The Temptation of Torilla Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  Torilla stepped out of the stagecoach when it reached Hatfield and saw that one of her uncle’s carriages was waiting for her.

  She also recognised the groom in his blue livery with silver crested buttons, who smiled as he raised his tall cockaded hat,

  “Good afternoon, Miss Torilla. Nice to see you again.”

  “And it is nice to see you, too, Ned,” Torilla answered. “I am so relieved that you are here to meet me.”

  “Her Ladyship thought miss, you might not be arriving until tomorrow,” Ned replied, “knowing how unpunctual the coaches are.”

  He gave a disdainful glance at the unwieldy vehicle, as he picked up Torilla’s valise and carried it to where a closed landau drawn by two well-bred horses was waiting in the yard.

  The coachman whom Torilla also knew greeted her and she stepped into the comfortable carriage to sit back against the cushioned upholstery while Ned collected her trunk.

  It was just like old times, she thought, with attentive servants she had known since she was a child.

  She wished Abby was with her to appreciate the quickness with which the guard of the stagecoach handed Ned her trunk. Then they were off towards the village of Fernford, which was two miles outside Hatfield.

  All the time Torilla had been travelling for the last two days, she had found it difficult to think of anything but Sir Alexander Abdy.

  It had been impossible to sleep after he had kissed her and she had lain awake in the darkness feeling the pressure of his lips still on hers and his arms enfolding her.

  She had often wondered what it would be like to be kissed and now, she thought to herself, things could never be quite the same.

  When she listened to the fairy stories her mother had told her and read mythical tales in books as she grew older, she had always felt there was something mystical and wonderful behind the ordinary things that were familiar.

  She sensed that one day she would understand the yearning that was sometimes within her and the emotions, which were inescapable.

  When moonlight filtered between the branches of trees in great shafts of silver or sunshine was dazzling on the stillness of water, she felt a response that was strange and yet exciting.

  At other times she would be aroused by a butterfly hovering over the opening petals of a flower or when she heard music in the breeze blowing through the trees.

  She had always felt then as if what she was trying to understand was just out of reach. She sensed it, felt it near her, and yet it was elusive and like a will-o’-the-wisp she could not touch.

  Suddenly she had captured it and had known it was hers at the touch of the Marquis’s lips.

  It had been so inexpressibly wonderful and, although her body responded to it, she had known that the real glory was her mind.

  She thought too, that it was what she had often felt when she prayed and when she attended the Communion Service very early in the morning when the only light in the darkness of the Church was the candles on the altar.

  Though she tried to explain to herself what she felt, it was beyond words, it was a secret but an inseparable part of herself.

  Shyly she thought that in a way last night she had also become a part of the man who had kissed her.

  As the day passed and she spent another night in a coaching inn, she thought perhaps she had imagined the whole thing.

  Could there really be a man who looked like Sir Alexander Abdy? Who had such presence and such consequence and could arouse in her feelings that made her quiver even to think of them?

  ‘I shall never see him again,’ she thought despairingly and then told herself that perhaps it was a good thing.

  If she set aside the magic of what had happened, it came down to the fact that she had allowed a stranger, a man she had met by chance, to kiss her and she had made no attempt to struggle or free herself.

  She had been completely submissive and captive in his arms.

  That it was a wonder beyond wonders did not prevent her knowing that her mother would have been extremely shocked by her behaviour.

  What was more, she herself could give no reasonable excuse for the manner in which she had behaved.

  She could not bear to imagine what Abby would have thought had she accompanied her. However, if Abby had been there, Sir Jocelyn would not have forced his way into her room and she would not have needed to be rescued.

  Before she arrived at Fernleigh Hall, Torilla decided that she would never tell Abby, Beryl, or anyone else what had occurred.

  It was a secret of which she was not ashamed because it had been almost a miracle of joy and she would not defame the memory of it by pretending that she was sorry.

  No one would understand the inner consequence of what on the surface was only a reprehensible escapade.

  The horses turned in through the small lodges standing on either side of the huge wrought iron gates surmounted by the Fernleigh Crest.

  Then Torilla was driving between oak trees, among which she and Beryl had played ‘hide and seek’ when they were children, and she saw ahead of her the tall, red-brick mansion which had been built in the days of Queen Anne.

  It was an attractive house and most people exclaimed at the splendour of its architecture, but to Torilla it was simply home.

  She could hardly wait for the carriage door to be opened and the step to be let down before she sprang out.

  Even as she did, Beryl was there waiting for her at the top of the steps.

  She put her arms round Torilla and the two cousins kissed each other affectionately while Beryl cried,

  “Dearest, dearest Torilla! I have missed you! How glad I am to see you!”

  “And I am so happy to be here,” Torilla answered with tears in her eyes.

  “The stagecoach actually arrived on its proper day!” Beryl said. “I can hardly believe it, any more than I can believe that you are back. I have so much to tell you!”

  She drew Torilla by the hand into the big salon, which overlooked the rose garden at the back of the house.

  Only as Torilla put up her hand to undo the ribbons of her bonnet and pull it off did she exclaim,

  “Beryl! How lovely you have grown! You are much, much more beautiful than I remember!”

  “I wanted you to think so,” Beryl answered, her eyes twinkling.

  What Torilla had said was true.

  Her cousin was indeed justly acclaimed as the most beautiful girl in England and her admirers had not been exaggerating when they compared her to an English rose.

  She had golden hair, not the colour of Torilla’s, but a vivid gleaming sovereign gold. Her eyes were the colour of a thrush’s egg and her complexion the pink-and-white of every woman’s dreams.

  She and Torilla were the same height and had as children been the same size, but now because Torilla had lived in the North on a starvation diet she was thinner than Beryl.

  There were little hollows under her cheekbones, while Beryl’s face was a smooth and well-filled oval.

  With the crimson of her lips, which in fact owed not a little to artifice, the sparkle in her eyes and the vivacity of the manner in which she talked which set her curls dancing, it was as difficult for Torilla as for everyone else not to watch her in almost breathless admiration.

  “You are so beautiful!” Torilla said again in awe-struck tones.

  “And think how impressive I shall look when I am bedecked in all the gowns of my new trousseau,” Beryl smiled.

  She moved forward to kiss Torilla again on the cheek as she said,

  “You will have to help me with it, dearest, or I shall never be ready on time. Oh, and that reminds me, there are two more names I must write down on the wedding-list.”

  With a quick movement like a little humming-bird, she sped across the salon to the secretaire to pick up a white quill pen and start writing.

  As she did so, she said over her shoulder,

  “I know someone will be forgotten and will therefore become a
n enemy for life and that is why I am making a list as I think of them.”

  Torilla put down her bonnet before she replied,

  “You must show it to me! Then I can ask you about all the friends I used to know but who I am afraid will have forgotten me by now.”

  “Captain and Mrs. Chalmers,” Beryl said aloud as she inscribed their names.

  “I remember the Chalmers,” Torilla exclaimed. “She was a very sweet woman, but I always thought he was rather aggressive.”

  Beryl did not reply and after a moment Torilla added,

  “That reminds me of another soldier. How is Rodney?”

  Beryl was suddenly very still, but Torilla did not notice.

  “It will be fun to see him again,” she went on. “Do you remember how he used to tease us? Like when he took away the ladder and we had to stay in the hayloft in the stables for over an hour before we were rescued!”

  She gave a little laugh.

  “I am sure if anyone is jealous about your being married it will be Rodney.”

  Then as Beryl did not reply, Torilla sensed that something was wrong.

  “What is it?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Rodney is dead!”

  Beryl rose as she spoke from the secretaire and walked towards one of the long French windows opening into the garden.

  “Dead?” Torilla repeated in astonishment. “Oh, Beryl, I had no idea! No one told me. How could he have died?”

  She was silent until Beryl replied,

  “He was killed in France.”

  “But the war was over when Papa and I left here,” Torilla said. “Do you not remember how excited we were when we heard that Paris had surrendered?”

  There was a pause before Beryl answered,

  “The Duke of Wellington did not know that the Allied Forces had taken Paris and that the war was really over.”

  “We knew that Rodney’s Regiment had entered France at St. Jean de Luz,” Torilla said almost as if she was speaking to herself.

  “They fought their way as far as Toulouse,” Beryl came in with a strangled voice. “Of course we did not learn until much, much later that Marshall Soult was convinced that Toulouse was impregnable.”

  “And so the Duke of Wellington attacked it,” Torilla said as if she knew the end of the story.

  “There were very heavy – losses,” Beryl went on with tears in her voice. “The newspapers reported that nearly five thousand of our troops were killed and – Rodney was – among them.”

  “Oh – I am sorry, Beryl. I am so very very sorry,” Torilla cried. “I had no idea and you never told me in your letters.”

  “The Marsden’s heard nothing until after Christmas,” Beryl explained, her voice catching over the words. “Then they were told that – Rodney was not amongst the s-survivors of the battle.”

  “I can hardly believe it!” Torilla whispered.

  Rodney Marsden had been so much a part of her’s and Beryl’s childhood.

  His father, Squire Marsden, had an estate that bordered the Earl’s and Rodney, although three years older than Beryl, was an only child too.

  Inevitably he spent his holidays from school in their company.

  Because the Earl was fond of him, he allowed him to shoot duck on the lakes, pigeons and rabbits in the woods and occasionally, when he grew older, he accompanied his father pheasant and partridge shooting.

  Squire Marsden had some good horses, especially hunters, and Rodney appointed himself to lead Beryl and Torilla in the hunting field.

  He was also their dancing partner at all the parties their parents gave at Christmastime and Torilla thought of him as the brother she would have loved to have.

  It was only now that she had learnt that he was dead that she knew how much she had looked forward to seeing him again.

  She moved across the salon, put her arms round Beryl and said softly,

  “The only consolation is that was the way Rodney would have – wanted to – die. He was so proud to be in the Army.”

  For a moment Beryl clung to Torilla then she moved away and said in a different voice,

  “I have taught myself not to think about him. When somebody is dead, there is nothing one can do and tears are extremely unbecoming!”

  It sounded a frivolous remark, but Torilla knew because she loved her cousin that Beryl was hiding her real feelings. Because she understood that some things were too poignant to be discussed, she replied lightly,

  “Tell me about your engagement. You know, Beryl, it is so like you, but you forgot to tell me your future husband’s name.”

  “Wait until you see him, then you will be really impressed,” Beryl replied. “Oh, Torilla, I am so lucky – the luckiest girl in the world! Everyone has tried to capture Gallen, every single woman in the country – and a great many more who are already married!”

  Her lips were smiling as she went on,

  “They have tried every sort of bait on the biggest fish in the Social pool, but – clever me – I am the one who has caught him!”

  The way she spoke jarred a little on Torilla, but she said aloud,

  “I am sure where you are concerned, dearest, he was happy to be caught.”

  “It is the triumph of my life,” Beryl continued, “a grande finale to my career as an ‘incomparable’. You have heard that the Prince Regent called me that?”

  “You told me so in several of your letters,” Torilla replied.

  “I could not tell you half the things I wanted to,” Beryl said. “I hate letter writing. Besides I never have enough time.”

  She twirled her elaborate embroidered skirt around her as she exclaimed,

  “I am such a success! I don’t know where to begin to relate it all. I am asked to every party, every assembly and every ball! No one would dare to give an entertainment without me!”

  Torilla laughed.

  “Now you are boasting, just as you used to when you drew the best prize out of the bran dip at Christmas. I can see you now as you ran round the room crying, ‘Look at me! I have the biggest box of bonbons. Am I not clever?’”

  “And that is exactly what I have now,” Beryl answered, “for no one could imagine a bigger bonbon than Gallen! He is a Corinthian, a Buck, a Beau and the Prince Regent dotes on him!”

  She paused for breath, but before Torilla could speak, she went on,

  “I cannot begin to tell you how rich he is. Papa thinks he is the wealthiest man in the whole country. His Castle in Huntingdonshire is just made for entertaining.”

  She made an excited gesture with her hands as she continued,

  “I shall be the most important and certainly the most influential hostess in the whole of the Beau Monde! What is more I shall be covered in diamonds!”

  Torilla laughed again.

  “Oh, Beryl, you are ridiculous! But you are not telling me what I want to know.”

  “What is that?”

  “Are you very – very much – in love?”

  There was a little silence before Beryl said,

  “My dear Torilla, love as we used to talk about it when we were children is something felt by peasants.”

  Torilla looked at her to see if she was serious before she asked,

  “What are you – saying to me?”

  “I am saying that Gallen and I will deal very well together because we like the same things, we are Social stars in the same firmament, and we both know how to behave like civilised people.”

  “Then – you are not – in love with him?” Torilla exclaimed. “In which case why are you marrying him?”

  “Why am I marrying him?” Beryl echoed. “I have just told you! He is the richest, handsomest, most important man in England – what more could any girl ask?”

  “But – Beryl – ” Torilla faltered, an anxious expression in her eyes. “When we used to talk about love and when you first made your debut, we both swore we would never marry unless we fell in love.”

  “It is what I intended to do,” Beryl
responded quietly, “but it has not worked out like that.”

  “And you think you will be happy – without it?” Torilla asked.

  “But of course I shall be happy with Gallen,” Beryl replied. “I shall have everything I want – everything!”

  “And he loves you?” Torilla asked. “He must do I suppose, otherwise there is no reason for him to marry you.”

  Beryl gave her one of her puckish looks.

  “Gallen wants a son and heir. Who would not, with all those possessions to be inherited? I also have a feeling, Torilla, although of course he has never mentioned it to me, that he is escaping from the rather ardent attentions of a very persistent widow.”

  Torilla sat down on the sofa.

  “I am not happy about this, Beryl.”

  “You sound exactly like one of our Governesses. Heavens, that reminds me, I had forgotten Miss Dawson! She must be invited to the wedding.”

  She sped back to the secretaire and, as she sat down, Torilla said,

  “You have not told me yet the name of your future husband. I have learnt he is Christened Gallen, but he must have another name.”

  “He is the Marquis of Havingham,” Beryl replied.

  She had her back to her cousin and therefore did not see the incredulous look in Torilla’s eyes being replaced by one of sheer horror.

  For a moment it seemed as if she could hardly breathe, then she ejaculated in a strangled voice,

  “No – no! It’s not – possible!”

  “I knew you would be impressed. Even in the unfashionable North you must have heard of the Marquis of Havingham. Now you will understand why I am so excited about my marriage.”

  Torilla drew in her breath.

  She could not believe what Beryl had told her was true. She could not credit that her cousin, whom she loved and with whom she had been brought up, was to marry a man she loathed and hated with every fibre of her being.

  How could she possibly explain to Beryl, who was so excited by the thought of getting married, that her intended husband was a cruel monster; a man who was responsible for the deaths of children, for maiming their mothers and turning their fathers into louts?

  The image of Barrowfield swum in front of her eyes.

  The ghastly squalor of the dirty grimy houses, the heaps of burning coal obscuring even the brightness of the sky, as did the forges and engine chimneys roaring and puffing on every side.