“And end up on the streets as a common harlot, no doubt,” he retorted.
“And never trouble your conscience overmuch, I dare say. No, it is only because I am the daughter of Farquarson of Glenmorval that you feel obliged to marry me. You would not want to marry me if I were a servant you had seduced, would you?”
That had hit home. She could see the discomfort in his face. He turned away from her and picked up his hat.
“I am going to find the parson,” he said and left.
***
“Tell me, Sir Thomas,” said the Reverend Dr Hopkins. “Do you love this young woman?”
The chair in Dr Hopkins’ study was suitably hard. There was no fire and he had not been offered a glass of wine. Tom felt like a schoolboy again. The Rector, an upright, dignified gentleman of sixty, had the sort of eyes to scourge even the most unblemished conscience.
“What is love?” he responded. “To tell you the truth, sir, I don’t know. But that is hardly the issue here. I have done wrong and I must repair that wrong. You can’t think I should not marry her?”
“No. It is your only course. I am speaking out of concern for the young woman. She will undoubtedly be in love with you.”
“I do not think so,” said Tom. “She is not at all willing.”
“Then how will you get her to church?” said Dr Hopkins, taking up his pen.
“She will come to her senses – I hope,” said Tom.
“Marriages may exist without love – good marriages,” said Dr Hopkins. “But where there is acrimony and resentment there can be no happiness. For the sake of your future, I hope you may find sufficient charity and affection for this young person.”
“I will,” said Tom meaning it.
“There is a danger in these cases – and you will not mind me speaking plainly, Sir Thomas, I am sure, for I sense you are truly repentant – when a marriage is forced through seduction, that the husband may end up resenting his wife and as a result reverts to the path of the libertine. Can you promise me you will strive to be faithful to her and not break the sacred promises that you will make before God?”
“I will do my utmost, sir,” Tom said.
“Then I will marry you tomorrow,” said Dr Hopkins, and began to write out the licence.
He returned to the Blue Bell with the licence in his pocket, not feeling the least like a bridegroom savouring his last night of freedom. He was tired and in need of a glass of brandy. He decided to postpone going upstairs and tussling with the future Lady Thorpe. He found her barbs too painful and too well aimed and he had not the strength to defend himself. So he settled himself by the fire in the common parlour, hoping that she would come to her senses and see that this was the only course open to them.
“Will you drink a glass with me, sir?”
He looked up from his study of the fire, hardly in the mood for the customary sociability of an inn parlour.
“Thank you, sir, but I am poor company tonight,” he said.
The gentleman who addressed him was very tall, and extremely smartly dressed in a well-cut drab riding coat and a splendid striped waistcoat. He had long, white straggling hair swept back from his forehead and the sort of face that would not have disgraced the marble bust of a Roman patrician.
“Then let me stir you from melancholy,” said the gentleman. He sounded quite intoxicated, but not disagreeably so. “For I can’t bear to see a young man in his prime, brooding like an auld wifie by the fire. Come sir, take a glass of usquebaugh with me.”
“You have the wisdom of age, perhaps,” Tom said, indicating the empty chair.
“A pretty compliment,” said the gentleman, sitting down opposite him. “And you will find the usquebaugh far better than your French brandy for your temper.”
“I have never tried it,” said Tom.
This made the gentleman twinkle with pleasure.
“You Englishman have no conception how to live,” he said, pouring out two generous measures from the bottle he had brought in. “Now see what you think of that.”
“Your very good health,” said Tom and downed the whisky in one gulp. It was certainly very different from brandy. It was rough, fierce and undeniably stimulating. A little like Griselda Farquarson, he thought, as he relished the burning taste it left in his mouth.
“Splendid,” said the gentleman and drank his own. “Now another. To the ladies,” he said, pouring out two more measures. “God bless ‘em.”
“The ladies,” said Tom, smiling wryly at that.
“Another,” said the gentleman the moment the glasses were down on the table. Tom did not protest as the glasses were filled again. “Your toast sir?”
“You are my host,” said Tom.
“Then let us drink to matrimony!”
Tom stared.
“Matrimony?” he said. How did the fellow know?
“Aye, that blessed state. Are you married, lad?”
“No, not yet,” said Tom with relief. “But soon. Very soon. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”
“Tomorrow?” said the gentleman. “Well I’m be damned. And sitting here with such a long face. I cannot credit it. Is she not pretty?”
“No, not precisely,” said Tom. She was more than that. Pretty was too bland a word for Griselda.
“Is she wealthy, then?”
“No, not exactly.” In fact, he realised he had not a clue whether her worldly goods extended to anything more than those old breeches.
“Then she’s trapped you, then?”
“No, far from it.”
“A strange marriage then, if you don’t mind my saying, lad.”
“Not at all. It is.”
“Well, I wish you joy of your lady, sir. For I am recently married myself and I can heartily recommend it.”
“Congratulations,” said Tom raising his glass.
“It is paradise,” said the gentleman. “I am in my second childhood. She is as bonny and bawdy a creature as a man could desire and more. She’s twenty thousand a year as well, but that’s by the by. I’d have married her if she only had her sark to stand up in.”
“Her sark?” said Tom.
“Her shift, man,” said the gentleman with a wink. “And very fine she looks in it too.”
“I am sure,” said Tom. “My compliments to Mrs…?”
“Lady Farquarson,” said the gentleman.
Tom dropped his glass.
***
Without meaning to, Griselda had fallen asleep again when he came bursting into the room.
“Wake up!” he said, shaking her.
“I’ve woken up, thank you!” she said. “What is it?”
“I’ve just met your father,” he said.
He stank of whisky.
“You’re drunk,” she said. “And certainly mistaken.”
“No. Not at all, I’m afraid. I’ve just been drinking toasts with him. No mistake. I wish there were, but…”
“I don’t believe this,” said Griselda. “What on earth is he doing here?”
“He’s on his wedding journey, apparently. Sailed to Yarmouth from Leith.”
“No,” said Griselda, shaking her head. “No, it cannot be.” She covered her face with her hands and groaned. “And that woman, of all people.”
“So what do we do?” he said.
“What do we do?” she said, looking at him with incredulity. “You are the one making all the decisions. I haven’t the least idea what we should do.”
“Fortunately he does not know who I am,” he said. “I only just managed to get away. He was intent on ordering another bottle of whisky to celebrate my forthcoming marriage.”
“You told him you were getting married?”
“Yes, but not to you.”
“That’s just as well, because I shall not be marrying you even if you have got your precious licence.”
“Oh, I think you will,” he said. “If he finds you here – ”
“There’s no reason why he should, is there? We shall j
ust have to sit tight until they leave for Cromer in the morning.”
Just then there came the sound of footsteps on the landing, accompanied by a very familiar voice, saying, “Where have you got to, young fellow? Come out and pay your compliments to Lady Farquarson. She’s no abed yet and she will want to wish a bridegroom good fortune.”
He began to rap on various doors. Griselda froze and stared at Thorpe.
“Quick, bolt the door!” she whispered.
But Thorpe was too slow. The door was flung open and Sir George marched in. Thorpe stood at the foot of the bed, trying, somewhat feebly to screen Griselda from view.
“Aha, so you’ve got your bride in here,” said Sir George, vastly amused. “Let’s have a look at you, Miss. There’s no need to be afraid. I’m a Scotsman – I take a liberal view of these things. If you are the bride…” And he burst out laughing and slapped Thorpe on the shoulder, before giving him a hearty shove.
“Good evening, Papa,” said Griselda, who decided she was not going to be caught looking guilty. “How delightful to see you.”
“The devil take my brain for squab stuffings!” exclaimed Sir George. Then his amazement turned to righteous indignation. “What are you about here, Griselda? And who, pray, are you, sir?”
“Sir Thomas Thorpe at your service,” said Thorpe.
“At my service – I think not! You’re stealing my damned daughter!”
“No-one is stealing me, Papa,” said Griselda, as implacably as she could. “I should never allow that.”
“But you’re marrying him in the morning, you little harlot!” he cried. “And I’ll be bound you have to. Eh?”
“You may think what you like, Papa,” said Griselda, pulling her plaid around her, aware that her shift was falling from her shoulders again. “If you think me capable of such behaviour, then think it. My conscience is clear.”
“I do think it, you impudent little madam,” he said. “Sitting there in your sark! So this is why you ran away. I knew there was a man in the press somewhere.”
“Georgie, Georgie, what is all this commotion? You will raise the whole house!”
The new Lady Farquarson was coming along the landing carrying a candle.
“I’ve found her, Maggie! I’ve found that disobedient chit I’m ashamed to call my daughter.”
“Miss Grizzy, oh?” said Lady Farquarson bustling in. Dressed in the simplicity of her night-gown, cap and shawl, she looked a great deal less repulsively fashionable. “Good evening to you. Well! I dare say you are as surprised to see us as we are to see you.”
It was civilly said, and Griselda was surprised.
“I knew you were coming to Cromer,” she managed to say and added, “My Lady.”
“I shall never get used to that. Now, Georgie what is all this to-do about?”
“Can you not see, my dear – she is eloping with this fellow.”
“She does not look exactly in the condition for houghmagandie,” said Lady Farquarson calmly. “What did you do to your ankle?”
“I had a fall.”
“More than a fall, I’ll warrant,” said Sir George. “Now explain yourself, sir,” he said, turning to Thorpe. “Do you deny that you are getting married tomorrow?”
“No. And it will be to your daughter. I cannot deny it.”
“And what makes you think you can dispense with the common courtesy of asking her father’s permission? And that the marriage should be conducted in such a damnable underhand fashion not at all appropriate to a daughter of Farquarson of Glenmorval? What makes you so insolent to her, my lad, if you’ve not ruined her already? There’s a guilty look in your eye, if I’m not mistaken. What was your name again?”
“Sir Thomas Thorpe,” said Griselda.
“And who might Sir Thomas Thorpe be that I am to believe him to be a gentleman worthy of my daughter? What do you have to your name, sir?”
“That would not be Thorpe of Priorscote?” said Lady Farquarson suddenly.
“Yes, madam.”
“Well, you’ve no need to fret on that score, Georgie,” said Lady Farquarson. “My second cousin Jeanie is married to his old tutor, I think. You remember, Georgie, that sleekit wee curate she picked up for hersel’ at Bath? Mr Clarke. He was full of boasts about having been in the service of Sir Francis Thorpe.”
“So that is what became of him?” said Thorpe. “No disrespect to your cousin, ma’am, but he was an odious piece of work. “
“And I dare say you deserved all the floggings he gave you,” said Sir George. “For it seems you are a sad rake now.”
“Now, come now, Georgie, dina’ take on so,” said Lady Farquarson. “It’s not as if she’s going to marry a pauper in the morning. She couldna have helped herself to a better man if you’d been pushing and shoving her. She’ll be a leddyship in her own right, and since you have nothing to bring to the match, you should count yourself blessed at getting such a good bargain as Sir Thomas Thorpe. For he has long pockets to match his long legs.”
“But the manner of it, Maggie, the manner of it!” he complained. “It’s a disgrace.”
“Well, we shall make it less so, then,” said Lady Farquarson. “You can give her away yourself in the morning. What could be more respectable than that? And if you are not too much in your cups, you can draw up a settlement between each other and get yon landlord to witness it. You may give her that five thousand we decided on for her with my blessing, Georgie. I hate to see the girl go empty-handed.”
“Five thousand pounds, Maggie, are you mad?”
“Maybe, Georgie, but she’s your only daughter and I should like to do something handsome for her. Will you let me, dearie?” she said, turning to Griselda. “I know you think I’m a vulgar old wife, but I must love my husband’s people as my own.”
“You love him, Mrs Skene?” Griselda found herself asking.
“Of course, my dear! Do you think I’d have married such a rackety old fool if I didn’t?”
“Oh, then I’m sorry, so sorry. I thought…” Griselda broke off and stared at her fingers.
“Now, now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is we have a wedding to make tomorrow. Come now, George, let the man bid his lady goodnight in private.”
And she took her husband’s arm and steered him from the room.
“Don’t be too long now, Sir Tam,” she called out as the door closed behind them.
“And you ran away to stop him marrying her?” said Thorpe incredulously.
“She seemed different then,” said Griselda. “Extremely vulgar. And I felt sure they were only marrying for mercenary reasons.”
“If that’s vulgarity, then I don’t care to be noble!” said Tom. “That is a damned fine woman. To give you five thousand pounds in these circumstances – well, she’s nearly a saint.”
“I wish she would give me the five thousand if I didn’t marry you,” said Griselda hotly.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “You can’t run away from this. Once your father and I have signed a settlement, there’ll be no backing out of it.”
“Oh yes, and what if I tell him about Caroline and Lady Mary?”
“That won’t matter once the ceremony’s over. If my lords Amberleigh and Wansford choose to sue, they may. And if I lose and have to pay damages at least I will know I’ve done my duty by you.”
“So you are sure you will lose?”
“I did ask Miss Rufford to marry me, yes. I deserve to pay for that. But I cannot leave you to ruin your life, Griselda Farquarson. I do not care if people think I am a man who breaks his word. Better that you are safe.”
“This is not what I want!” she protested. “And I do not believe it is what you want.”
“We cannot always have what we want,” he said. “That is a fact of life.” And he lifted the latch and left her.
Chapter 13
“You’re no’ going to wear that?” said Lady Farquarson. She had sent her maid to help Griselda to dress and then, unable to resist it, ha
d come in to see how her toilette had progressed. “You cannot wed in an old habit. It would be bad luck. Now then, Susan, go and fetch my velvet pelisse and hat – and that tussore gown that Mrs Preece made too long in the skirt – it was well lucky she did, though I was terrible cross with her for it. We shall see you decent to church yet, Miss Grizzy.”
Reckless Griselda Page 13