“I will endeavour to do what I can,” said Griselda.
Lady Thorpe smiled even more at that and then got up and went to the card table and began to lay out a game of patience for herself.
“Why do you young ladies not take a turn about the room together?” she said. “I wish to see you make friends with one another.”
It was not so much a request as a command, and so Griselda, with Lady Mary on her arm, found herself having to make several circuits of the long room, while Lady Thorpe fretted over the complexities of her game of patience. She took the opportunity to try to draw Lady Mary out as they stood at the window, at the far end of the room, away from Lady Thorpe.
“You must be very excited to be married,” she said. “Sir Thomas is very handsome.”
“He is,” said Lady Mary.
“And to have the Duchess of Renfrew give a ball in your honour. It will be very romantic, I think. You should ask her to make it a masquerade.”
“Oh, do you think?”
“Yes, then you may ask your husband to dress as something that befits him. Who do you think? Some gallant hero from the past, perhaps? “
“I do not know. I cannot think just now. It is a diverting idea, though.”
“Very,” said Griselda. “Perhaps Byron’s corsair, or a hero from Mrs Radcliffe? Or Sir Charles Grandison, even? Though that would not be very pretty for a masquerade.”
“Oh, you are so clever, Miss Farquarson,” said Lady Mary. “I could never think of such things.”
“But you do think of him,” said Griselda rather daringly. “Do you not?”
Lady Mary blushed and bit her lip. She whispered that yes indeed, she did think of him.
“Tell me, Lady Mary,” said Griselda, whispering herself now, “what is it like to be in love? I have never been in love.”
“Oh!” she said, blushing some more but smiling. “Oh, but I cannot say. It is very nice, I think, very nice.”
“Does he write you letters?” Griselda asked. “What must it be like to have a love letter from a gentleman?”
Lady Mary blenched. She was as pale as her white dress. Then she hesitated and said, “He has sent me letters, yes,” and flushed crimson again.
The door opened and the gentlemen returned. Conscious that she was the hostess, Lady Mary fluttered away and busied herself with the tea tray.
Griselda stood for some minutes at the window, watching them all. Lady Thorpe and Wansford might lie – they were used to the world and were probably practised at it – but Lady Mary, so fresh from the schoolroom, did not strike her as a natural liar. Her father would surely not threaten to bring the matter to court if it meant that his own daughter would have to perjure herself.
Thorpe was walking across the room to her now. She quickly turned towards the window, determined not to look at him. But it seemed they would have to talk. The others were sitting down at the card table.
“I hear you have been asking about wedding clothes,” he said quietly.
“Of course I did. It is generally what you do ask about when a marriage is talked of. Amongst women at any rate. You must have been talking through the settlement with Lord Wansford. Tell me, how much will she bring you?”
“She will not bring me anything, because I am not going to marry her.”
“You may have convinced my brother of your innocence – of course he must believe you, but I cannot.”
“You are very stupid to believe anything you hear from Wansford,” he said. “You do not know what you are dealing with.”
“Oh, I think I do. I know about innocent girls straight from the schoolroom, Sir Thomas. I know that they are not brought up to lie. She told me she had letters from you.”
He was silent for a moment, fiddling with his signet ring. She hated that silence.
“What am I supposed to think of that?” she burst out.
“I did not write to her. I wish you would believe me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because your good opinion matters to me.”
“Well, it is a little too late to start worrying about that now,” she said, and walked down the room to the card table.
As she did, she met Lord Wansford, who had got up from the card table and opened the piano.
“I have an urgent desire for some music,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to the piano. “Look, a book of Scotch airs – how apt. Won’t you play one for us, Miss Farquarson?”
“I’m afraid I must decline – and save the ears of the company.”
“Then you will sing – surely you must sing? I never knew a young lady who did not sing. Come, Mary, come and accompany Miss Farquarson. I wish to hear some of these Scotch airs sung by a Scotswoman.”
Griselda felt herself flushing, and her heart pounding with anxiety. She liked to sing, but not in drawing rooms – she had never studied singing and to have to perform now would leave her exposed. She glanced at Hugh, hoping he would help her, but to her dismay he smiled and said, “I should like to hear my sister sing too, Lord Wansford. It has been too long and she has a sweet voice.”
“Then I might have done,” Griselda said, “but now…”
“Now, now, you must sing for your brother,” Lord Wansford said. “I cannot believe you would be so lacking in family feeling.”
Lady Mary had already obediently taken her place at the instrument and was looking through the accompaniments.
“Which air am I to play?” she said.
Lord Wansford went to her side and flipped through the book.
“Duncan Gray Came Here To Woo – that sounds charming. Is it charming?”
“Yes,” said Griselda, “but I am not sure…”
“Come, come, my dear. You are among friends,” said Lord Wansford, handing her her part.
He crossed the room and sat down expectantly. Hugh gave her an encouraging smile. Carefully Griselda made sure that she did not look up the room to where Thorpe was standing still by the window. She did not want to be unsettled any more than she was already.
Lady Mary began the accompaniment, playing with confident speed. The setting was an elaborate one with which Griselda was not familiar and she missed the place where she was supposed to come in. She limped in on the second phrase, knowing that she was not quite in tune, and only just in time. She was concentrating hard but she knew she had not imagined Lady Thorpe raising a contemptuous eyebrow. It made her stumble spectacularly over the next passage. And in the background, Lady Mary played on and on in relentless good time and in just the wrong pitch for Griselda.
She had just started the second verse when she was astonished to find Thorpe at her side, trying to look at her copy. On the second “Ha, ha the wooing o’t” he joined in, with a rough and ready voice, that made up for any lack of finesse with its loudness. He was deliberately drowning her out, she realised, and with her amazement forgot to sing the next line. Thorpe carried gamely on, and she moved her part so that he could see properly. When she began again, she found it was a great deal easier to sing with Thorpe there to help her along. He had a good grasp of the energetic jog-trot of the tune and for an Englishman, he was doing very credibly with the Scots phrases. In fact he sang the line “Shall I like a fool, quoth he, for a haughty hizzie, die” so well, that Griselda found herself smiling.
By the final verse, she had completely forgotten her fears. The spirit of the music was infectious and the pungency of the words irresistable. She felt their performance would not have disgraced a gathering at Glenmorval. It was not accomplished but it was robust and honest.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Hugh when they had finished, and pushed himself up on his stick. “You should not be so afraid of your voice, Grizzy. It is delightful.”
“Yes, it is,” Thorpe said, warmly.
“Will you sing again?” Hugh said. “Both of you?”
“Can you bear to, Miss Farquarson?” said Thorpe. “It would be a very great pleasure.”
There was a note of sincerit
y in his voice that she could not ignore.
“Very well,” she said with a smile.
“So, what shall it be?” said Thorpe, looking through the song book. “The De’ils Away With The Exciseman? That’s a lively air.”
“Awa,” Griselda corrected him in broad Scots.
“Awa?” he said with a disarming and dazzling grin directed at Griselda. “Is that better?”
“Aye, maister, you’ll do well enough,” said Griselda. “For a sassenach.”
“I take that as a great compliment, Miss Farquarson,” he said, and turned to Lady Mary to help her find her place in the copy.
So they began on ‘The De’ils Awa With The Exciseman’ with rather more enthusiasm than style. It was obvious Thorpe liked the melody a great deal and Griselda could not help laughing at his boisterous manner of singing. And then when on the final chorus he grabbed her hand and swung it with his, to emphasise the words, she could not be offended. It simply seemed the only thing to do.
They ended with a sort of joyous whoop, with Thorpe flinging his other hand in the air in a splendid, extravagant gesture. Griselda stood shaking her head, her eyes brimming with tears of laughter. Hugh burst into delighted applause, but then Griselda, recollecting herself, saw at once that Lady Thorpe and Lord Wansford were not the least amused. Especially as Thorpe was still holding her hand, as they made a little bow and curtsey.
“Charming as this might seem to some of us,” Lady Thorpe said coolly, “I own I would like to hear Lady Mary play for us. Her superior talent is wasted as an accompanist.”
“Oh, I do not mind playing accompaniments,” said Lady Mary.
“That brilliant thing of Pleyel you were practising this morning,” said Lady Thorpe. “Do let us hear that. And we must not exhaust Miss Farquarson’s lovely voice.”
The barb was clear enough and Griselda felt herself colouring again.
“No, precious things should not be wasted,” Thorpe said, and taking Griselda’s arm to the sofa at the far side of the room. She sat down, and stared up at him, confused. The compliment was extravagant but there was a warmth and directness in it. She had every reason to be angry with him and yet his kindness threatened to blunt her purpose.
He sat down beside her at the other end of the sofa. Lady Mary had started to play her sonata. Griselda folded her hands in her lap and tried to concentrate on the music and on regaining her composure. But how could she with Thorpe sitting next to her?
She stole a glance at him. He had leant forward, with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin wedged on his knotted hands. He appeared to be listening to the music but suddenly he frowned, straightened and looked directly at her. She looked ahead again, embarrassed at having been caught. She was aware that he had moved a little up the sofa towards her.
“I am going to ask Miss Rufford to end our engagement,” he said very quietly. “It seems the only thing to do in the circumstances.”
“And will you tell her why? She will want to know.”
“Not specifically. Unless you wish me to.”
“No – though it is less than honest.”
“I will tell her my feelings have changed,” he went on. “Or rather that I misunderstood them. What I believed was love was not. I mistook friendship for love.”
“And yet she still loves you,” Griselda pointed out. “That remains, whatever you do.”
“I know,” he said. “It is a cruel thing to ask a woman to break an engagement. But to proceed as things are would be be worse, I think.”
“I am glad you see it,” said Griselda.
“You have a way of making a man see things more clearly, Miss Farquarson,” he said after a moment, and then got up and walked away.
Chapter 10
Griselda did not know what to say to Caroline. She felt she ought to say something, but she did not know where to begin. They were sitting alone in the pretty downstairs breakfast parlour over the remains of their breakfast. Griselda was picking at a bread roll while Caroline, who had the gift of always being usefully occupied, was doing some plain sewing.
“You look tired,” said Caroline suddenly. “Did you not sleep?”
“Not well,” said Griselda. “The evening was trying.”
“I am sure,” said Caroline. “What is Lady Thorpe like?”
“I wish I had something good to say of her, but I cannot, except that she is very handsome and very fashionable. I could not warm to her.” She wanted to add: but you will not have to worry about her as a mother-in-law because Thorpe intends to make you end your engagement. He will be here soon enough to break your heart.
Instead, she got up from the table and went to the window to stand near where Caroline sat with her sewing. She looked down the street, half expecting to see Thorpe coming towards the house. But instead she saw another familiar figure.
“Oh, here is Hugh,” she said. “He calls very early.”
She noticed how Caroline smiled at the mention of his name. It was quite unconscious, for she continued placidly with her seam. Perhaps the loss of Thorpe would not prove such a bitter blow. Hugh was shown into the parlour a few minutes later.
“I’ve bad news for you, Grizzy,” he said at once, handing her a letter. “They have married.”
Griselda looked down at the letter. It was her fathers’ hand.
“Oh, this cannot be…” she said.
“It is as plain as anything,” said Hugh, sitting down wearily at the table. “I am sorry too, for I would rather he had consulted me.”
“No, of course he would not,” said Griselda, with some passion. “For he knows he has done wrong, he knows very well.” Hugh looked shocked by this remark and glanced at Caroline who was still sitting quietly with her work. Griselda began to read the letter. “I feel sure that once you are acquainted with Lady Farquarson you will be easy with my choice. She is in all respects everything a man desires of a wife, and my regard for her grows daily.” She handed the letter back to him in disgust. “I cannot bear it any more.”
She walked back into the room and saw that Caroline had put down her work and was thinking.
“You must bear it, Griselda,” said Hugh.
“No,” she said shaking her head. “And I will not go back to that house,”
“It is your home,” Hugh said simply.
“I cannot think of it as such now,” she said.
“What has happened?” Caroline asked.
“It is why I am here,” said Griselda. “I was not travelling with friends. I was running away. I was desperate. The moment my father told me he was going to marry that awful woman – ”
“Griselda, you must not speak of her like that,” said Hugh.
“But that is very hard,” said Caroline. “And a far harder thing for a woman to bear than a man. For home is so much more for a woman. It is the principal sphere of her existence, and the character of those with whom she must share it is paramount. For a man, always out in the world, with occupations and pursuits of his own, a difficult stepmother would be an inconvenience, but for a woman, it is a tragedy.”
Hugh looked surprised, and Griselda saw Caroline blush.
“Forgive me if I have spoken out of turn,” she murmured.
“What you say is true,” said Hugh after a moment. “I had not thought of the matter in those terms.”
He stared at the fire.
“I believe,” Caroline said, getting up and going to Griselda, “that my mother would be happy to have you live with her as long as you choose. And,” she added, turning to Hugh, “that could not be taken as a slight on your father’s wife. Rather Griselda will be seen to be helping my mother. And if you wish her married well, her chances would be improved in such circumstances. If Lady Farquarson is as Griselda tells us, it cannot be advantageous for your sister to be seen in company with her.”
Hugh looked up at Caroline with a long steady gaze, his chin resting on his knotted fingers.
“That is very kind,” said Hugh. “But I
do not think he will agree to it. If you read the rest of the letter, Grizzy, you will see why. The last paragraph.”
“‘I have just received your letter concerning Griselda,’” Griselda read out. “‘Do not let her out of your sight. Lady Farquarson and I start for Cromer this morning and mean to take her on to town with us. The sooner she is married and forced to behave herself the better for all of us.’” Griselda snorted with disgust and threw the letter down on the table. “Well, I certainly shall not go to London.”
Reckless Griselda Page 10