Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  “Don’t bother, dear.” He poured water into the basin, and began to wash his hands. She saw that they were unsteady, and grew calmer. She held the towel ready for him to use; in silence he dried his hands. Then they went back into the other room, and Elizabeth stammered,

  “S-sit down, won’t you? I—you’ll—er—stay to tea— with me?”

  Gravely he answered.

  “It rather depends—on what you’re going to say to me, Elizabeth. Your letter—didn’t tell me much.”

  “I—there’s a great deal—I must say. I—I am trying—but it’s difficult. There’s—there’s so much, you see.”

  “Do I—make it difficult for you?” he asked gently.

  “No. I—I expect it’s my own stupidity.” She smiled wanly. “I’m not so stupid as I was, Stephen. I—I couldn’t be, could I?”

  He did not answer. She stared into the fire, and tried to steady her voice.

  “I—I want to tell you, Stephen, that—if you still want me—I’ll come back to you.”

  He made a quick movement, as though to take her hand; she could not meet his eyes, but she knew that they were alight and eager.

  “You’ll come back? You— What—do you mean, Elizabeth?”

  She swallowed hard; the colour tinged her cheeks again.

  “I mean—of course—as your—wife,” she said, almost inaudibly.

  He was leaning forward, his eyes on her face.

  “I—still don’t understand. Elizabeth —” he paused, then almost harshly said, “Do you love me?”

  Her head sank lower.

  “No, Stephen. I’m—not—cheating, you see.”

  He rose, and went to the window, hands deep in his pockets. How well she knew that quick nervous step, and the furrow between his brows!

  “Why do you offer to come back then?” he demanded, over his shoulder.

  “There are—so many reasons. I—I think the biggest one—the best one—is that I’ve realised at last that—it’s my duty to—to return to you—if you want me.” She looked wistfully across the room towards him. He said nothing. With an effort she continued. “I—want to—explain—a little. I—you see, when you—married me I was so awfully—young and—and foolish—and uncontrolled. I—wasn’t ready, and—and I wasn’t wise enough to see that—having married you—I’d got to—fulfill my share of our—bargain. You—you were very kind to me, Stephen. Very patient. I didn’t appreciate that at the time. I’ve learned to—just lately, thinking it over. It wasn’t—your fault—that things went wrong between us. It was mine. Only—I hadn’t really had—a fair start. I—I hadn’t ever faced the—realities of life. I—cheated, just as you said. That—wasn’t all my fault, either. It—it was how I was brought up. I’m—not excusing myself, only—trying—to explain.” Again she paused, and still he said nothing. “You—you were quite right—to let me go. I’ve done a lot of—thinking during these months. I wasn’t fair to you before. I—I shirked what was my duty. I—won’t do that again—if—if you’ll take me back.” That was what she had made up her mind to say; it hadn’t been so very difficult after all.

  Stephen swung round to face her.

  “You mean you’ll come back to me because you conceive it to be your duty. Because you’re sorry for me. Yes, out of pity. Do you think—do you think I could—take you— like that?”

  She raised her eyes to his face; sadness lay in them, and it hurt him to see it there.

  “I—was afraid—you might not—want me,” she said simply.

  “Want you!” He flung out his hand, then swiftly thrust it back into his pocket. “God, if you but knew!”

  She was unutterably relieved; everything seemed blank and awful while she thought he would not take her back.

  “It’s not duty only,” she said. “All these months— the loneliness—I—I can’t live by myself any longer. I can’t! I—once said I hated you. It wasn’t true, Stephen. I—don’t love you—not as I should love you, but I miss you—when you’re not with me, and for my own sake I—I want to come back. But—but if you don’t want me, say so! Please say so!”

  “I want you so much that—” he checked himself. He began to pace restlessly up and down the room. From the sofa Elizabeth watched him and knew, now that her fate was uncertain, that she must go back to him. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited, wondering what would become of her if he refused to take her home. He came to a halt before her, and his voice when he spoke was hard with suppressed feeling.

  “Look at me. Yes. I thought so. You’re frightened, Elizabeth. Frightened—of me! Frightened lest I should agree to your terms. Aren’t you?”

  The words came rapped out sternly, but they did not alarm Elizabeth. She was thinking, How nice to hear him call me Elizabeth! I must always have hated Charles’s “Betty,” I suppose.

  “No, Stephen. I’m not frightened. Not—as you think.”

  The hardness went out of him; he knelt, and she thought that she heard him sigh. He laid a firm, reassuring hand over her fingers, and held them tightly.

  “Oh, my darling, my darling!” he said huskily, just as he might have said it a year ago. His head went down, his lips touched her sleeve. “I know—and I’m—grateful. You needn’t be frightened; I love you too much to accept your terms. If you come back to me it will be platonically. There shall never be anything more than—friendship between us, until you wish it. Perhaps—that way—you’ll learn to care. You’ll only learn—to hate me—the other way.”

  Something within her chest seemed to swell and grow warm; she had thought this man a monster. Her fingers moved under his and clasped them.

  “That would be cheating still, Stephen. Not—fair.”

  “No, sweetheart, because I know where I stand. We’ve wiped out the old bargain and made a new one. Mine are the only terms on which I’ll take you home.”

  She looked at him in wonderment. Shyly she said.

  “Can—you—bear those—terms?”

  He was surprised; for her to have said that showed that she had changed indeed.

  “I must, ’Lisbeth. I don’t pretend—that it’ll be easy, but I can’t live—without you. I’ve—I’ve been through hell and I’ll be content—with just your—companionship. I can do nothing without you. I—” The words choked in his throat. Again he kissed her wrist.

  “You make me ashamed,” she said, very low. “I—oh, you make me ashamed.”

  “There’s no need for you to be that, my darling. When you’ve—dreaded final—separation—as I’ve dreaded it— this compact seems—a great deal. More than I expected. Only—think it over, ’Lisbeth, out of fairness to yourself. It wasn’t only the—physical part that upset you. It was everything. You couldn’t stand things I did and said; I got on your nerves. Won’t that happen again, however hard I try to prevent it?”

  There was a rush of tears to her eyes.

  “Ah, don’t, Stephen! I’ve learned better ways, truly I have! Living alone has taught me—so much! I’ll be thankful for anything now—not criticising or letting myself be intolerant over the tiny details that don’t matter. You see, I’ve discovered that they don’t. I’m not saying this—out of impulse; I’ve thought and thought, and I know what I’m about this time. I’ve—had my eyes—thoroughly opened.”

  “Then come, Elizabeth,” he said. “My—beautiful Elizabeth!”

  There was more yet to be told; she would not shirk that task.

  “Let me get up, Stephen. There’s something else. You’ve—got to—hear it.”

  He rose at once, and it seemed to her that the haggard look crept back into his face. She came tremblingly to her feet, and stared resolutely up at him.

  “About—Charles,” she said, with an effort.

  The lids closed over his eyes for an instant; she saw him square his shoulders, in readiness for a blow.

  “You may not want me—I—you probably heard—things. People—talked. I let—him make—love to me. I—it was wrong, wicked—only I was—so lonely,
and—and I thought that he was nice—and—”

  He took a swift step towards her, brow lowering, eyes dark with suspicious anger.

  “What did he do to you? Tell me, Elizabeth! Tell me at once! What did he do?”

  The savagery in his voice sent a thrill through her.

  “Oh, no, Stephen! Nothing! I—oh, you didn’t think he was—was—my lover?”

  “No!”

  She drew a deep breath of relief.

  “He wasn’t, Stephen. But—he—might have been. That’s what I must tell you. If he hadn’t shown—himself to me—as he was—I might have gone away with him. I don’t know. It never got further than a—vulgar flirtation, but I—I let him take me out, and—and all sorts of things. Horrid things. I let him make love to me. I—I wanted him to. Do—do you still want me—now that— you know?”

  She thought he was going to take her in his arms, but he only put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Could you doubt me, ’Lisbeth? As if that would count!”

  She bowed her head.

  “I didn’t—know. I—I beg your pardon.”

  There was a little silence. When Stephen spoke again it was lightly; she knew that Wendell, all thought of him, had been swept from their lives.

  “The Halt is waiting for you, ’Lisbeth. When will you come?”

  “As soon as you like, Stephen.”

  “My darling, that’s now. Can you manage it?”

  “lean, yes. But I haven’t seen Father or Aunt yet. I think I ought to tell them first. It doesn’t matter, of course, but they’d be hurt if I didn’t. And—I’d like to see Mater, too. She’s been—wonderful to me.”

  “To-morrow then? After lunch?”

  “Yes, I could be ready by then, if I pack now. Only what about Mrs. Cotton, Stephen? Won’t she object?”

  “Who the devil’s Mrs. Cotton?” he demanded.

  She laughed.

  “My landlady. She’s so awful, Stephen! She calls me ‘pore dear.’ At least, she did when I had ’flu.”

  “You’ve had ’flu again?” lie said quickly. “Here? Who looked after you?”

  “No one. Mrs. Cotton.”

  “But, my darling!” Stephen exclaimed in concern. “Where was your aunt?”

  “Away. I didn’t want her. I was all right.”

  “All right! I ought never to have let you live alone! You’re not fit to take care of yourself, ’Lisbeth.”

  “No, I don’t think I am. I never know what to do in hotels, or things like that. That reminds me, won’t Mrs. Cotton want a week’s notice?”

  “Not if I pay her the full week. Never mind about that; I’ll attend to it. All you have to do is to pack your things, and see your people. You can leave everything else to me.”

  “Oh, I think I’d better—”

  “Everything else to me,” Stephen repeated firmly.

  A man’s got to feel good and masterful, or he’s only half a man, had said Mrs. Gabriel. Elizabeth smiled a little. “Very well, Stephen! Thank you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When Stephen came to fetch Elizabeth next day he asked her whether she would rather go to Paris than to Queen’s Halt.

  “Darling, I’ve been thinking about it, and I wonder whether you’d like to go abroad instead of into the country? You didn’t like the Halt in the winter, did you? So if you’d prefer—”

  “But I shouldn’t, Stephen. Thank you very much. I want to go back to the Halt. I need it.”

  His eyes brightened.

  “Sure?”

  “Quite sure. Quite ready too.”

  “Oh, splendid, Elizabeth! You saw your people?”

  “Yes. They were glad, I think. Auntie cried. I don’t know why.”

  “My dear, your aunt—” He stopped, remembering that she would brook no criticism of her relatives.

  “I know,” Elizabeth said. “She always does. Say what you like, Stephen. You must. Anything that comes into your head.”

  He stared at her.

  “You wouldn’t like it if I did, Elizabeth.”

  “No, perhaps not, at first. But I’m going to get used to it. I’ve—I’ve come to the conclusion that reticence— is rather dangerous. We’ll be quite frank with each other now. I’m learning a lot, aren’t I? Unlearning a lot too. I’ve got into the way of thinking quite honestly to myself. One does if one’s alone. Oh, Mrs. Cotton thinks you’re a real gentleman! She said so!”

  “How flattering!” he said. “Are you going to bid her a fond farewell now? Shall I lend you my handkerchief?”

  “Oh, I shan’t cry as much as that!” she smiled.

  They came home in the twilight and drove up the avenue to the house under damp trees, and over rotting leaves. Lights gleamed in the windows; somewhere a dog barked, not a challenge, but a welcome. Elizabeth saw the wolfhound bound out to meet them, and Flo, the cocker, and a great gladness rose in her throat. Dumbly she alighted, and stood still, looking about her, marvelling that everything should be still untroubled here, and the same. The flower-beds gleamed wet and dark; through the dusk she saw chrysanthemums, golden and red and white; at her feet were pale Christmas roses; behind her stood the house glowing warm from many lights, protective, she thought, her home.

  Stephen’s hand on her arm; his voice in her ear:

  “My dear?”

  “It is beautiful,” she said. “Even in winter. Why didn’t I see that before?”

  “I don’t know, ’Lisbeth. Perhaps you hadn’t learned to see.”

  “All my life,” Elizabeth said slowly, “I’ve been blind. A fool. Just a fool. Oh . . . Nana!”

  Nana came out of the open door. She waited a moment, then quietly she said,

  “Good evening, madam. This is a great day for the Halt.”

  Elizabeth stepped forward, and held out her hand.

  “It’s a great day for me, Nana. A fresh start.”

  “That’s good, madam. We’ve missed you.”

  Jerry, the Airedale, came racing round the corner of the house to throw himself upon Elizabeth; Stephen let go the wolf-hound’s collar, and Elizabeth, laughing, dishevelled, was lost under the violent welcome of the dogs.

  Dinner in the panelled dining-room that evening was rather a silent meal, but across the table Stephen could see Elizabeth’s eyes shining in content.

  Candles, orange shaded, cast a warm light over the polished table; the silver sparkled, and the glass; a great bowl of hothouse carnations stood in the middle of the table, trailing asparagus fern about it. A carnation was tucked into Elizabeth’s napkin; she fastened it in her dress, and smiled her thanks to Stephen.

  “After lodging-houses this—” her gesture embraced all the room—“is very comforting.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m looking forward to my own bed to-night. At Mrs. Cotton’s I had to arrange myself amongst the bumps.”

  “Poor ’Lisbeth!” Stephen said. “You shall stay in bed all day.”

  “Oh, no!” she said. “I shall get up very early and go and see the ducks. Oh, and Stephen!—could I have a cow one day?”

  “A cow?” he asked, puzzled. “What for?”

  “For fun. Two cows. One might be lonely. I’ve been staying on a farm, and I learned to milk them. I’d like a pig, too, please. Yes, and a pet lamb. Or would the dogs kill it?”

  “We can teach them to leave it alone,” he said, with twitching lips. Then his amusement got the better of him. “Oh, Elizabeth, you funny kid! Are you going to start a farm?”

  “We’ll see,” she said profoundly. “If I did, we’d have to have more land. I don’t think the neighbours would approve, would they?”

  “Do we care?” he asked.

  She considered.

  “You don’t,” she said. “I—well, do I?”

  “A bit. You’ll learn to send them to the devil, same as I do.”

  “I wonder?” Elizabeth said.

  She awoke next morning early, and lay for some time revelling in her surroundings. She was dressed and downst
airs long before Stephen had moved. He came down to find her with her hands full of winter daisies, flushed and bright-eyed. He did not kiss her, although he knew she would have permitted it, but laid his hands on her shoulders, and huskily said,

  “The utter bliss—to see you here!”

  She blushed, and bent her head over the flowers.

  “Aren’t they beautiful, Stephen?”

  “And you,” he said.

  “Also the smell of the coffee,” Elizabeth remarked. “Let’s have breakfast now; I’m famishing.”

  Over breakfast he said carelessly,

  “You know Nina’s going to be married next month?”

  “No! Good gracious, I thought— Whom to?”

  “Young Hemingway. They sail for India in January. Hemingway thinks everything Nina does is perfect. Even that extraordinary novel. Do you remember it?”

  Of course she remembered. How she had hated it, and the endless discussions concerning it. Now she laughed, and nodded.

  “Yes. She would read it to you. It was awfully silly, you know. I didn’t know much about it at the time, but now I realise that no girl would have said the sort of things Jasmine said when Horace asked her to go away with him. By the way, Stephen, what are you writing now? I loved ‘Caraway Seeds.’”

  “Really?” he said eagerly.

  “Yes. I didn’t appreciate it at first, but I’ve read it three times now. What about the new book?”

  He shrugged despairingly.

  “It wouldn’t come. It will now that I’ve got you again.”

  “Isn’t any of it written?”

  “Oh, a page or two.”

  She leaned forward.

  “Give them to me to-day, will you, Stephen?”

  “What for?” he asked. “They’re no good.”

  “Never mind. I want them.”

  “All right, but what’s the idea?”

  She smiled mysteriously.

  “You’ll see. I’m going to present you with a sample.”

  He was thoroughly intrigued.

  “Sample of what?”

  “Don’t be so inquisitive. I’ll show you when it’s done.”

  He shook his head.

  “I wish I knew what you were getting at,” he said.

  After breakfast Elizabeth went to Nana’s room, and stayed there for along time, talking. At the end of their conversation they shook hands, and Nana said,