Reckless Griselda (2 page)

The chapter house roof was nothing more than four feet of leaky old tiles that made a small canopy. He was already standing under it, rubbing his face dry with his hands.

“I was a fool to come out today,” he said. “My man said it would rain.”

“We have been very lucky with the weather this last week,” she observed, and felt her lips twitching with a smile.

“Well, at least the harvest is in,” he said.

Now she had to laugh. The incongruity of this conversation was too much for her.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not expect to have a drawing room conversation.”

“No,” he said with a grin, “Neither did I.” He hesitated a moment and then added, “And perhaps we should not have one.”

“No, perhaps not,” she agreed.

“Although I suspect you are well acquainted with drawing rooms, I cannot believe that they are your natural element,” he said.

“By necessity they have been. But I must confess I prefer a place such as this to the grandest drawing room. Even in the rain.”

She glanced at him, to see his reaction. He smiled, and there was a warmth about that smile that illuminated his entire face, and made those glorious eyes seem brighter and clearer than before.

“You are a perfect child of nature, then,” he said, with some satisfaction.

“Yes, I believe I must be,” she said.

“Who are you?” he said, and then added, “no, but I must not ask you that. That would be impertinent.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I would rather not say.”

“And yet I should dearly love to know your story. The moment I laid eyes on you I thought there was something: one glance and I knew you were not the uncouth creature your clothes suggested. But I was not sure of it until you fell asleep. And then I saw you were in disguise and I was longing to wake you so you could tell me what you were about. But you were too perfect in your sleep to be disturbed so I took the liberty of drawing you. And the thunder woke you instead.”

His eyes searched over her as he spoke. His voice was rich with lively, warm curiosity. Griselda felt herself blushing and looking away. She sensed his enthusiasm and that she had inspired some great excitement in him, an excitement which she found she understood perfectly, for something similar was jumping up inside her.

“I only hope you have not found yourself in this situation through some awful tragedy,” he then said, sobering slightly.

“No, not exactly,” she said. “You may be assured of that. I am here because…” – she hesitated – “because I am here.”

“That is a very unsatisfactory answer,” he said. “But perhaps my curiosity is better left unsatisfied.”

“Oh, I think so,” said Griselda. “If you knew who I was and what the circumstances were you would be forced to behave quite differently. As should I. And that is what I particularly wish to avoid.”

“Well said. I have often thought that but I have never achieved it. But you have.”

“Many people would not consider it an achievement,” she pointed out.

“But I must,” he said. “Believe me, you inspire me more than you can imagine.”

Griselda had never had such a conversation in her life before. It made all that had passed before fade into insignificance to be standing here with this glowing young man. He continued:

“You seem to be the embodiment of freedom herself. You are not human. You are Liberty!” Then he laughed – a deep, pleasing, self-mocking laugh, shaking his head as he spoke. “This storm is making me wild.”

“No, wildness is inside us,” Griselda said, her own emotion bubbling up. “It comes from our own hearts, our own souls.” She laughed as she spoke, feeling an extraordinary sense of exhilaration.

He stared at her.

“I think you are the most beautiful creature I ever laid eyes on,” he said. He reached out and touched her cheek with his knuckles, his hand unfolding like a flower as his skin touched her. “And you are real. I can feel the warmth of you skin.”

Griselda had never been so aware of her body as in that first gentle touch. He turned his hand and traced his fingers down her neck. She shuddered as he did so, for his little finger was delicately caressing her throat. She parted her lips and widened her eyes, watching him as he touched her. He had closed his eyes and stood like a blind man delicately exploring an object that he did not know. There was a slight smile on his lips.

Suddenly there was another great crack of thunder and the sound of distressed whinnying.

“My horse!” he exclaimed and dashed out of the chapter house.

Griselda followed and soon saw the cause of the noise. The mare had got loose and was bolting through the field, threatening to charge through a gap in the hedgerow.

He went tearing ahead to catch the mare. But the moment he reached her, she turned and started to charge towards Griselda. There was nothing to do but to jump for the bridle and do what she could to restrain her, although it felt for a moment that she was going to be dragged across a muddy field.

“Not frightened of horses either,” he said, when he returned to Griselda’s side and took the bridle from her.

“I could not be afraid of anything so perfect,” said Griselda, watching with some admiration as he gently brought the mare to order again.

“Would you like to ride her?”

“In this weather?”

“Well, I think we should try and find a decent shelter,” he said. “I think there is a tolerable inn not to far from here where we may at least get our clothes dry.” Then he glanced away a moment and said, “but of course, I should not impose upon you in any way. And you may wish to be on your travels to wherever. Is it to Samarkand or Arkangel or…?”

“No, a tolerable inn will do me very well,” she said. “I am beginning to feel uncomfortably damp.”

It was, of course, the height of impropriety to agree to his suggestion. But apparently they were not playing by those rules. They were playing some different game altogether, one that Griselda found far too exciting to call to a halt.

So he tied Griselda’s pack to the mare, along with his sketching outfit, and handed her up into the saddle. He assumed she would ride astride and for a moment she was a little uneasy, never having done so before. But she felt a little safer when he climbed up behind her and taking the reins in one hand, put his arm about her waist.

“I’m sure you’re a famous horsewoman,” he said, “but you haven’t the benefit of the stirrups.”

“Oh, I’ve no objection,” she said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to have his arm about her waist and her whole body pressed against his. On the contrary, it was as intimate and as exciting and as downright dangerous as the wild gallop he now pushed the mare into. They hurtled along as if he were riding to hounds, even taking in a couple of jumps.

“She loves to jump,” he said, his arm pressing a little more tightly around Griselda's waist.

At moments it seemed that the entire escapade might end with broken necks, but the journey to the inn was accomplished without any mishaps. As the horse slowed to a sensible walk, Griselda exclaimed breathlessly, “Oh, but I could have gone on like that for ever!”

“Yes, so could I!” he rejoined. “But her ladyship will not allow us to do that. She can smell a nice dry stable – she’s a delicate creature at heart and she doesn’t like the rain.”

The inn was a pleasant, rambling old place, with lavender bushes growing on either side of the front door. A boy ran out to take the horse to the stable while Griselda and the gentleman went inside.

For there was no doubt that he was a gentleman – albeit a rather unusual one. His manner and address commanded the instant attention and respect of the landlady who came bustling out to greet them.

“A private parlour, sir, of course. Our best private parlour is upstairs, with a bedchamber off it – would that suit, sir?”

“Perfectly. And send up a jug of claret and a cold fowl, if you’ve such a thing in the larder.”

“Certainly we have sir, and would you take a nice plum tart? We’ve a tree in the orchard that always fruits early.”

“Plum tart would be excellent,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and grinning like a schoolboy at Griselda. She had been attempting to melt into the dark shadows of the oak wainscoting, hoping that the landlady would just take her to be his servant. “Do you not love a plum tart?” he said.

The landlady gave Griselda a long, suspicious glance as she passed her by and began to climb the stairs.

The blackened looking-glass hanging between the two windows of the private parlour made it perfectly clear why. Griselda saw how strange she looked. Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain and her old clothes, now soaking, looked dreadful. She did not look the least like a gentleman’s servant. She looked thin, hollow-eyed and desperate – in short, like gallows meat. Yet he had said she was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on.

And now he was staring at her again, while the landlady lit the fire, staring at her as if she were the only thing in the room. He had grown abstracted in his contemplation of her and stood with his dripping coat half shrugged from his shoulders.

As aware of the landlady’s scrutiny as of his, Griselda picked up her pack and went into the adjoining bedchamber.

The room was large, well-furnished and dominated by a big old oak bed, neatly hung with a fresh chintz that had Chinese gardens printed on it. It was still warm from the sunshine that had been chased off by the storm, and the fire soon added its own cheerful glow. There was a pile of fresh towels lying by the washstand, a steaming copper of hot water nearby and the room smelt of lavender, beeswax polish and wood smoke.

She turned from her inspection to see him standing in the doorway.

“Would you like a towel?” she enquired.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the one she offered. “I shall leave you to your toilette.” He made a slight bow and closed the door.

For a moment she wondered if she should turn the key in the lock and then decided she could trust his sense of honour.

She pulled off her clothes, draped them over various items of furniture to dry, and had a good wash. Then, dressed only in a towel, she unrolled her pack. She had formed it from an old plaid blanket that had done its work well, for its contents were only cold, and not wet. It contained her peat-brown riding habit and the body linen she had abandoned before she assumed her disguise that morning in Perth: a shift, a flannel petticoat, her habit shirt and her stays. She held her shift in front of the fire to air it for a few minutes and had just pulled it over her head when there was a gentle knock at the door.

“I have ordered some chocolate,” he said. “Would you care for some?”

“Yes, very much,” she called out. Chocolate was a luxury that did not appear often on the table in her father’s house, and she found she had a raging appetite. Quickly she struggled into the rest of her clothes. She buttoned the last button of her habit jacket with one hand, while with the other she settled her messy curls into the best order that she could.

Satisfied, she made her entrance quietly in her stockinged feet. Her boots were still too wet to put back on.

He was sitting by the fire, apparently lost in thought, and did not notice her come in. He had pulled off his stockings, breeches and boots and sat in only his shirt and linen under breeches, with one bare foot resting on his knee. The room was gloomy in the storm light so the fire shone out, casting his face in an eerie, intense gold brightness that went well with the abstracted melancholy of his expression.

The window casements rattled in a violent gust of wind, and he glanced up and saw her standing in the corner. For a moment longer he looked, and then he smiled, rose and greeted her, quite the respectable host again, despite his rather unconventional lack of clothing.

“Ma’am,” he said, and a brought a chair to the fireside for her.

She sat down, quite as if she were paying a morning visit on a neighbour at Glenmorval, her hands folded in her lap. He helped her to a cup of chocolate but just as he handed it to her, their eyes met and their fingers touched. The cup rattled in the saucer, and continued to rattle, for Griselda found she was shaking unaccountably. He did not move away when he had handed her the cup but stood looming over her. She put down the cup on the little tripod table and was about to fold her hands together again, when he reached out and caught her right hand in his.

He crouched down and kissed her hand, cradling it in his, and then pressed his face to her palm, as if her touch was the thing he most wanted in the world. Griselda swallowed – she was bewildered but not offended. She could find no reason to pull her hand away.

He looked up at her and his face was serious, his blue eyes fixed on her with unwavering intensity. She reached out and pushed back the hair that was falling over his forehead. He smiled and she realised it was in answer to her own smile of pleasure. For his hair felt as soft as it looked, in texture like the silky coat of a spaniel, but thicker, she discovered, as she succumbed to the irresistible urge to plough her fingers through it. She let the last lock drop from her fingers with reluctance.