Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  “Oh, I’d rather stay! I shan’t speak,” she said.

  At half-past four she crept out. Her stealthy departure irritated him. He wanted to tell her to walk like a reasonable being, but he checked the impulse, for fear of hurting her feelings. She re-appeared presently, bringing him some tea.

  “Thanks,” he said curtly, and allowed it to grow cold. Not until after six did he awake from his abstraction; then he found that Elizabeth was still in the room.

  “Darling, you haven’t been here all the time?”

  “Yes, I have. I liked it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, babe. I don’t want you to stuff indoors just because the spirit moves me. It worries me.”

  “I’ve been quite happy,” she repeated.

  Soon their neighbours began to call. The first of them was Nina Trelawney, who came quickly up the drive one afternoon on an informal visit. She found Elizabeth under the cedar-tree on the lawn, and went to her.

  “I’m sure you’re Elizabeth!” she said, as soon as she was near enough for her voice to be heard. “You answer so exactly to Stephen’s description. I’m Nina Trelawney. If he hasn’t told you of me, it’s extremely objectionable of him. How do you do?”

  Elizabeth shook hands nervously.

  “Yes, of course my husband has spoken of you,” she said conventionally. “How kind of you to come and see me! Won’t you sit down?”

  Nina chose a deck chair, and sank into it.

  “This isn’t a really, truly call,” she explained, with a friendly smile. “I’m coming with my mother to leave cards in the approved manner very soon. I felt I couldn’t wait until then, though, so I came to-day, just to say how awfully glad I am that you and Stephen have arrived. Oh, and to extend a welcome! Isn’t that a lovely expression? I found it in a book. How is Stephen?”

  “Very well, thank you. Very busy too. You’ll stay to tea with me, won’t you?”

  “Thanks, I hoped you’d ask me to. I was awfully sorry I couldn’t come to your wedding. I had the accursed plague, you know. ’Flu. Mother told me that it was a charming affair, which made it much worse for me, not being there. Is Stephen working now? Can I shout to him in a loud voice?”

  “Oh, no!” Elizabeth said earnestly. “He hates to be disturbed!”

  Nina looked at her, then at the end of her sunshade, with which she was prodding the ground.

  “Yes, I know, but don’t you think it’s good for him?”

  “I wouldn’t interrupt his work for worlds,” Elizabeth said. “I—I suppose you’ve known him for a long time?”

  “Our acquaintance started in the perambulator,” Nina nodded. “We tried to poke each other’s eyes out. Metaphorically, we still try. That’s the worst of being brought up as brother and sister. One never troubles to be polite, and horrible fights ensue. How do you like the Halt?”

  Elizabeth had not known that Stephen’s friendship with Nina was of so long a date. It was rather unpleasant to think that he had known Nina years and years before he had met his wife. Only, of course, it was silly to feel like that about it.

  “I think Halt is lovely,” she said. “The garden fascinates me especially. It’s so unexpected and rambling.”

  “And so delightfully disorderly,” Nina added. “I love a garden without rhyme or reason. Our own is perfectly soul-killing. My father’s an expert gardener and botanist, and he loves symmetrical beds and colour schemes. The result is like a mathematician’s idea of heaven. This is the sort of garden you can love. You wouldn’t feel a criminal either if you picked flowers from it.”

  “Can’t you in yours?” Elizabeth asked, smiling.

  “Oh, dear me, no! Everything’s too rare and precious. Besides you can’t pick a flower with a five-syllabled Latin name, can you? Aren’t we talking rot? Do tell me, has anyone called yet?”

  “You’re the first,” Elizabeth answered.

  “Am I really? How nice! By the way, I didn’t see you in church on Sunday, ma’am!”

  “N-no!” Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Stephen wouldn’t go, and I was too shy to go alone.”

  “How base of Stephen! He’s got a down on churchgoing, hasn’t he? I remember he once came to see Mummy and inveighed against convention and—and—oh, yes, pusillanimity!”

  “I don’t quite see that,” Elizabeth confessed.

  “Nor did we till he explained. With truly great magnanimity he informed us that he had no objection to people going to church if they really wanted to, but what he did object to—most rampantly—was people going to church for fear of what their neighbours would say if they didn’t. That was the pusillanimity. He loathes and abhors the Tomlinsons—you’ll meet them soon—because they daren’t play tennis on Sunday for fear the Drurys, next door, should hear the balls. Personally, I sympathise with the Tomlinsons. I always wilt when a disapproving eye is bent upon me.”

  “But does Stephen never go to church?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I believe he wanders down occasionally to obscure services. I never see him at the fashionable time. Of course, if he were a newcomer and displayed this shocking laxity no one would call. As it is, ‘Ramsays’ are an institution, and known to be queer. ‘Just a little eccentric, my dear, but such a brilliant young man.’ You know the style. Oh, here comes Nana!” She jumped up, and walked to meet her. “How do you do, Nana? I introduced myself to Elizabeth—by the way, can I call you that, Elizabeth?”

  “Please do,” Elizabeth said, feeling that she, as the married woman, should have had the initiative here.

  “Well, Miss Nina!” Nana said. “And does Mr. Stephen know you’re here?”

  “No, and Elizabeth won’t let me shriek to him,” Nina said gaily. “I believe she spoils him, Nana.”

  Nana gave her tight-lipped smile, and looked at Elizabeth.

  “Will you have tea here, madam, or indoors?”

  “Which would you like?” Elizabeth asked her guest.

  “Here, please; it’s more exciting. Earwigs never drop into one’s tea indoors. Oh, there is Stephen!”

  Steph came sauntering out of the library window, which was flung open to let the warm, rose-scented air into his room. He was looking very untidy, Elizabeth thought, in old grey flannels and a tweed coat. When he saw Nina he shouted, Hullo and hurried towards her.

  “I say, old girl, this is topping of you! Have you been here long? Why did no one tell me? How are you, kid?”

  Elizabeth was considerably taken aback to see him implant a brotherly kiss on Nina’s cheek, and give her shoulders a quick hug.

  “Jolly quiet, weren’t you?” he remarked. He smiled down at Elizabeth. “She generally heralds her arrival with loud cries.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be disturbed,” Elizabeth explained.

  Nina sat down again and opened her sunshade.

  “I was severely checked. I think you’re very lucky to have such a nice wife, Stephen.”

  “I am,” he said. “You’re not in the sun, Nina, so why the outspread umbrella?”

  “’Tisn’t an umbrella,” she protested. “If you weren’t so abominably dense, you’d grasp the fact that it’s a new sunshade, and I’m ostentatiously displaying its glories.” She tilted a laughing face towards Elizabeth. “Don’t you think it’s rather lovely?” she inquired. “The strange flower just under the butterfly excited Daddy’s interest. He had an idea that it’s a Tetrapetalous Argemene Mexicana, but he isn’t sure. Anyway, I tell people that it is, because it sounds so impressive.”

  “What is it in its week-day clothes?” asked Stephen, poking daisies into the buckle of Elizabeth’s shoe. He was seated on the grass, between their chairs.

  “My dear, I haven’t a notion! I hope no one ever tells me, because it’s sure to be something quite ordinary and unromantic.”

  Tea was brought on a folding table, which Nina prophesied would collapse, and immediately the midges and caterpillars made themselves felt. As Elizabeth poured out she took covert stock of Nina, and admitted, r
eluctantly, that she was pretty, in a vivacious way, and very appealing. Perhaps that was because she was so small and thin, and because her face was so mobile. She had strange eyes, always changing; they were attractive too, both in mischief and in gravity.

  Nina fished a fly out of her cup.

  “Victim number one. Luckily I’m not a vegetarian. How’s Geoffrey, Stephen?”

  “He isn’t,” Stephen answered, selecting a sandwich from the dish. “How very timid cucumber can be. You bite one end, and it evacuates the sandwich hurriedly at the other end.”

  “But why is Geoffrey not?” Nina demanded.

  “He became Norman half-way through the book,” Stephen explained.

  “And it was all torn up,” added Elizabeth.

  “How drastic! Still, what a lot of things he can do now he’s Norman. Norman could fail to catch the train; Geoffrey would have to be there ten minutes before it started.”

  “Exactly,” Stephen said. “As Norman he was able to jilt Caroline with perfect grace. As Geoffrey he became a cad from that moment.”

  “I don’t see it a bit,” Elizabeth declared. “He’d be a cad anyway.”

  “No, not at all. If you capture everyone’s sympathy you’re not a cad. Norman does, you see. Naturally.”

  “Just because of his name? Stephen, how silly you are!” She said it all laughingly, but she felt that he really was silly.

  “What a horrid insult!” Nina said. “Never mind, Stephen, I appreciate the true inwardness of Norman. What does Cynny think? Or doesn’t she know?”

  “Of course she does. I notified the whole family in a series of telephone calls. Cynny said, Marvellous! he can murder Caroline. I hadn’t thought of that. Mater was inclined to be upset. She said, Poor dear Geoffrey! I once had a canary called Geoffrey. That revelation sealed his doom.”

  Nina gave a little spurt of laughter.

  “Oh, how sweet of Aunt Charmian! Something invariably reminds her of something else, delightfully irrelevant.”

  Elizabeth picked up the milk-jug.

  “The only sane member of the family was Anthony. He sent a telegram:—‘It leaves me cold.’ That amused me.”

  “Neither you nor Anthony,” Stephen said, “has a soul. Nina, d’you remember the day mater had a tea-fight under this very tree and Bertie Tyrell withdrew to the bank and wrote a poem about introspection?”

  “Oh, lord yes! And read it to Lady Ribblemere.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Nobody understood the poem; it was all dots. When Bertie got to the last line, which was ‘God! I am glad,’ Lady Ribblemere said ‘Dear me!’ in a most surprised voice.”

  “Yes,” nodded Stephen, “and then she billowed over to Bertie’s wife, and said, ‘Can you tell me who is that extraordinary person?’”

  “How awful!” Elizabeth interjected, feeling that she ought to say something.

  “Well, I don’t know,” pondered Stephen. “If you’re Futuristic at a tea-fight you must expect the worst. By the way, we must ask the Tyrells down, ’Lisbeth. They’ll amuse you.”

  “You’d better not,” said Nina. “Bertie’s got a marmoset, and he won't go anywhere without it. He brought it down to us for the week-end, and it made havoc amongst the Saxifraga TJmbrosa.”

  “The animal showed a considerable amount of discrimination then,” said Stephen.

  Nina gathered up her belongings, and rose.

  “No, it was purely vindictive. It removed the cockatoo’s crest. Mother nearly committed suicide. Thank you very much for my nice tea, Elizabeth. The next time you see me I shall have white kid gloves on. You’ll know what that means. We’ll bring Daddy to call on you too, and he’ll walk round the garden, saying, ‘Charming, charming! What induced you to plant the peonies in so unsuitable a spot?’ Only he won’t call them peonies, so you’ll be none the wiser. Goodbye, both of you! I’ve enjoyed myself awfully.”

  “We’ll walk with you to the gate,” Elizabeth said.

  “I shan’t,” Stephen murmured. “I’m busy.”

  “Stephen!” Elizabeth exclaimed, just a little shocked.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lady Ribblemere from the Manor was the next to call. She filled the drawing-room, or so it seemed to Elizabeth, and talked heavily, but kindly, about hardy perennials and young ducklings. Then she said,

  “So you went to Florence on your honeymoon. That must have been very delightful! The Uffizzi and—and that sort of thing. I always think it so good for one to travel. One is inclined to become insular, don’t you think? But of course when you get to my age you prefer home-comforts. And how is Stephen?”

  “Very well, thank you.” Elizabeth wondered how often she would have to answer this question. “Hard at work.”

  “Ah, then I will not disturb him!” Lady Ribblemere said, rising ponderously. “I will just look in at him and say how do you do?”

  Feeling entirely helpless, Elizabeth followed her into the library. Stephen looked up, and rose, putting down his pen.

  “No, don’t get up,” said Lady Ribblemere. “I shall feel I am interrupting you if you do. I only popped in to see how you were, and to tell you how pleased we all are to see you back again, with your wife.”

  Stephen shook hands, saying that Lady Ribblemere was very kind.

  “And how is your dear mother?” she went on. “It is quite an age since I saw her.”

  “She’s flourishing, thank you,” Stephen answered. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “No, I really mustn’t stay a moment,” she said, choosing the sofa. “I was on my way out when I decided to look in on you. And how is Cynthia?”

  “She’s suffering from a slight cold at the moment, but it’s nothing much,” Stephen answered.

  “Ah, I am sorry to hear that. It is to be hoped the dear baby won’t catch it. How is the baby?”

  Elizabeth, seated beside her, replied to this question.

  “So bonny,” she said. “Cynthia writes that he is learning to walk. Isn’t he forward?”

  Lady Ribblemere looked rather concerned, and shook her head so that the plumes in her enormous hat nodded like a row of mandarins.

  “I do not think that Cynthia should allow him to walk yet,” she said. “I don’t believe in forcing children. None of mine walked at his age. Dear me, I have not asked after Mr. Ruthven! I hope he is well?”

  “Yes, quite, thank you. I believe they are both going to Scotland next month.”

  “That will be very nice, I am sure. I used to go to Scotland myself in my husband’s shooting days. Dear me, is that your spaniel I see under the table? So you still have her! Come along, little doggy! Come along!”

  Flo retired further under the table.

  “How is Sir George?” asked Stephen, catching Elizabeth’s eye as he said it.

  “Thank you, he is as well as can be expected. I always say that when you pass the age of fifty it is not to be supposed that you will feel the same as you did at thirty.”

  “Er—no,” said Stephen.

  Lady Ribblemere’s glance wandered round the room.

  “Is that your new book I see on the table?”

  “The beginning of it,” Stephen smiled.

  “How very interesting! Dear me, I am sure no one would have said when you were a little boy that you would grow into a writer! I think I must really try and read one of your novels. I remember my husband was very pleased with them, but, as you know, I seldom read fiction nowadays. At my age one feels that it is rather waste of time.” She turned to Elizabeth. “It must be very interesting to have a writer for a husband. I expect you read his books together?”

  N-no, said Elizabeth. “I am hoping to be allowed to see this one soon.”

  “You should read it to her, Stephen. She would be able to help you. And now I must really be going. Tell me, Stephen, is that a new photograph of little Christopher I see on the mantelpiece?”

  Stephen handed it to her.

  “Cynthia sent it to me a few days ago. He’s growing quite large, isn’t he
?”

  Lady Ribblemere began to fumble in her lap for her lorgnettes. Through them she stared at the photograph.

  “Dear me, yes! He’s very like Mr. Ruthven, don’t you think? Not at all like Cynthia, the dear little man. Yes, that is very interesting. If I remember rightly, you are his godfather?”

  “I am. It’s an onerous position.”

  “Ah, I daresay,” Lady Ribblemere said vaguely. “It seems incredible that Cynthia should have a child of her own. Time flies indeed. Which reminds me that I must be going.” She heaved herself out of the sofa. “No, do not trouble to escort me to the gate, Stephen. I shall feel that I am interrupting you in your work. You and your wife must come up to dine with us one evening. Perhaps the Vicar and Mrs. Edmondston would come too. I must arrange it. Goodbye, Mrs. Ramsay, or may I call you Elizabeth? We have had a delightful little talk. I wish you would not come with me, Stephen; I am sure you are very busy.” Her voice died away in the passage; Elizabeth drew a deep breath, and started to giggle. When Stephen came back he was scowling; Elizabeth became grave at once.

  “Damn the woman!” snapped Stephen. “What on earth did you bring her in here for?”

  Elizabeth shrank slightly from the roughness of his voice.

  “I didn’t. She—just came. I couldn’t help it.”

  “Good lord, I should think you might have raked up some excuse! Infernal old wind-bag. Of course that’s the end of my work for to-day.”

  “Really, Stephen, I don’t see why you need be so angry about it!” Elizabeth said, hurt. “After all, she didn’t stay long, and she was very kind and nice.”

  Stephen groaned.

  “Good God, can’t you understand that a thing like that’s enough to put me off for a week?”

  “No, I can’t,” Elizabeth said, angry in her turn. “And anyway I’m not going to be talked to like that! Anyone would think it was my fault!”

  “Well, I do think you might have said that I was out, or ill,” he grumbled.

  “If people take the trouble to call on us, the least you can do is to receive them pleasantly,” said Elizabeth, quoting largely from Miss Arden.

  “I have yet to learn that it is the man’s duty to receive calls,” Stephen replied sarcastically. “And as for Lady Ribblemere—I can’t bear the woman. She’s positively rude. Fancy saying that she considered novel-reading waste of time! Beastly bad form.”