Reckless Griselda (13 page)

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 sincerity 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.

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.”

“You will,” said Hugh. “I’m sorry, Grizzy, but he is your father.”

“Oh, this is quite intolerable!” exclaimed Griselda. “You will see exactly why the moment you meet her, Hugh. You will support me soon enough then.”

“We shall see,” said Hugh.

“You’re always disposed to think so well of people,” Griselda carried on. “I would have thought that with your experience of the world you would know how disappointing people can be.”

“No, I find it better to give people the benefit of the doubt. Yes, they do disappoint from time to time, but that is nothing compared to the danger of being cynical and bitter.”

“I am in no danger of that, thank you, Hugh,” said Griselda.

“Are you not?” said Hugh mildly, and turned to Caroline who had resumed her work. “What is that you are working so hard on?”

“Just some baby linen for an old maid of mine. She is expecting her first child. She married one of the gardeners, of which I can only approve.”

Griselda left them. She could not bear to talk. She was too angry. She went upstairs to her room and paced around, unable to believe that she would actually have to go to London with her father and Mrs Skene – she could not, would not, think of her as Lady Farquarson. It would be mortifying to say the least. And the prospect of a whole winter in town. She knew little of town life but what she had seen did not make her think she would like London. She wanted the open country, freedom and solitude, not dinner engagements and civil conversation. She did not want to have to pass her time with people like Lady Thorpe and Lord Wansford. She could never be happy with such a life.

She opened the bottom drawer of the tallboy where she had stowed her travelling clothes away from the eyes of her aunt and cousin. She was glad she had not left them at Hugh’s but stuffed them in the portmanteau he had lent her so she might look respectable. What was there to stop her disappearing again, she wondered? It all made a great deal of sense.

Most importantly, she would never have to see Sir Thomas Thorpe again. The whole, awkward confusing business could be put firmly behind her. In time she was sure she would forget the feel of his kisses and the startling brilliance of his eyes. And forget how he could not sing in tune and how when he laughed she had felt compelled to laugh.

Yes, much better to go away from all that.

Caroline, she reminded herself, would soon enough find out he was not at all the gentleman he appeared to be. Hugh would be free to court Caroline and carry her up to Glenmorval to plant apricot trees while her father and Mrs Skene climbed the slippery slopes of the fashionable London world. No-one would miss her very much and she would at least have a life that she could call her own. Even if parts of it were disagreeable and she went without pretty gowns or new novels, or even went hungry, at least she would know that she was making her own way, by whatever means.

She would find herself an occupation. She could be a teacher in a school – no, that was too miserable, she could be a housekeeper. After all, she had run Glenmorval for years without a housekeeper. She knew exactly how to manage a household. That was as good a plan as any – it was a practical one too. Housekeepers always got pleasant rooms to live in and capable, honest servants were always cherished by their employers. She would go to Norwich or London and register at some domestic agency. She would even change her name. She had passed herself off as a boy and she could pass herself off as an upper servant. She could truthfully tell any employer that she had worked for Farquarson of Glenmorval. That would be reference enough. If necessary she could forge a reference from her father – or even from herself, for then it would not be forgery at all.