Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  “Very. You’re more lucky than you know.”

  She looked at him gravely.

  “No, Mr. Hengist.”

  “No? Glad to hear it then.”

  “I haven’t lived in a Baker Street lodging-house for nearly a year without learning to appreciate—things like this.”

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Hengist. He then remarked, “I like your husband.”

  “Yes, so do I,” Elizabeth said calmly.

  Stephen was awaiting them in the garden, with the tea. He shook hands with Mr. Hengist very warmly.

  “I didn’t come to meet you because I knew Elizabeth wanted to show off in the pony-trap,” he explained. “Besides which I was horribly busy.”

  Elizabeth could not choke the feeling that it was rude of Stephen to have said that. Mr. Hengist evidently didn’t think so, but he, like Stephen, had a different standard of politeness.

  He and Stephen played golf next morning, but in the afternoon when Stephen was at work, he came and sat beside Elizabeth under the elm-tree, and smoked.

  For some time Elizabeth watched him in silence; then at last she said.

  “Do begin, Mr. Hengist! I know you’re going to talk.”

  He turned his head and surveyed her in some surprise.

  “That,” he said, “sounds most unlike you.”

  “Yes, that’s why I said it,” Elizabeth answered naively.

  “Well, it’ll do for my text,” he remarked, and settled himself deeper in his chair.

  Elizabeth put down her needlework.

  “So far so good,” Mr. Hengist said. “During the past year, my child, though you may not know it, you’ve been shedding the skin of hypocrisy. No, longer than that. Correctly speaking, the shedding process began with your marriage.”

  Elizabeth looked at him wide-eyed.

  “When you were quite a small kid,” Mr. Hengist went on, “you were Elizabeth pure and simple. After that you became Elizabeth-Anne. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know that I—”

  “Probably not. What I want to know before I go any further is, Are you going to snub me if I say things detrimental to your aunt’s character?”

  “Oh, I never snub—”

  “That is Elizabeth-Anne,” said Mr. Hengist, to a cloud above him.

  She had to laugh.

  “No, I’m not going to snub you.”

  “Thanks, Elizabeth. Your aunt is a reactionary. She belongs to a dead age, only she refused to see that it was dead, but instead tried to carry it on in the shape of yourself. No doubt she was actuated by the best of motives. Unfortunately she has a narrow mind, and you a pliant disposition. If, as a child, you had stuck to your own character your aunt would to-day be a very different woman. A strong-willed niece would have made her move along with the times. As it was, hers was the mastermind, and your character had to mould itself to hers. With women one must be top-dog and the other underdog. I discovered that quite early in life. Rather interesting. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes. I never heard anything like it before.”

  “All the more reason to listen carefully and afterwards digest it. I’d got to the point where your character, through weakness—we’ll call it pliancy—got moulded into your aunt’s character. I watched it happening with a good deal of regret, and some interest. What you’ve always lacked is moral courage. Sooner than brave the storm your own ideas would raise, you covered-them up and pretended to think as your aunt thought. Whatever she wanted you to think, you thought; whatever she wanted you to like, you liked. That is to say, you pretended to. Your aunt managed to convince you that it was wrong to have your own opinions, so you started on a double pretence. You pretended to your aunt, and you pretended to yourself. That’s when you became Elizabeth-Anne. People like your father enthused about your sweet disposition, and tractableness. People like me, who are always rude, thought you insufferable. Well, the pretence became a habit, so much so that Elizabeth got thoroughly smothered until not even yourself knew that she was there. But she was. Asleep, I daresay.” He paused, but Elizabeth made no remark. “Then you met Stephen. I’m going to hit hard now, Elizabeth, I’m afraid. You pretend to be in love with Stephen because he was a celebrity, and because you thought how jolly it would be to get married and be independent. That was Elizabeth stirring underneath Elizabeth-Anne. You didn’t love him. You got caught by glamour—and ignorance. You married him, and your father and aunt were sentimental about it and thoroughly pleased. Next you discovered that marriage wasn’t quite such an idyll as you imagined it was going to be. You were badly handicapped by the fact that you didn’t love your husband. Elizabeth-Anne, being still on top, you tried hard to think you did love him, instead of facing the truth quietly and seeing what could be done about it. All this time, Elizabeth was slowly waking up. When you left Stephen you’d left off pretending for a time. I’m not going into the question of whether it was right or wrong to leave him. I only know that it was sincere. Well, you agreed to part, and then you began your life alone. I watched you. It was interesting. At first I thought you’d go home to your people. You didn’t, and I realised that Elizabeth was more awake than I’d guessed. You began to get fed up with your aunt. That was rather a severe blow to Elizabeth-Anne. However, it didn’t kill her. You made a fool of yourself over Wendell. You see the hand of Elizabeth-Anne? You evidently had a row with Wendell, and Elizabeth climbed uppermost again. It was Elizabeth-Anne who married Stephen, my child, but it was Elizabeth who parted from him, and who returned to him. And now it’s a fight between the two. You’re trying to be Elizabeth, but you can’t help feeling that you ought to be Elizabeth-Anne. See?”

  Elizabeth drew a long breath.

  “I’m—beginning to. You—don’t know how hard it is.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I do. When you learn to love your husband it won’t be hard.”

  “Shall I—ever?” she asked, a pathetic catch in her voice.

  Mr. Hengist took his pipe out of his mouth.

  “Why not?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Elizabeth answered helplessly.

  “If I were you,” said Mr. Hengist severely, “I should set about it as quickly as possible. Nothing will be natural to you in your life together until you do. Then it’ll all be natural.”

  “I wish I could,” she sighed.

  “That’s a step in the right direction anyway,” grunted Mr. Hengist.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was surprising how amicably they were living together. At times it was a strain; occasionally Elizabeth-Anne gained the ascendancy over Elizabeth. On Stephen’s side great forbearance was necessary, and greater patience. How big a strain that was, only he knew. There were days when the sight of Elizabeth almost hurt him; then he would go out for a tramp over the fields, alone, fighting himself.

  His book failed to please him. He wrote and rewrote, fell into exasperation and tore up a month’s work. Elizabeth saw him do it and was horrified. He threw the rent sheets into the fire. It was on the tip of her tongue to exclaim that it would make the hearth dirty and untidy. She remembered Mr. Hengist’s words, and said severely to herself, Be quiet, Elizabeth-Anne. The hearth didn’t matter; what did matter was Stephen’s anger at his own failure. Sympathy for him drove out annoyance. She was not sure what she could say: whether he would rather she paid no heed.

  “So much for that!” Stephen snapped.

  This, thought Elizabeth, is where I have to pick him up and start him off again.

  “How much have you destroyed?” she asked.

  “Six chapters. The rest can follow them for all I care.”

  She wrinkled her brow.

  “Oh . . . from where Frances comes back to Southampton. Don’t tear up any more, Stephen.”

  “It’s all rotten,” he said moodily.

  “No, it isn’t. I don’t know anything about the style, but it’s an interesting story. What are you going to do with Frances now?”

  “
Drown her.”

  She laughed.

  “No, don’t! I love Frances.”

  “Well, she’s hopeless as soon as she comes back to England.”

  “Leave her in Egypt then,” she suggested practically.

  He sat down. He liked to discuss his book, especially with Elizabeth who knew it almost by heart.

  “How can I leave her in Egypt? She’s going to marry Derrick.”

  “Can’t he go out there? If I were in love with a girl I wouldn’t stay in England when she was abroad.”

  “Yes, but don’t forget that he’s too damned proud to ask her to marry him.”

  Elizabeth was silent for a moment.

  “Stephen, I don’t believe he would be.”

  “You— Don’t you?” He was interested, and leaned forward in his chair.

  “If he was so awfully in love with her—and knew that she loved him, it wouldn’t matter about her money. Make him get some work to do and go out to her.”

  “Instead of my original idea of making her do the wooing?”

  “Yes. Why not? I’ve read books where the rich girl makes the penniless man marry her, but I’ve never read one where it was the other way round.”

  Stephen sat still for a while, pondering it. Then he got up.

  “I say, ’Lisbeth, that’s rather a fine notion! I believe I can make something out of it. Thanks awfully for helping! I think I’ll just sketch out a scheme now.” He went back to his desk, and presently his pen began to move, faster and faster.

  Elizabeth curled herself up on the sofa and smiled secretly. She watched Stephen’s profile with tenderness in her eyes. She thought, I may not know much about writing a book, but I’m beginning to know a lot about this Man-thing of mine. It gave her a delightful sense of power. It was wonderful that anyone so big and strong could be so helpless and easily influenced.

  Her glance travelled to Stephen’s straight shoulders. She was glad they were not rounded from much writing; she would hate him to stoop.

  She relaxed into the downy cushions behind her, and started to read. She had long since given up the habit of being unnaturally quiet while Stephen wrote. She had become so used to the scratch of his pen that she paid very little heed to it. He did not seem to mind if she coughed, or made up the fire, so she did both, whenever she felt inclined.

  Presently one of the maids came in with the tea. Elizabeth made it herself, and she chinked the cups suggestively. She had discovered that if she called Stephen away from his work he hated it, just as he hated her to bring tea to his desk. But if she said nothing, but started to pour out he was sure to leave his writing and come to the fireside.

  He did it to-day. The cloud had gone from his brow, and his eyes were smiling and bright. He sat down on a low stool and began to eat buttered toast from the dish in the hearth. He always ate it like that, promiscuously, and he always put his cup and saucer down on the floor beside him. Elizabeth, from thinking it unseemly, had grown to like the habit. She would never sit on the floor herself, and she would never eat lumps of sugar as Stephen did, out of the bowl, but she found it comfortable when he did so. It seemed cosy and intimate.

  “Darling, it was a wonderful idea of yours! I’m getting on splendidly now.”

  “Do hurry up and let me have some to read,” she said, elated at her success.

  He looked eagerly up at her.

  “Do you really want it, ’Lisbeth?”

  “I shouldn’t say so if I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you would,” he retorted audaciously, but smiled as he said it.

  It was an understanding smile; instead of being hurt she returned it.

  “That’s a mean attack,” she said. “Haven’t I been frank with you?”

  “You have, darling, and I apologise. Last night you said if I was going to cross out things and write squiggles on top you wouldn’t read another word.”

  “Yes, and I meant it, too. Don’t let the butter ooze on to the carpet, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Sorry. Did it?”

  “No, but I was afraid it might.”

  “Oh, I see. Prevention’s better than cure. Did I tell you I had a letter from Cynthia this morning?”

  “No. Anything interesting?”

  “She’s had laryngitis and Anthony wants to take her away.”

  “Poor thing! Where are they going?”

  “Nowhere, because their nurse is away on a holiday and there’s no one to look after Christopher. Rotten luck, isn’t it?”

  Slowly Elizabeth put her cup down. She glanced down at Stephen.

  “Do you think—I mean, would Cynthia mind—if we offered to take Christopher?”

  “We—? I say, that’s an idea! You’re full of them today, ’Lisbeth. Wouldn’t it be a bore for you, though?”

  “I’d love to take care of Christopher. Only—Cynthia might not like it. I—I hardly like to offer . . .”

  Bewilderment was in Stephen’s face.

  “Why not? Why should Cynthia mind?”

  She flushed.

  “She—doesn’t like me. Oh, Stephen, you know! Because of our separation—and—and Charles—and all that.”

  “And what has any of that got to do with Cynthia?” Stephen asked dangerously.

  “I knew by her face—when she saw—Charles with me— what she thought.”

  “If she thought anything filthy she can go to hell and take her thoughts with her,” Stephen said calmly.

  “Well, really, Stephen!” Elizabeth expostulated.

  “Whatever she thought she doesn’t think now. That’s a bit involved. Anyway, she knows Wendell wasn’t your lover. You wouldn’t be here if he had been.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Wouldn’t you—have taken me back?”

  He stared into the fire; his profile was hard all at once, and stern.

  “I don’t know. I— Don’t let’s talk of such a thing, ’Lisbeth. It makes me feel ill.”

  Woman-like she pressed the point.

  “No, but would you, Stephen?”

  “What, be ill? Probably.”

  “Don’t be so tiresome! Would you have taken me back?”

  He knelt suddenly, and took her hands in his.

  “It would have been an awful pill for me to swallow, ’Lisbeth, but—yes, I’d have taken you. I—couldn’t have helped myself. When I came to you—that day—I was prepared—even for that.”

  “Oh—Stephen!”

  He kissed her hands quickly.

  “I didn’t believe it, darling, I swear that! It was just—a possibility. Don’t let’s speak of it. What about Christopher?”

  Her hands lay in his. An awed look was in her eyes.

  “You—must love me—very much—to have been able to—come to me—thinking that.”

  “I didn’t think it.”

  “You were afraid, though. I see now. I—I wish I were more—worthy of your love, Stephen.”

  He bent his head.

  “You’re worthy of much more. Don’t let it—worry you, darling. You’ve given me more than I hoped for.”

  “I think it’s time I did let things worry me,” she said slowly. “I give you—nothing. It’s you who give—all the time.”

  “You give all that you can. Don’t be unhappy, my dearest.”

  “I ought to be unhappy. I hate myself. I hate Elizabeth-Anne.”

  He looked up.

  “How much?”

  She had not meant to mention Elizabeth-Anne; it had slipped out before she noticed it. She had to explain.

  Stephen laughed.

  “Just like Mr. Hengist! Now I shall know what to say to you when you reprimand me for being late for breakfast.”

  “What will you say?” she smiled.

  “I shall say, Shut up, Elizabeth-Anne.”

  “That ought to cure me,” she nodded. “About Christopher ...”

  “Ring Cynthia up and put the plan before her.”

  “Oh, I can’t! I— You do it!”

>   “Not going to. It’s your job. Don’t be silly, ’Lisbeth. Cyn’ll jump at it.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Well, I am.” He jumped up and went to the telephone. Elizabeth heard him ask for Cynthia’s number.

  Presently the bell rang; Stephen unhooked the receiver. Evidently Cynthia herself had answered the call.

  “ Hullo, that you, Cyn? . . . Sorry about your illness. Sorry for you, I mean. Must be a relief for poor old Anthony to have your voice reduced to a whisper . . . What? ... I said it must be a rel— Oh, indeed? Nice way ter talk to your elders and betters . . . What? . . . What? ... I didn’t say I was a plural. Elder and better, then. Glad you recognise the fact. Look here, Elizabeth wants to speak to you! . . . Yes, Elizabeth. . . . Hold on, will you?” He turned. “Come on, old girl.”

  Reluctantly she took the receiver from him.

  “Oh—how do you do, Cynthia?” she said, rather shakily. Cynthia’s cracked voice reached her.

  “Hullo, how are you?”

  “I’m all right, thanks. I’m so sorry you’ve been ill. I—i wondered whether—you’d let—let me take care of— of Christopher for you—while you and Anthony go away. I—I would so love to—if—if you’d trust him—to me.”

  There was a short pause.

  “That’s extraordinarily nice of you, Elizabeth,” Cynthia said. “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes, oh yes! But I thought perhaps you’d— rather not?”

  “Well, of course you haven’t had much experience with small boys,” Cynthia replied deliberately. “Still, I don’t see that I need worry.”

  “I—didn’t mean that—exactly.”

  “Didn’t you? Look here—you can’t, but no matter— If I send him are you sure he won’t tire you out? He’s fairly rampageous, you know.”

  “Of course he won’t. And Nana will know what to do if anything happens, won’t she? When shall I come to fetch him?”

  “Anthony wants to bear me off on Friday. Would Thursday suit you?”

  “Yes, any day. It’s—nice of you to let me have him, Cynthia.”