***
“Oh, it’s you – what do you want?” Lady Thorpe said, when Tom was shown into her boudoir in Portman Square. “Have you come to reproach me? It was merely a friendly conversation.” She was sitting at her card table, laying out a game of patience and she did not look at him as she spoke. “Don’t you want us to be friends, Thorpe?”
Tom came in and sat down, chilled into silence by her apparent indifference.
“I told her about your nonsensical journey to Italy,” she went on. “She did not appear to know about it. That was careless of you, not to tell her. But I suppose she is a rather insignificant object. You had better send her down to the country and make sure she stays there. She does not look well in town. She has as much style as a milkmaid. No wonder Renfrew was all agog over her. He has a terrible passion for servants. Still, her blood is good enough and I daresay she will breed well. That is your intention, I suppose?”
Tom was speechless, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“You could have had good blood and doubled your fortune if you had listened to me,” went on Lady Thorpe. “How unpleasant and disobedient you must always be. It is a terrible burden to have a disappointing son. Well, you will understand that one day. Who knows what red-haired, long-shanked horrors she will produce for you?”
“And pray how did you discover I am going to Italy?” said Tom.
“When he was a footman, Manton had a terrible case of light fingers,” she said, examining the cards critically. “He could have gone to the gallows for it. He is always very grateful to me for that.” She glanced up and gave him a dazzling but unpleasant smile. “So why are you here, cluttering up my room?”
“I have some unpleasant news for you, ma’am,” he said. “Very unpleasant, I’m afraid.”
“No sign of Lady Thorpe yet, Manton?” said Tom, getting back to Upper Brook Street.
“No, sir, I’m sorry,” he said.
“I shall be in the book room, Manton. Tell me as soon as she comes back.”
“Of course sir.”
If she ever comes back, Tom thought as he threw himself down in his chair by the fire. She had run away from her house in Scotland, and from Cromer. Why not run away now? The circumstances merited it. It would be exactly what she would do, especially after a bruising session with his mother. She would not stay put if she knew that he was leaving. She would have seen the gesture in the harshest light – as a rejection, and he knew she would be too proud to stay in her place and hear him out. Of course not. Not his sweet, red-haired, indomitable, reckless Griselda who would not let herself belong to anyone.
He poured himself a large glass of claret and drank it too quickly. After an hour or so of his mother’s banshee-like wailing, his nerves had been twisted up to breaking point. If only Griselda had been there when he came back. He had hoped so desperately to find her sitting by the fire.
Now, he found himself starting at every sound in case it was her returning. He had more wine and decided he would absolutely throw himself at her mercy – if she returned. He could not bear the thought of leaving her. He would live with her on whatever terms she chose, so as long as he could live with her. Half a decanter of claret decided it. He had the speech quite worked out when he heard the jangle of the front door bell.
He dashed out into the hall as Manton opened the door.
“Mr Randall, good evening to you, sir.”
“Good evening Manton. Is your master at home?”
“I’m here, Will,” said Tom, coming forward. “How did you leave Lady Mary?”
“She was calm,” he said, as they went into the book room together. “She has great resolution.”
“I was astonished how well she took it.”
“She is like a queen coming into her inheritence,” said Will. “It was impressive, certainly. More than impressive, perhaps,” he added, with a slightly embarrassed smile.
“A queen needs a consort,” said Tom, handing him a glass of wine.
“I don’t suppose her trustees will let me within five miles of her,” said Will. “I had better not even think of it.
“They ought, if they have any sense. I wonder who they are. I will write to them for you if I know them. Though perhaps you don’t think very highly of my abilities as a matchmaker,” Tom went on, sitting down again, “when my own affairs are in such disarray.”
“What progress then?”
“None. I haven’t even had the chance to speak to her yet. She’s not here. I am beginning to think she has bolted. She knows, you see. My mother was here and told her I was going.”
“Bolted? What do you mean?”
“She has an adventurous temperament, Will,” said Tom. “That’s how I met her. Do you suppose she was presented to me in somebody’s drawing room? No.”
So he explained the circumstances. He finished his account and then added: “And instead of marrying me, she proposed that I keep her as a mistress instead so she could steal my silver and run away again.”
“And have you checked the plate?” Will said.
Tom managed a brief smile.
“She will take nothing from me. That’s the worst of it. And if she does come back, I shall just make a perfect fool of myself and it won’t change a thing.”
“I think we should go and look for her.”
“It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“So we sit here getting drunk and maudlin? What happens if she does come back and you are in your cups? That won’t impress her. Where do you think she might have gone?”
“How in God’s name should I know?” he said.
“You are already in your cups, aren’t you, old man?” said Will.
“If you could conceive of the agony of my position,” said Tom, “you would have taken twice as much by now.”
“But you had better not have any more. Come, let’s get the carriage brought round. At least if we drive for a while, we might spot her.”
“And then what?” said Tom. “No, leave it. Let us leave it. If she wants to come back she will. And if she does not, then…”
“You must find her,” Will said. “This is ridiculous.”
“And say what to her? Attempt to force her out of pity to come back to me, when I have just proposed abandoning her? What self-respecting person would do that? Certainly not Griselda. Even if I am the most pitiable object alive on this earth I won’t do that to her. I will not look for her.” He refilled his glass and then handed the decanter to Will. “No. Talk to me about Mary Liston, Will. Tell me if that is a love story that might have a happy ending.”
***
Griselda walked through London in the looming dusk, without any object. She hardly knew what she was doing, let alone where she was going. Anger mixed with misery pushed her already tired feet forward. She did not notice the curious glances directed at her – a woman in a fur-trimmed pelisse and an expensive bonnet wandering at dinner time in the City, when most respectable women were presiding over their tables.
She had not been able to stay in the house. It had been like being in a prison awaiting an execution, sitting there, waiting for him to return, waiting to hear him say it to her face: “I am going away. I do not want you.” That above all things was the most unbearable prospect. To be dropped, as she had been picked up, by a man for whom she would have gladly ripped her heart out.
She found herself by the river, standing at the water’s edge, in the shadow of the Tower. She caught her breath. Had not Manton said, when she had pressed him for the truth, that Thorpe was to leave on a boat from a landing by the Tower? His escape route, the great roadway that was the Thames, steel grey and slippery, stretched out into the far distance. She frowned. How dare he run away from her?
She knew then that she must confront him. She would not let him go without giving his conscience a good whipping. It was the only thing that she could think to do to bring herself any comfort.
A man sat in a rowing boat, waiting for a passenger. He saw her approach and got up.
“A penny to take you over the river, ma’am,” he said.
“I don’t want to go across, thank you. But I’ll give you a penny if you can tell me if any of these boats are sailing to Italy tomorrow,” she said, handing him a coin.
“I believe that brigantine, yonder, the Fair Lucia, is leaving for Italy tomorrow,” said the man, pointing out a double-masted ship moored at the far end of the pontoon. “Captain Marshall did mention it to me. But I think a gentleman has chartered it – a baronet no less – so there’d be no berths to spare on her. Now, Captain Brown takes his ship to Leghorn end of this week – and he’s always willing to take a passenger. Would Leghorn do you, ma’am? I take it you are looking for a passage?”
Griselda smiled, not knowing how to answer. Perhaps a voyage to Leghorn was just the thing. It would be like vanishing into thin air. A dangerous but fascinating prospect. She had a few gold guineas in her reticule. Would that be enough, she wondered.
“How much does Captain Brown usually charge for such a passage?”
“I couldn’t say. You would need to come to some arrangement with him yourself, ma’am. You’ll find him in the Dog and Grapes on the south bank. I’ll gladly take you to him.”
It was tempting, but she had to be sensible. For once in her life, she told herself. She had come to wait for Thorpe and that is what she would do.
“No, thank you, not this time,” she said.
The ferryman shrugged and settled down in his boat again and Griselda walked on until she reached the pontoon that led out into the river. The pontoon was a little slippery and she had to walk carefully along it until she reached the Fair Lucia.
There appeared to be no-one aboard. Well, she would wait until someone came. If they questioned her there would be no difficulty. Where else would a wife be but waiting in the boat her husband had just chartered for a long voyage?
She wondered as she gingerly climbed onto the boat if he intended to come aboard that night. Manton had said that the intention was to catch the early tide so it seemed a strong possibility.
It had begun to rain quite heavily and she decided to get below and shelter. There was a hatch ahead of her. Perhaps it led to the main cabin.
She bent and unlatched it. She could see nothing – a pitch dark space. She felt inside and found a small flight of wooden stairs, almost as steep as a ladder, so she turned about and climbed in, hoping she might find a tinder box and a candle nearby.
She had just reached the bottom when a gust of wind blew the hatch shut. She reached up and pushed at it. It had wedged shut. Unnerved, she began to search for a candle.
She blundered about in the darkness, willing her eyes to become accustomed to the blackness. It smelled apalling in there, and the place seemd to be full of lumber. She had already bumped into a barrel and just avoided another.
She stopped for a moment, now very angry with herself for getting into such a place and such a pass, and then, with a degree of unpreventable panic, she hastily resumed her fumbling search.
But not for long. She stumbled over something, giving her injured ankle a violent wrench which made her exclaim in pain. She felt herself lurch forward, and then suddenly there was a huge crack as she collided against something large and very solid indeed.
And then nothing but blackness.
It was five o’clock in the morning, a dank, raw dawn, the sky as grey as a gun barrel. Wrapped in his greatcoat, Tom was standing on the deck of the Fair Lucia, scanning the waterfront, imagining she might appear from somewhere. He had stood there for some minutes on coming aboard, indulging in what he now knew was an idle, hopeless fancy.
“I’m afraid we can’t wait any longer, sir,” Captain Marshall said. “The tide will be against us if we don’t sail within the hour.”
“Very well,” said Tom, without enthusiasm.
The Captain hurried off, shouting his orders. Tom went to the stern of the Fair Lucia, intending to watch London slip into the distance.
In his greatcoat pocket he still had a letter which he had planned to hand to Andrew as he boarded. A thick letter full of impassioned explanation which he had intended Hannah to carry into the empty house in Brook Street and leave in her ladyship’s dressing room. Even as he had sat writing it in the book room, he had felt sure she would come back.
But as the night had passed and he had set out for the Tower, his conviction had started to slip away, like the tide which must carry him out to sea.
He took it out now, as the boat slipped from the moorings. They were bound for Ramsgate. He could post it then, but it was a vain hope that it might reach her.
So he waited until they were fully away, and making good progress past the huge commercial docks that lay beyond the City, heading towards Greenwich. He held it for a moment or two longer, tapping it against his open palm before tossing it into the water.
While it still lay in his sight he watched it: a small white square bobbing on the murky surface of the Thames. But it soon vanished entirely from view.