately caressing her throat. She parted her lips and widened her eyes, watching him as he touched her. He had closed his eyes and stood like a blind man delicately exploring an object that he did not know. There was a slight smile on his lips.
Suddenly there was another great crack of thunder and the sound of distressed whinnying.
“My horse!” he exclaimed and dashed out of the chapter house.
Griselda followed and soon saw the cause of the noise. The mare had got loose and was bolting through the field, threatening to charge through a gap in the hedgerow.
He went tearing ahead to catch the mare. But the moment he reached her, she turned and started to charge towards Griselda. There was nothing to do but to jump for the bridle and do what she could to restrain her, although it felt for a moment that she was going to be dragged across a muddy field.
“Not frightened of horses either,” he said, when he returned to Griselda’s side and took the bridle from her.
“I could not be afraid of anything so perfect,” said Griselda, watching with some admiration as he gently brought the mare to order again.
“Would you like to ride her?”
“In this weather?”
“Well, I think we should try and find a decent shelter,” he said. “I think there is a tolerable inn not to far from here where we may at least get our clothes dry.” Then he glanced away a moment and said, “but of course, I should not impose upon you in any way. And you may wish to be on your travels to wherever. Is it to Samarkand or Arkangel or…?”
“No, a tolerable inn will do me very well,” she said. “I am beginning to feel uncomfortably damp.”
It was, of course, the height of impropriety to agree to his suggestion. But apparently they were not playing by those rules. They were playing some different game altogether, one that Griselda found far too exciting to call to a halt.
So he tied Griselda’s pack to the mare, along with his sketching outfit, and handed her up into the saddle. He assumed she would ride astride and for a moment she was a little uneasy, never having done so before. But she felt a little safer when he climbed up behind her and taking the reins in one hand, put his arm about her waist.
“I’m sure you’re a famous horsewoman,” he said, “but you haven’t the benefit of the stirrups.”
“Oh, I’ve no objection,” she said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to have his arm about her waist and her whole body pressed against his. On the contrary, it was as intimate and as exciting and as downright dangerous as the wild gallop he now pushed the mare into. They hurtled along as if he were riding to hounds, even taking in a couple of jumps.
“She loves to jump,” he said, his arm pressing a little more tightly around Griselda's waist.
At moments it seemed that the entire escapade might end with broken necks, but the journey to the inn was accomplished without any mishaps. As the horse slowed to a sensible walk, Griselda exclaimed breathlessly, “Oh, but I could have gone on like that for ever!”
“Yes, so could I!” he rejoined. “But her ladyship will not allow us to do that. She can smell a nice dry stable – she’s a delicate creature at heart and she doesn’t like the rain.”
* * * * *
Chapter 2
The inn was a pleasant, rambling old place, with lavender bushes growing on either side of the front door. A boy ran out to take the horse to the stable while Griselda and the gentleman went inside.
For there was no doubt that he was a gentleman – albeit a rather unusual one. His manner and address commanded the instant attention and respect of the landlady who came bustling out to greet them.
“A private parlour, sir, of course. Our best private parlour is upstairs, with a bedchamber off it – would that suit, sir?”
“Perfectly. And send up a jug of claret and a cold fowl, if you’ve such a thing in the larder.”
“Certainly we have sir, and would you take a nice plum tart? We’ve a tree in the orchard that always fruits early.”
“Plum tart would be excellent,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and grinning like a schoolboy at Griselda. She had been attempting to melt into the dark shadows of the oak wainscoting, hoping that the landlady would just take her to be his servant. “Do you not love a plum tart?” he said.
The landlady gave Griselda a long, suspicious glance as she passed her by and began to climb the stairs.
The blackened looking-glass hanging between the two windows of the private parlour made it perfectly clear why. Griselda saw how strange she looked. Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain and her old clothes, now soaking, looked dreadful. She did not look the least like a gentleman’s servant. She looked thin, hollow-eyed and desperate – in short, like gallows meat. Yet he had said she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.
And now he was staring at her again, while the landlady lit the fire, staring at her as if she were the only thing in the room. He had grown abstracted in his contemplation of her and stood with his dripping coat half shrugged from his shoulders.
As aware of the landlady’s scrutiny as of his, Griselda picked up her pack and went into the adjoining bedchamber.
The room was large, well-furnished and dominated by a big old oak bed, neatly hung with a fresh chintz that had Chinese gardens printed on it. It was still warm from the sunshine that had been chased off by the storm, and the fire soon added its own cheerful glow. There was a pile of fresh towels lying by the washstand, a steaming copper of hot water nearby and the room smelt of lavender, beeswax polish and wood smoke.
She turned from her inspection to see him standing in the doorway.
“Would you like a towel?” she enquired.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the one she offered. “I shall leave you to your toilette.” He made a slight bow and closed the door.
For a moment she wondered if she should turn the key in the lock and then decided she could trust his sense of honour.
She pulled off her clothes, draped them over various items of furniture to dry, and had a good wash. Then, dressed only in a towel, she unrolled her pack. She had formed it from an old plaid blanket that had done its work well, for its contents were only cold, and not wet. It contained her peat-brown riding habit and the body linen she had abandoned before she assumed her disguise that morning in Perth: a shift, a flannel petticoat, her habit shirt and her stays. She held her shift in front of the fire to air it for a few minutes and had just pulled it over her head when there was a gentle knock at the door.
“I have ordered some chocolate,” he said. “Would you care for some?”
“Yes, very much,” she called out. Chocolate was a luxury that did not appear often on the table in her father’s house, and she found she had a raging appetite. Quickly she struggled into the rest of her clothes. She buttoned the last button of her habit jacket with one hand, while with the other she settled her messy curls into the best order that she could.
Satisfied, she made her entrance quietly in her stockinged feet. Her boots were still too wet to put back on.
He was sitting by the fire, apparently lost in thought, and did not notice her come in. He had pulled off his stockings, breeches and boots and sat in only his shirt and linen under breeches, with one bare foot resting on his knee. The room was gloomy in the storm light so the fire shone out, casting his face in an eerie, intense gold brightness that went well with the abstracted melancholy of his expression.
The window casements rattled in a violent gust of wind, and he glanced up and saw her standing in the corner. For a moment longer he looked, and then he smiled, rose and greeted her, quite the respectable host again, despite his rather unconventional lack of clothing.
“Ma’am,” he said, and a brought a chair to the fireside for her.
She sat down, quite as if she were paying a morning visit on a neighbour at Glenmorval, her hands folded in her lap. He helped her to a cup of chocolate but just as he handed it to her, their eyes met and their fingers touched. The cup rattled in the saucer, and continued to rattle, for Griselda found she was shaking unaccountably. He did not move away when he had handed her the cup but stood looming over her. She put down the cup on the little tripod table and was about to fold her hands together again, when he reached out and caught her right hand in his.
He crouched down and kissed her hand, cradling it in his, and then pressed his face to her palm, as if her touch was the thing he most wanted in the world. Griselda swallowed – she was bewildered but not offended. She could find no reason to pull her hand away.
He looked up at her and his face was serious, his blue eyes fixed on her with unwavering intensity. She reached out and pushed back the hair that was falling over his forehead. He smiled and she realised it was in answer to her own smile of pleasure. For his hair felt as soft as it looked, in texture like the silky coat of a spaniel, but thicker, she discovered, as she succumbed to the irresistible urge to plough her fingers through it. She let the last lock drop from her fingers with reluctance.
Then, he pressed his hands to her cheeks and kissed her on the lips, with such eager warmth that for a moment Griselda did not know what to do. Or rather, her mind did not know what to do. Her body seemed to know perfectly well, for she kissed him in return. She felt like a bird who had only ever flown in the limited compass of a gilded prison, but who knew in her soul how to soar in the heights. She reached for his shoulders and let him wrap his arms about her waist and raise her to her feet. His lips were still hot against her and now as they stood by the fire, their bodies were as close as their lips.
Words were not necessary. They were as unnecessary as the knowledge of his name. She only felt the insistent call of her own desire for him: that seemed to transcend everything. She had never felt so alive as in that moment – every sense was magnified. The linen of his shirt which her fingers gathered up in an involuntary spasm felt smoother and finer than any linen she had felt before.
And all the time he came closer and closer, pressing his body against her, with quiet but repetitive insistence. Even through the thick skirt of her habit she could sense the urgency of his passion and she could smell him so clearly now – his sweat mingling with the smell of the wood burning in the grate.
He unfastened the buttons of her habit jacket and bent to kiss her breast, pushing open the lawn ruffles that trimmed her habit shirt. His kisses were gentle, yet urgent, like the touch of the summer rain outside. He kissed her where no man had even touched her before, in the delicate valley between her breasts, the tip of his nose as cool as his lips were warm. He undid the buttons holding up her habit skirt and it pooled to the floor with her petticoat, leaving her to shrug herself out of the tight restraint of her habit jacket. She had not put on her stays again – she had had no maid to lace her in and her habit shirt and shift did little to hide her breasts from his eager exploration.She had never imagined that they were so sensitive, yet when his fingers brushed against her nipple she felt a tingling deep inside her that made her clench her muscles with longing.
“Shall we?” he said with a gesture towards the bedchamber door.
Dry-throated, she nodded.
Resting on the bed, propped against a pile of pillows, she felt relaxed to the point of abandonment. She let him bury his face in her breasts, and stroked his hair as he kissed them with such tenderness. Then, growing bolder, she pushed her hands under his shirt and caressed his warm, firm back, exploring every ridge of bone and muscle, watching his face flinch with pleasure as she touched some particularly acute spot. Kneeling over her, he pressed his cheek to hers and begged her to continue. She slipped her fingertips beneath the linen of his under-breeches, feeling the warmth of his bare flesh. A few gentle touches of that and he groaned with pleasure and began to kiss her ardently again, now with a sort of frenzied haste, and stretched himself along side of her, pressing himself against her.
Then growing impatient of further barriers, he got up, stripped off the rest of his clothes and completely naked now, straddled her.
She gazed up at him. In his nakedness he was magnificent. The sun had escaped the clouds again and for a few minutes the room was suffused in rich yellow gold light. He was a magnificent hero in an old painting – muscular, lean and noble. She could picture him in the dappled sunlight of some classical glade – a Theseus or an Alexander resting for a moment between heroic endeavours. Yet, a glance revealed to Griselda realised how much those old artists had left out. All they were permitted to show was a strictly allegorical unsheathed sword lying on the ground by the hero.
Griselda had heard the frank talk of servants. She had lived in the country all her life. She might have been inexperienced but she was not entirely ignorant. And now it seemed her curiosity was going to be satisfied.
He paused for a moment, stopping to take both her hands in his and kiss them, with unexpectedly gallantry. It was as if he was asking for her leave to continue. Griselda, who would at that moment have walked the world barefoot for him, could only smile up at him, and then reached out again to push away the hair that seemed always to fall forward over his eyes.
He lifted up the hem of her shift. He bent and placed a kiss on her now bare stomach which made her giggle and shake, for his hair was tickling her. Then he pushed up her shift and kissed her lower down. This made her rigid with surprise for a moment, but only for a moment, for as he persisted, she found she could not stop herself writhing, her hips jerking. Without thinking about it, she raised her knees and widened her legs to this devastating invasion of his. She recognised the sensations he was drawing from her. Occasionally, at night, when restless and in a passion about something, she had touched herself there and found that she could work herself into a sweet but somewhat shameful state of pleasurable excitement. But it was nothing, nothing to this. She simply could do nothing but lie there, allowing all the feelings that this most intimate of caresses provoked to flow unchecked through her, like flames eating up a piece of dry tinder. Then suddenly it was almost unbearably exciting. She groaned, half wanting him to stop but knowing she could not bear it if he did. Then it came – a burning, deep explosion in her womb that made her flush all over and exclaim.
He came and kissed her lips again, pressing himself against her. She could feel the rock hardness of him against her thigh and could see the urgency in his eyes. He guided himself into her and she could offer no resistance – she wanted to feel the power of him inside her, to feel it touch the core of her. He gave one tremendous push and she felt some discomfort and pain, and it made her gasp slightly. For a moment he stopped, surprised.
“You’re a…” he began.
She pressed a finger to his lips.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I want you.”
He closed his eyes and pushed again, with the sense of a man granted something he felt scarcely able to deserve. She felt the reverence in it. There was nothing cheap about it. How could this be cheap, this deep, intimate locking together of man and woman? She stretched and encircled his legs with her own, feeling shattered and yet renewed at each deep slow thrust into her, her fingers massaging his shoulder blades. Then suddenly his movement quickened and she saw the strain of suppressed tension cloud his face. He grimaced, seemed to try and hold back for a moment but failed and came crashing against her one last time.
She felt it, felt his spasm as he fell panting onto her.
A few moments later he withdrew from her and lay close beside her, on his back. As she stared up at the carved oak of the bed canopy, at the blackened wooden garlands of lilies and pomegranates, she heard him say:
“I wish I knew who you were.”
“No,” she said. “No, that would spoil everything.”
* * * * *
Chapter 3
When Tom Thorpe woke, he found the place beside him empty. She had gone. He propped himself on his elbows and stared about him, looking for traces of her presence, but there was nothing but a heap of crumpled towels by the washstand.
He staggered out of bed, wondering how he had slept so soundly. Usually he found it impossible to sleep during the daytime – even after such sensual exertions. Yet he felt drugged with exhaustion, as if he had tasted opium on her lips. He could never remember feeling so overwhelmed by the act as on this occasion. He had felt entirely satisfied but now his body was aching for her presence.
He went into the parlour to see if she was there. She was not, but she had taken some cold chicken and a piece of plum tart. The bottle of claret was untouched, however. He was just reflecting on this, cutting himself a slice from the tart as he did so – for he had discovered he was incredibly hungry – when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he said, absently.
It was the landlady, who instantly gave out a shriek of horror at the sight of a naked man eating plum tart with his fingers.
“Sir, if you please!” she said, looking very pointedly away while Tom snatched up his coat and held in front of him. “I beg to remind you, sir,” she said, now daring to look at him, “that this is a respectable establishment.”
Tom could not help colouring slightly, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught in the act by his dame. Fortunately this venerable lady could not make him report to his tutor for a flogging.
“Have you seen the young person who was with me?” he asked.
“Gone out to take the air, sir,” she said. “An hour ago.”
“What o’clock is it?”
“Past three.”
“Three?” said Tom, horrified. He was expected at Lady Amberleigh’s at five for dinner. “Did he…” he found himself stuttering over that, “say when he would be back?”
“No, sir,” said the landlady. “He was carrying his pack. If I were you, I should check to see if you’ve still got a pocketbook. He – if it were a he – looked no better than he ought.”
“That, Madam, is a very impertinent remark,” he said.
“I shall say what I like. I don’t care for my establishment being used like a common whorehouse.”
“You are quite misinformed,” said Tom, as innocently as he could.
“You must think me very green, sir,” she retorted. “I only hope you have the wherewithal to pay.”
“I shall pay you now, for I shall be leaving directly,” said Tom. He reached for his pocketbook which was in the tail pocket of his riding coat. It was still there, and as heavy as it had been when he had lodged it there that morning. He handed her two guineas after which she grew respectful and helpful once more. It seemed that she could tolerate flagrant impropriety if she was well rewarded. “Have my horse brought round, if you please.”
As he rode down towards Cromer he hoped he would overtake her, but then, why would she take the road to Cromer? She had given no indication that she might be going there. For all he knew, she could be on the road to London.
He rode back fast, feeling a little as if he had been taken with a brain fever. The whole incident did not seem quite real, although he could vividly remember the smell of her hair and the feel of her soft skin under his fingertips. It was like a dream, a projection of his deepest fancy. He had never had an experience with a woman like it and he reckoned he was a reasonable judge of such matters.
Tom Thorpe was seven and twenty, well born, with a large independent fortune. At eighteen, fresh from Eton, he had surrendered his virginity to a pretty countess of thirty-five, who had then grown bored with him when he had fallen too much in love. The Countess had required a lengthy convalescence and it was some years afterwards, when he had left Cambridge, that an Italian singer whose figure was better than her voice had permitted Tom to be her protector. However, she turned out to have a shocking temper and a bloodsucker of a husband whom Tom declined to support as well. This grieved him far less than the loss of the Countess but he had become a little cynical about such affairs, and far more circumspect in his conduct.
As he mounted the stairs to his lodgings in Cromer, he wondered whether his extraordinary behaviour that day was the result of too much fastidiousness. Other men kept mistresses and were made comfortable by them. It would surely have been better to acquire some quiet affectionate creature and keep her in respectable circumstances than try to suppress the appetite altogether. For he would not have acted so recklessly if he had such a woman as his second cousin, Lord Hunscliffe, kept in a cottage at Putney. He had dined there once or twice and admired Hunscliffe’s little son, who although he would not inherit their noble father’s title, had certainly inherited his nose and something of his forceful character. Mrs Harte (she styled herself with Hunscliffe’s family name) had been an excellent thing for Hunscliffe who would otherwise have caught the pox from indiscriminate whoring.
Tom had been inclined to think himself better than Hunscliffe but he was beginning to wonder if that was not arrogant of him. For today he had acted without scruple or hesitation. The fact she would not reveal who she was should not have excused his license – it ought to have entirely prevented it. And then to discover she was a virgin and carry on regardless. But how could he have done anything else at that point? He had never been so flattered in his life.
His servant, Gough, was waiting for him on the landing, agitated and worried as old people will be about young people of whom they are fond. Gough had once been the servant of Tom’s father, and having been with Tom since his father’s death and known him since he was a child, his welfare was a serious matter to him.
“I was sure you’d been thrown from your horse, Sir Thomas,” he said. “For you will ride that mare as if the world will end tomorrow.”
“No, Gough, I was not thrown from my horse, nor was I struck by lightning.” But even as he said that, he wondered if she were not a sort of lightning, a storm spirit, sent to put his mind into disorder. ”I have spent most of the day asleep in an inn. Nothing could have been less dangerous.”
Gough wrinkled up his nose.
“Asleep, Sir Thomas, in the afternoon?” he said, suspiciously.
“I wore myself out sketching, I dare say,” said Tom, wondering why he had to account for his actions to his own servant. He sat down and allowed Gough to pull off his boots. “Did you fetch my letters?”
“Of course, Sir Thomas. There’s a letter from her ladyship.”
“Ah,” said Tom, who did not at all wish to read what his mother had to say. Gough handed him the letters all the same and then went to see about his bath.
Tom broke the seal and glanced at the direction. She was still at Felsham, which did not auger well. It was too close to Cromer for one thing. He scanned the letter.
“My dearest son,
I am a little uncertain how to interpret your last letter. I cannot believe that you have allowed yourself to form this attachment. I must repeat that I do not consider you in a position to offer your hand to Miss Rufford – and I very much hope you have not actually led her to believe that you are at liberty to do so. Lady Mary considers herself to be engaged and she is, as ever, anxious to gratify her father’s wishes and mine. I trust that your own considerable sense of duty will also prevail in this.
Miss Rufford might be a handsome, charming girl – and I am not so out of charity with you not to understand how she might have attracted you. However, any feelings that she might arouse in you must be considered entirely improper because of your position in relation to Lady Mary. This is the situation and you cannot avoid it. It would be extremely damaging to your reputation, not mention to Miss Rufford’s, if you were to act upon these feelings and talk any more of marriage to her. You know perfectly well that Caroline Rufford can never be your wife without alienating the hearts and repudiating the good opinions of those who love you most deeply – and in this I must include Lady Mary.
Forgive my strong words, but it is with the deepest concern for you that I write. I have also written to Miss Rufford explaining your situation.
Your loving mother, Arabella Thorpe.”
“What!” exclaimed Tom, throwing down the letter. “The devil she has!”
“Sir Thomas?” said Gough.
“I must dress at once. I must go to Miss Rufford immediately.”
* * * * *
Lady Amberleigh and her daughter had taken a large, elegantly furnished house overlooking the sea front, only a few minutes’ walk from Tom’s lodgings, and he walked there briskly as soon as he was dressed to Gough’s satisfaction. But reaching the house, he hesitated. He looked up at the bay window of the first floor drawing room where he knew Caroline would be waiting for him. Through the open window he could hear her playing the harp and he found himself turning away towards the sea.
It was nearly five o’clock and the sun was breaking fitfully through the grey sky, piercing the sea with spectacular shafts of light. The wind was still blowing and the sea was rough, dashing the shingles and groins with relentless force. Caroline began to sing – her sweet clear voice drifting down to him – the words of an Italian song about constant love. It was the song she had sung on the night he had decided he would make her his wife.
He walked away a little, towards the sea wall. He tried to think of Caroline but even the sound of her voice seemed unable to rouse his imagination. He was thinking only of the girl whose name he did not know, of her red-gold curls lying on the pillow, the freckles on her cheek and the wild glint in her green eyes.
Caroline finished her song and Tom went to the door of the house, trying to put aside the memory of the afternoon, like a man locking away the letters from an old affair. He could not allow it to confuse him. He had made her his offer and no man with any sense of decency or honour could back down from such a bargain.
* * * * *
“Well, Sir Thomas,” said Lady Amberleigh, a few minutes later, when the formalities had been got through and he was sitting with her in the drawing room. “It seems that someone is under a misapprehension here, and I hope for my daughter’s sake it is your mother.”
“It is,” said Tom. “She will have me marry Lady Mary and no-one else. But, I assure you, Ma’am, I have never given either my mother nor Lady Mary, nor her father Lord Wansford any grounds to believe that I consented to such an arrangement.”
“Then how, pray, has she fixed the notion in her head that you have?” said Lady Amberleigh. She might have been a well-dressed widow but her manner of cross-examination would not have disgraced a member of the bar. “You must have said something to her to suggest that you did not find the idea of the match abhorrent.”
“No, I have always been very definitely opposed to it. Do you think I would have addressed your daughter as I have, if I had believed I was not free to do so?”
“I do not know, Sir Thomas,” said Lady Amberleigh. “Ah, here is Caroline.”
Caroline had apparently quit the drawing room for some minutes when he was announced, presumably to compose herself. Tom thought she looked shaken. She was paler than usual – her usual fresh rose colour seemed banished, but she walked into the room with all her usual elegance.
He rose from his chair to greet her, and would have taken her hand, but he saw Lady Amberleigh frowning. Caroline confined herself to a curtsey and took her place beside her mother.
“What must you think of me?” he said, drawing his chair a little closer to her. “I have been trying to reassure your mother but can I say enough to convince you?”
“Your mother must have had very good reason for writing as she did,” she said at length.
“Because she does not wish us to marry,” said Tom. “That is the matter in a nutshell. She is a worldly woman and she expects me to seek worldly advantage.”
“But if Lady Mary’s affections have been engaged?” Caroline said looking across at him. She had dark brown eyes and there was a melancholy in them that he had not seen before.
“Then it was not my intention,” said Tom. “I swear to you I have done nothing to make her think that I was anything but an acquaintance. I believe my mother must have talked her into believing that she feels something for me. Lady Mary is a highly suggestible creature – and very young. She is but seventeen. She does not know what she feels.”
“Nevertheless,” Caroline went on, “her feelings have been engaged and her expectations have been confirmed by those whose opinions she values. If that is the case, I think she does have some sort of claim upon you. I do not wish to have such a thing on my conscience as another woman’s broken heart. She has a prior claim on you, Sir Thomas. I must recognise that.”
“You would not say that if you had seen her,” Tom said. “She is a schoolroom chit. She knows nothing about anything. She only does as she is bid.”
“That,” put in Lady Amberleigh, “is a sign of virtue in her.”
“It cannot be thought virtuous to pretend to love merely because your father tells you that you must,” said Tom. “Surely?”
Lady Amberleigh got up suddenly and said,
“That may be so. But I am more concerned that you are merely using my daughter in order to disentangle yourself from a disagreeable marriage. My concern is that my daughter shall be well married – and by that I mean that the man who is lucky enough to be her husband shall have a strong, pure-hearted regard for her. If you were to have fixed on Caroline as a solution to your difficulties, then –”
“No madam, I assure you I have not,” Tom said.
“I am glad to hear you say it, Sir Thomas, but I am still not easy. Your mother’s words were strong – and I cannot believe she would have written so strongly without good cause. This matter does you very little credit sir, and I must be given more proof of your good faith until I can give my consent to this match. I hope you do not consider this unreasonable.”
She stood over him as she spoke and Tom looked up at her. As he did so he had the strange impression that she resembled the girl from the Abbey. A fleeting similarity passed over Lady Amberleigh’s handsome, middle-aged face. There was something about the cheek bones and the set of the nose that recalled her to him and he found himself almost too startled to answer her for a moment.
“Sir Thomas?” she prompted.
“No, it is not unreasonable,” said Tom, blinking. “I am willing to do anything that might restore your good opinion of me.”
She nodded and Tom saw the resemblance vanish as soon as it had come. He felt relieved, although somewhat concerned.
“I will let you two alone until dinner then,” she said, and left the room.
When she had gone Caroline rose and walked into the bay window. She stood with her back to him, standing near her harp.
“I heard you playing as I came in,” he said. “I stood in the street and listened.”
She turned and smiled at him – but again he saw that melancholy that was new to him. Did she expect him to make love to her, to reassure her?
Part of him longed to blurt out a confession to her. She was the sort of woman to whom he had felt he could talk sensibly. It was one of the reasons he had been drawn to her in the first place and had made him decide he wanted to marry her. But now as she stood there, twisting her fingers together in unconscious anxiety, he could no longer enjoy that comfortable companionship.
Earlier that summer, staying at her brother’s house, a disinterested friendship had easily and pleasantly sprung up between them. After a while he had been persuaded that what he felt for her was love. But could it have been love when he had run so quickly into the arms of another woman so shortly after he had asked her to be his wife? Had he mistaken the playful conversations of a country house visit for love?
“I am a free man, Caroline,” he managed to say, hoping that he would not be tempted again, swearing to himself he would keep the bargain. He had promised her marriage. He could not disappoint her. “Please believe me.“
I know,” she said and held out her hand to him. “I knew it in my heart. You are incapable of insincerity.”
As she spoke, he knew himself all too capable of it. For from the corner of his eye he could see a dark figure on the beach, clambering along in the narrow margin left by the high tide. Irresistably he turned to see better.
It was the tall figure of a boy, the face hidden in a broad-brimmed hat and wearing an old fashioned redingote that was left open to flap in the breeze, a pack thrown over his shoulder. Am I really a free man, he wondered.
“What are you looking at?” she said glancing behind her.
“No-one,” said Tom, for now he looked properly the figure had vanished. “I mean, nothing. Nothing at all.”
* * * * *
Chapter 4
Griselda found Hugh’s lodgings without much difficulty, but she did not go there at once. She spent the dinner hour walking the beach, trying to calm her nerves. She felt too wild with excitement, too ragged with regret, too entirely confused to do anything but crunch along the shingle and hope that she would find some measure of tranquillity.
But the light faded and there was no ducking it any longer. She had to make her way to his lodgings before darkness surrounded her.
A plump but pinch-mouthed woman opened the door to her.
“Yes?”
“I wish to speak to Colonel Farquarson,” said Griselda.
“And who might you be?” said the landlady, sharply.
“Miss Farquarson,” she said. The landlady did not look convinced. Griselda went on: “I am the Colonel’s sister. Please tell him I am here.”
“Very good, miss,” said the woman. “Whatever you say.”
After a short delay the landlady told Griselda to come in. She showed her to the half-open door of a parlour that opened off the hall.
“Miss Farquarson, sir,” said the landlady pushing open the door.
“Griselda?” Hugh said, staring at her as Griselda went in. “But I don’t understand. What on earth…?” He was struggling to get up from his chair and the effort it involved distressed her. He had, of course, made light of the injury to his hip and leg, but Griselda now saw how crippled he was by them.
“No, you mustn’t get up. You must not disturb yourself,” she said, going over to him and putting her arms around him.
“And how do you imagine I shall do that?” he said, disentangling himself. “With you turning up like this, dressed in such an outrageous fashion?”
“It is not that outrageous. I think my clothes are very sensible,” she said. “For travelling, nothing could be better. You should try travelling in women’s clothes, Hugh.”
He sank back in his chair. He looked seriously alarmed.
“What have you done?” he said.
“I have only travelled from Glenmorval,” she said. I had to come and speak to you in person. I could not think what else to do.”
“You have not travelled from Scotland alone?” he said after a moment. “Tell me you did not.”
“I did, and I shan’t say I’m afraid I did, because I feel I have nothing to apologise for.”
Hugh had put his hand over his face, presumably to hide his gawping astonishment. He shook his head.
“I cannot believe you could have done such a thing,” he said.
“Well, think what you like. What matters is that I am here, quite safe and sound, and that I am seeing my dearest brother at last!”