She was very pleased with this plan. And she decided she would go slowly southwards, following the coast on foot with her pack on her shoulder, and disguised as a boy once more. The weather was still good. She would have her adventure again. She could hardly wait to be on her way.
***
After a long ride in the morning, Tom spent the rest of the day locked up in his lodgings, drafting and redrafting a letter, a miserable process which seemed to grow harder the more he applied himself to it. He had not exaggerated when he told Griselda that he did not write letters except on business – and although this letter was undoubtedly business, the phrases did not come easily to him. Why should they – after all, this was not a letter to his steward at Priorscote to tell him to start a drainage scheme.
He was writing to Caroline. A suspect act in itself, because he knew he ought to go and talk to her outright instead of hiding behind a letter. He could imagine what Griselda Farquarson would say about that: “What a coward to hide behind a piece of paper!”
He looked at his effort so far and grimaced. No matter how he phrased it, it was a brutal thing.
Dear Miss Rufford,
I am writing to ask of you what should never be asked – in short to ask you to release me from the terms of our engagement. Circumstances, as they have developed, can only bring you pain, and that above all I wish to spare you.
I have come in the last few days to see that I am not a fit person to become your husband. I have discovered defects in my character which make it impossible for me to undertake the role that I so rashly offered to perform for you and I could not allow matters to continue as they are. You ought to know what sort of man I really am. I am neither constant nor honest. I am weak willed and self indulgent. In short I am not worthy of a woman like Miss Rufford.
I cannot condone my conduct or my character. I can only hope to attempt some form of reparation, one of which is to free you from any obligation to me.
I do not ask you to release me because of the opposition of certain people to you. Their claims are false and I can assure you I will not be entering into any sort of engagement to Lady Mary. I do not seek to free myself in order to advance myself materially, please understand this.
Believe me, madam, I deeply regret the circumstances of this letter – and the distress which it must inevitably cause you.
I remain always your devoted servant,
Thomas Thorpe
Gough came in and coughed to get his attention.
“Sir, do you want to dress now? I believe you are expected at Lady Amberleigh’s for dinner.”
“What time is it?”
“Three o’clock, sir.”
Tom rubbed his face. He had not exactly forgotten that he was engaged to dine at Lady Amberleigh’s; rather he had pushed it to the back of his mind, in an attempt to ignore it.
“Sir?” Gough said, waiting for his answer. Tom looked down at his ink-stained hands, and then at the heap of crumpled papers which littered the writing table.
“I will not be dressing,” he said, picking up his pen again and taking a fresh piece of paper. He began to scratch out a message, for his pen was getting worn.
Sir Thomas Thorpe presents his compliments to Lady Amberleigh, Miss Rufford and Miss Farquarson. Regretfully he must inform them that he is indisposed and unable to dine this evening.
He folded the note and sealed it. Some letters were easier to write than others, he concluded – the sort that contained lies rather than the truth.
“Take this to Lady Amberleigh’s house,” he said handing it to Gough.
“Yes of course, sir,” said Gough. “Are there any other messages?”
Tom picked up the letter to Caroline and thought for a moment.
“No, Gough, not just now,” he said.
Gough left and Tom folded the letter, sealed and addressed it. He had not decided whether it was right to send it. His instincts told him it would be more honourable to wait on her in the morning.
He got up from his chair, stiff from sitting so long. He stood the letter up on the mantle shelf as a momento mori, to force him to stick to his guns and do the correct thing, for once in his life. Then he turned to the window, pushed up the sash and stepped over the low sill onto the tiny cast iron balcony which, in the latest fashion, decorated the building. A delicious, sharp gust of sea air, rushed around him and he leant on the window frame, breathing deeply, allowing himself the momentary relief it brought him.
He looked out to sea, at the long shingled beach where the other night he had thought he had seen Griselda in her boy’s clothes, before he had known who she was. He looked hopefully now, wishing he might see her again, and feel that uncomplicated, unfettered rush of attraction towards her.
But he knew in his heart that was impossible. She herself had told him so.
“I need your help, Thorpe,” said Hugh Farquarson. “God knows, I’m obliged to you enough as it is, but this is serious.”
“Tell me,” said Tom, helping him to a chair. “Gough, get the Colonel some sherry. You look terrible.”
Tom was just finishing his breakfast. It was a little after nine and he had been planning to go directly to see Caroline.
“My sister has run away,” said Farquarson. “Again.”
Tom poured a large glass of sherry for himself as well as for Farquarson.
“I see,” he said. “Some man?” he added as innocently as he could. He wondered if he ought to tell Farquarson the whole thing, for there was a good chance she had run away because of him. The extremely unpleasant thought occurred to him that she might have discovered she was with child. He took a large mouthful of sherry.
“No,” said Farquarson. “Well, yes. Her father. My father has decided to marry again and Griselda, in her wilful way, shows her disapproval of the match by bolting – first to here and now, well, God knows where. I need you to help me look for her before she gets into some serious trouble. She thinks she is so strong and yet she knows nothing of the world. She has, I think, disguised herself as a boy. An idiotic conceit.”
“Of course I will help. How do you suggest we start the search?”
“I would ride – it is faster, but in my state I cannot. I will hire a vehicle of some sort and take the mail route to Norwich. She went yesterday just after dinner. My aunt and Miss Rufford thought she had gone to bed with a headache. She may have taken the evening mail.”
“Or she may be on foot,” Tom suggested as innocently as he could.
“Possibly,” said Hugh. “That does not seem too likely, although she is a strong walker. She would surely not attempt such a journey on foot. But then, this is my headstrong sister. If that is the case, she could have gone anywhere.”
“Towards London, across country?” suggested Tom.
“Yes, perhaps. So could you try to cover that on horseback? She will be dressed disgracefully, but I do not think you will be able to mistake her for long.”
“No, she does not have the sort of face that one can forget in a hurry.”
“Thank God,” said Hugh. “That makes our task a great deal easier.”
Tom nodded, finished his sherry and sent Gough immediately to have Juno saddled and brought round.
“And the carriage too, Gough, for the Colonel. Oh, and make sure Miss Rufford gets this,” he added, snatching the letter from the mantlepiece. Gough took the letter and left, giving Tom a moment of acute discomfort as to whether that was the right thing to have done. But at least she would know. That was the important thing.
“That is good of you to put your carriage at my disposal,” said Hugh.
“You will be far faster with my horses than any supplied by the liverymen here. And Andrew, my coachman, is a sensible, shrewd fellow – just the sort of man you need in a case like this.”
They parted shortly afterwards, the Colonel in the chaise on the main road to Norwich, while Tom took Juno on the coast road, following an instinct that she would want to stay in sight of the sea to guide her south.
Tom rode off feeling he had been dispatched with orders by his general. He was glad to indulge this conceit for it stopped him thinking, at least for a while, of the reason he was really chasing Griselda Farquarson across the countryside. But it could not stop him wondering why she had run away. Whatever Farquarson said about Griselda’s apparent reason for leaving, Tom could not help suspecting he was really responsible. He was sure she must be running away from him and the thought of that was unbearable.
***
Griselda felt that luck was with her.
On the first day, a mile or two out of Cromer on the coast road to Yarmouth, she got a lift from a carter with an empty wagon who willingly took her to his village five miles away and asked no payment even though she offered. Instead, he asked if she could read. He took her, as she hoped he might, for some poor scholar on the road to London. He asked her to read and explain some documents relating to the tenancy of his cottage. This Griselda willingly did, and she was happy to point out that the landlord who had been giving them trouble had no right to do so. The roof was his responsibility and not theirs, and she wrote a brief note to him, stating the case, and signing it, rather proudly, as “G. Nisbet, law student, Edinburgh.” Nisbet had been her mother’s maiden name, and they had been a family of lawyers.
As a result she got a good supper of bread, cheese and beer from the carter's wife, and a place in the stable to sleep. She set off at first light, her breakfast already packed by her kind hostess the night before, feeling immensely pleased at her ability to live so magnificently on her wits. The weather was perfect for such a journey. The start of autumn kept the air cool and pleasant for walking, but the sun was still shining and the landscape seemed always soft and forgiving. There were no mountains to climb or bleak moors to struggle across. If there was a hill to climb, it meant the reward of a fine prospect at the top of it and then an easy descent.
About noon on the second day, she was enjoying one such prospect. She had stopped to eat the remains of her bread and cheese and some windfall apples and blackberries she had gathered in her hat. She had left the road – a small, dusty path at best – and was enjoying the view from the shade of a magnificent oak. She wondered how far she had walked. She had not seen a milestone lately – the road was too small for such marks of civilisation. In fact it was so quiet a spot, she was surprised to hear the sound of a horse trotting up the hill behind her. From idle curiosity, she got up and looked around to see who was passing by. She expected a lumbering cart or a solitary farmer on his pony.
Instead she saw a large, handsome bay mare that she recognised only too well.
She dived to gather her things together. There was a chance he would not see her if she lurked in the undergrowth near the tree for long enough. She crouched as best she could, not daring to peep out. What on earth was he doing here? He was a long way from Cromer to be riding for exercise.
She realised that he must be looking for her.
The trotting stopped. She swallowed. Of course he had stopped to enjoy the prospect. Anyone would. He would start down the hill in a moment.
“Steady there, girl,” she heard him say, and then there was the ominous thump of his booted feet hitting the ground. “Time for a rest for you, Juno, my love.” She heart him pat her flank and the appreciative whinny of the mare. Then the crunch of hooves and boots on the long undergrowth as he led her towards the shade of the tree.
She ventured to raise her head a little, hardly daring to breathe. Fortunately he was not very close. He had chosen the other, younger oak at which to tether Juno. Then clearly feeling the heat, he shrugged off his riding coat and threw it on the ground. He walked away from Juno and looked out at the prospect for a moment, his arms folded on his chest. Then he turned and Griselda feared he was going to fetch his sketchbook in order to sit down and take an impression of the view. But instead he went to the lee of her oak and to her horror, in clear view, proceeded to unbutton the fall of his breeches.
She looked away. He was but six or seven feet away. She could hear everything.
Her eyes closed, her face scrunched up with sheer embarrassment, she sat crouched in amongst the tangle of saplings and briars, clutching her pack, half an uneaten apple at her feet. Another of the windfalls was tucked precariously under her chin, and she cursed herself for scooping it up, as if it were something infinitely more precious than a sour cider apple. For she felt sure it was going to fall down and roll noisily away, so she set every muscle in her body in iron hardness to resist it. But the effort was useless. The apple bounced out and went bowling away noisily though the long grass towards him.
“Who’s there?” he called out, taking a few long strides through the undergrowth towards her. He looked down. He saw her. He recognised her.
There was nothing to be done but to get to her feet and run. There was a hedge with a gap in it ahead of her and she hurtled towards it, holding her pack against her as if it were her own child. She hurled herself through the gap in the hedge and began to dash across the field.