Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  “It will be quite different this time, madam, if we can work together.” Then she spoke in her usual tone, and said sharply, “And I hope to goodness you’re not thinking of walking to the village in those thin shoes, madam. You’ll catch your death of cold if you do.”

  Elizabeth knew then that Nana had accepted her at last. She changed her shoes, and, armed with a basket, went with the dogs into the village.

  The sight of Lady Ribblemere emerging from the butcher’s shop, sent the blood racing to her cheeks. Her first impulse was to turn and run away; she conquered it, and went on, head held high.

  “Dear me, if it is not Mrs. Ramsay!” exclaimed Lady Ribblemere. “I had no idea you were back. And where have you been all this time, I wonder? There were some very strange stories afloat, but I paid very little heed to them. I always think rumours so untrustworthy.”

  Elizabeth looked her full in the face.

  “Stephen and I have been living apart,” she said clearly. “So I expect the rumours you heard were true.”

  Lady Ribblemere became uncomfortable, and somewhat flustered.

  “Living apart, my dear! I hope that is all over now? Such a dreadful thing! Ah, I see you have the dogs with you! I do not think I have ever seen so large a dog as Hector. I hope you will have no fights. I always think a dog-fight such a terrible thing. And how is Stephen?”

  “He’s quite well, thank you.”

  “What a merciful thing! And his dear mother? I have not seen her for quite an age.”

  “She’s well too. All the family is flourishing.”

  Evidently Lady Ribblemere was disappointed at having her solicitous enquiries cut short, for after a moment’s indecision she turned away, and said vaguely,

  “Well, I must be trotting off. I will come and call on you again one day next week and we will have another little talk.”

  In the grocer’s shop Elizabeth walked straight into the Vicar’s wife, who exclaimed loudly, and stepped back to inspect her.

  “Good gracious, I thought you were in town!” she said, in piercing tones. “Mrs. Trelawney saw you there with some man. So you and Mr. Ramsay haven’t separated after all? What an extraordinary thing!”

  “That we haven’t separated?” Elizabeth asked, seething with inward indignation.

  Mrs. Edmondston gave vent to a shrill laugh.

  “What queer things you do say, dear Mrs. Ramsay! No, really, I’m so delighted to find that all is well with you. One heard such strange rumours. How glad the Vicar will be when I tell him! He was most upset when he heard that one of his flock had gone astray. He always thinks of the people here as his flock. Such a charming idea, isn’t it?

  He will be overjoyed. He is so conscientious, you know. But I suppose I should not say that, being his wife. Perhaps you and he will have a little talk one day. He is so sympathetic.”

  Elizabeth smiled coldly, but said nothing. When she returned to the Halt she found Stephen in the library, writing. Remembering how she had annoyed him before by creeping about for fear of disturbing him, she went boldly in, and proceeded to let fly.

  “I am to have a talk with the dear Vicar, because he’s so sympathetic, and I am one of his flock. And isn’t it an extraordinary thing that we haven’t separated after all? The dear Vicar was so upset.”

  Stephen put down his pen.

  “Shall I go and knock his teeth down his throat? Blasted impertinence! Elizabeth, you look such a darling when you’re angry.”

  She laughed.

  “It wasn’t the Vicar. He wouldn’t have said such things; he’s nice. It was his—his—I can’t think of a bad enough word—his abominable, beastly, inquisitive pig of a wife.”

  “Why didn’t you throw a bloater at her?” asked Stephen, seeing them in her basket.

  “Oh, what an awful idea!” cried Elizabeth, bubbling over. “Fancy her astonishment.” Then she thought that she would make fun of Lady Ribblemere too, to make Stephen laugh.

  He did laugh; he said she was a wonderful mimic. She went away thinking, How easy it is! Why didn’t I do all this before?

  She went to him proudly that evening, and laid a typewritten copy of the beginning of his manuscript before him. He stared at it, and then at her.

  “What—who?” He picked the sheet up. “’Lisbeth, you didn’t do this, surely?”

  “Yes, I did,” she said. “That’s the sample. Will you take me on?”

  He jumped up.

  “My darling, how wonderful of you! When did you learn?”

  “Months ago. Mr. Hengist gave me a Remington. I’ve been taking in typing.”

  That didn’t please Stephen. His chin went up aggressively.

  “What for?”

  “Oh—amusement!” she said, watching him.

  “Were you paid for it?”

  “Of course I was.”

  He looked down at her sternly; she thought, He’s being masterful.

  “You needed the money?”

  “Y-es.”

  “So sooner than touch mine you—took in typing!”

  “I’m very sorry,” she said meekly. “I don’t see why you should mind, though.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, of course I mind! It—it galls me horribly!”

  She hung her head, but contrived still to watch his face.

  “Well, I won’t do it any more if you’d rather I didn’t,” she said dutifully.

  “Certainly you will do no more,” Stephen said severely. “I know now why you look so run down and tired.”

  She suppressed a smile.

  “That was ’flu, Stephen.”

  “Due to pounding away at a typewriter,” he said.

  “But Stephen, can’t I do your typing?” she asked. “I was looking forward to that so much.”

  “No, darling,” Stephen answered firmly. “It’s not fit for you.”

  Elizabeth was beginning to enjoy herself; this was an interesting game. She tried the effect of a sigh, quite a small one.

  “I thought—it would give me such an interest in your work,” she murmured. “But perhaps I don’t type well enough?”

  “It’s not that a bit!” he said quickly. “You type beautifully! How ever you could unravel my writing beats me!”

  She went closer to him.

  “I loved doing it, Stephen. If I promise not to tire myself, won’t you let me?”

  He was weakening, she could see that. He looked at her uncertainly.

  “You’d get so sick of it, ’Lisbeth.”

  “I’ll stop if I do. But I like typing.”

  “Well, if I let you, it must only be my stuff. I won’t have you slaving over other people’s work.”

  “Oh no, Stephen, of course not!”

  “I’ll let you do it as long as you don’t overtire yourself,” Stephen said, with the air of one making a great concession.

  “Thank you, Stephen,” Elizabeth said demurely.

  That incident, trivial though it was, seemed to make a difference to her. She had discovered how to manage Stephen; she was secretly elated; she had been wily, and had gained her point.

  Stephen was late for lunch next day. His worried apology touched her; almost she felt maternal. She said, It doesn’t matter, and for the first time in her life really felt that it didn’t.

  Stephen’s attitude puzzled her. There was very little of the lover in his demeanour, except sometimes when he looked at her. The expression in his eyes then made her drop her own quickly; it disturbed her, because it told her so much. In his manner was sometimes constraint, but mostly he preserved an attitude of protective friendliness. Never once did he attempt an embrace or refer to their unnatural existence, but she knew that it was in his mind, that he was watching her, and waiting.

  Her part was difficult to play. She felt that all the time she was behaving in a manner not her own, and it was a strain on her. Yet it was becoming more easy, bit by bit, made easy, no doubt, by the guard he set upon his temper and his frank tongue.

  But his temper c
ould not always be controlled. Hard at work on his novel he would grow tired and irritable and snappy. In the old days Elizabeth would have shown her hurt and her indignation; now she remembered the words of Mrs. Gabriel, and tried to be patient.

  He lost a sheaf of papers containing notes for his book. That was everybody’s fault but his own. He upset his drawers in search of the notes, and when Elizabeth came in, greeted her in a tone of rampant exasperation.

  “Ah!” he said. His tone said, Here is the culprit! “There seems to be a conspiracy in this house to hide my papers! Good Lord, I should think I’ve told you often enough that I won’t have anything in this room disturbed! It’s really disgraceful!”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort. This was rank injustice; she wanted to defend herself. Then she remembered Mrs. Gabriel, and managed to smile.

  “What have you lost, Stephen? I don’t think I’ve touched anything of yours. Can I help to find it?”

  “My notes,” he growled, more quietly. “I really do think you might tell the servants to leave my room alone.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Have you looked in that chest in the corner?”

  “My dear girl, is it likely I should put them in there?” Stephen demanded.

  “You might have done it in an absent-minded moment,” she said. Now that the first flash of anger had subsided she was beginning to find this game interesting too. It was rather fun taming the fury of an unreasonable man-creature; it made you feel so old and Machiavellian.

  Stephen ransacked another drawer.

  “Chest indeed! The last place in the world where I should put them! Really, this is enough to put one off for a week.”

  Elizabeth went to the chest and tried the lid.

  “It’s locked!” Stephen snapped.

  “Do open it!” she coaxed. “I shan’t feel satisfied until I’ve looked inside.”

  “If anyone looks it ’ll be me,” Stephen said disagreeably. “I don’t want all my papers in a havoc.”

  In the face of the muddle he himself had made in his efforts to find the missing notes, this was more unreasonable than ever. Elizabeth choked down another retort.

  “All right. You come and look. Do, Stephen!”

  He came unwillingly, and unlocked the chest.

  “It’s perfectly ridiculous,” he said. “I shouldn’t be such a fool as to forget that I put them here. You seem to have a very poor opinion of my— Oh!” He lifted the notes out of the chest and scowled mightily.

  Wonderfully innocent, Elizabeth said,

  “Perhaps one of the maids did it. I’ll speak to them about it.”

  Stephen looked around at her sharply; she maintained an air of guileless gravity. Stephen’s lips quivered; a twinkle came into his eyes; he began to laugh. Elizabeth laughed too, and at last Stephen said,

  “Oh, ’Lisbeth, I am a bad-tempered swine! I’m awfully sorry.”

  Elizabeth thought, How right Mrs. Gabriel was! What a fool I used to be!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A month slipped by; Stephen said that it was time they thought about Christmas. What would Elizabeth like to do? Elizabeth did not know; she would do what Stephen wanted. They stayed at this deadlock until a rambling letter came from Mrs. Ramsay, inviting them to spend Christmas with her, if they had nothing better to do.

  “Oh, let’s do that!” Elizabeth said. “I want to see Mater again.”

  She feared Cynthia’s presence at the flat, but Cynthia had gone with Anthony to his parents, in Norfolk. She was relieved out of all proportion.

  “Darling,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “I’ve asked ever so many people to dinner, but I can’t remember who, or how many. Isn’t it trying? Stephen, whom do you suppose I asked?”

  “Colonel Lambert and Bertha Tarrant,” Stephen said promptly.

  “So I did,” Mrs. Ramsay agreed. “Oh, and Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher. Elizabeth, Thomas nearly seized the turkey this morning. Wasn’t it awful? You’re in disgrace, aren’t you, my angel?”

  Thomas grinned widely and flattened his ears.

  The party was a merry one, and Mrs. Ramsay more than usually amusing. The Tyrells were present, wilder than ever, and to Elizabeth just as incomprehensible. She thought them mad, and sometimes improper, but Stephen’s eyes twinkled at her across the table, and she was able to tolerate the Tyrells. Stephen understood her feelings; that was a bond between them which made things easier to bear.

  After Christmas they returned to the Halt, and this time it was Elizabeth who chafed to he in the country again. As soon as Stephen completed a chapter of his hook she typed it, and gradually her interest in the work grew till it was almost as if the book were her own.

  Quite unconsciously she was helping him. She went to him once with a sheet of his manuscript, and pointed out a word.

  “Stephen, is that ‘crude’ or ‘coarse’?”

  He looked at it, then at her.

  “‘Crude.’” he said slowly, thinking.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth frowned a little, and turned away. Stephen’s voice followed her.

  “It ought to be ‘coarse.’ Of course it ought. Thanks for pointing it out, ’Lisbeth.”

  “‘Crude’ doesn’t seem to be quite the word you want,” she said apologetically.

  “Not a bit. Change it, will you?”

  The characters in the book became alive to her. She remembered the impatience she had felt when Stephen and Nina had talked of Norman as though he were a personal friend. She had learned to talk in just the same way about Colin Cardew, the impossible detective whose adventures she had typed out on paper. Miss Arden had thought it silly; Elizabeth saw now that it wasn’t silly at all, but quite natural.

  It was she who first spoke of Stephen’s book in this fashion; he was careful never to speak of it, for fear of boring her.

  “When’s Frances coming back from Egypt?” she asked, one day at lunch.

  Surprise and gratification leaped into Stephen’s eyes.

  “Oh, do you miss her?”

  “Yes, quite. I’m fond of Frances.”

  “I’ll bring her back at once,” Stephen said. “What do you think of Davison?”

  Her eyes fell; she toyed with her glass.

  “Oh—I don’t care about him much.”

  “Untrue to life?”

  “No.” Of impulse she added, “Too true. I—I recognise Charles.”

  “If that’s so, ’Lisbeth, it happened without my knowing it. He isn’t meant to be Charles.”

  “I’m glad he isn’t,” Elizabeth said simply.

  Lady Ribblemere came to see her one afternoon, and made a determined effort to break into the library. Elizabeth managed to keep her out for some time, but before she took her departure Lady Ribblemere insisted on seeing Stephen.

  “He—he hates to be disturbed when he’s at work,” Elizabeth said, thinking how rude it sounded. “I—simply daren’t—let you in!”

  Lady Ribblemere tapped her playfully upon the arm with her lorgnettes.

  “What a stern guardian! I’ve known dear Stephen since he was a baby, my dear. I always think that makes such a difference. I shall certainly not disturb him, but I do not think he will mind seeing such an old friend for a few minutes.”

  With a quaking heart Elizabeth followed her to the library.

  The first thing Stephen saw was Lady Ribblemere’s massive person. Then, over her ladyship’s shoulder he caught sight of Elizabeth’s face, which said plainly, I’m very sorry, and I know you hate it, but I couldn’t help it.

  If Elizabeth had looked as though she thought he ought to like Lady Ribblemere’s invasion he would have been furious, just as he had been on the occasion of Lady Ribblemere’s first call. But Elizabeth looked horrified, and rather frightened. That amused him, and he smiled.

  When Lady Ribblemere had gone (she stayed for half-an-hour), Elizabeth said, in a hurry,

  “I tried and tried, Stephen, but she would come. I’m awfully sorry!”

  “I know, darling.
She’s damnably determined. Thank God she doesn’t inflict herself upon us often!”

  Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief; Stephen heard it.

  “Were you afraid of an outburst from me, ’Lisbeth?”

  “Oh, no!” she said quickly. “Of course not!”

  A shadow crossed his face. With studied lightness, he said,

  “That’s an ’horrible story, ’Lisbeth. You were.”

  His smile made it less hard for her to be frank.

  “Yes, I suppose I was.”

  The shadow disappeared; Stephen went to her. She thought he was going to kiss her, and instinctively she drew back. In an instant she had recovered herself, but it was too late. Stephen returned to his desk. Elizabeth had a fleeting glimpse of his face; the sternness about his mouth, his tight-shut lips and sad eyes made her ashamed and miserable. She rose, and out of pity went to him. He looked up, and blushing, she kissed him lightly, on his forehead.

  A hand took her wrist firmly; Stephen looked into her eyes.

  “Elizabeth—was that—love—or—just—duty?”

  She could not answer him in words. After a moment he released her.

  “I see. Don’t—do it again, dear. There’s a limit to what I can stand. I’d rather have—nothing—than—your loveless kisses.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He tried to sound cheerful.

  “We won’t try to force it, ’Lisbeth, will we?”

  Mr. Hengist came to stay with them. Elizabeth drove to the station to meet him in her pony-trap, a gift from Stephen.

  “Hullo!” he grunted. “You look Father different from when last I saw you, young lady.”

  “Was I an awful wreck?” she smiled.

  “A miserable, skinny little fool,” he said honestly.

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “If you’re going to be rude I shan’t drive you home in my beautiful trap,” she threatened. “Stephen gave it me. Isn’t it lovely? The pony’s name is Timothy, warranted not to shy or bolt.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Mr. Hengist said, climbing into the trap. “I’m not so young as I was.”

  “Oh, but he does!” Elizabeth said. “He’s perfectly dreadful, but I don’t think he means to be naughty. Anyway, he’s a darling. Wasn’t it nice of Stephen to give him to me?”