The Temptation of Torilla Read online

  The Marquis did not reply and she went on,

  “Have you ever stopped to think how you could exist on a weekly wage of thirteen shillings, which is all your miners get? Or how would you fare if you found that out of the three pounds. you received a month eleven shillings had to be spent on candles and powder?”

  Torilla’s voice trembled as continued,

  “But it is the children who haunt me – children who never have enough to eat, children who, if they are frightened or sleepy in the stuffy darkness, get beaten!”

  There were tears now in her eyes, and because she had no wish for the Marquis to see them she turned her back on him to add,

  “I knew before I came South that you were the devil himself, a monster whom I – cursed every day I lived in Barrowfield. Do you really think I would want Beryl – whom I love – to marry – y-you – ?’

  The last words were almost incoherent.

  As if she could bear it no longer Torilla walked away, leaving the Marquis sitting behind her on the fallen tree. She did not look back. It was in fact impossible to look anywhere, for tears blinded her eyes.

  Only as she neared The Hall did she wipe them away fiercely with her handkerchief and on entering the house she hurried up to her bedroom to wash her face and remove all traces, she hoped, of the emotions that had so upset her.

  ‘Now he knows the truth,’ she told herself defiantly, ‘and he will hate me as I hate him!’

  Only as her agitation and her emotions subsided a little did she wonder what the Marquis had felt on hearing what she had revealed to him.

  She remembered the surprise she had seen on his face that seemed to be genuine and she told herself that perhaps he really had no idea of the conditions in the Havingham mine.

  But still intent on hating him she thought that was no real excuse.

  He owned the pit, the profit it made was his and no man should exploit human beings without concerning himself with the conditions under which they laboured.

  Even as she told herself this, she realised she was only repeating what her father had said.

  Yet it was beyond doubt so true that she could find no extenuating excuses for the Marquis even if he had not been aware of what was happening in a pit that actually bore his name.

  ‘I hate him!’ she told herself as she went downstairs to breakfast with Beryl to find to her relief that the Marquis was not present.

  ‘I hate him!’ she thought again at luncheon.

  There were a large number of guests, but she found it impossible not to glance occasionally at the Marquis sitting at the other side of the table.

  He had Beryl fawning on him on one side and a very attractive married Peeress on the other.

  ‘They do not care what he does,’ Torilla thought scathingly.

  Then remembering what she had felt when he touched her wrist, she thought that perhaps he had the same magical effect on women.

  ‘He has the charm and the guile of the devil,’ she told herself severely. ‘He is everything that is wrong, wicked and contemptible! But once he is married to Beryl, I shall seldom see him again.’

  Wondering why the thought was dispiriting rather than elating, she continued to force herself into remembering the conditions in Barrowfield and not to let them fade from her mind in the comfort, beauty and luxury of Fernleigh Hall.

  It was difficult, however, when Beryl told her there was to be a large dinner party that night to celebrate her engagement.

  “I want you to look attractive, dearest,” she said to Torilla, “so come to my bedroom and we will choose one of my prettiest gowns for you to wear.”

  Torilla longed to reply that as far as she was concerned there was nothing to celebrate.

  But it was impossible to refuse Beryl as she pulled glamorous and expensive gowns from her wardrobe, holding them up against Torilla to see the effect before finally deciding upon the one she thought suited her best.

  “You would look like a bride in white,” she said, “and it is what I should wear. But Gallen has given me some magnificent turquoises and I have a gown of exactly the same colour.”

  “I could wear pink,” Torilla suggested.

  “Wear white and you will look like an angel,” Beryl answered, “or should I say a saint?”

  She gave a little laugh.

  “Saint Torilla – that is what I think I will call you in future. You are so good, my dearest, that you make me feel guilty when I think of all the things I have done which you would disapprove of.”

  “I am no saint,” Torilla retorted in a low voice. “I also do things which I – know are – wrong.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Beryl expostulated. “You are good – you always have been. What is more, Torilla, you have the power of making other people want to be good.”

  “Please – please, Beryl – don’t talk like that,” Torilla said in a strange voice.

  It made her feel inexpressibly guilty to know that she had allowed the Marquis to kiss her, but was also deceiving her cousin by not telling her.

  And she had remembered her mother saying once many years ago,

  “We should confess our sins to God, Torilla, but never if it would hurt them, to other people.”

  Torilla had not understood exactly what her mother meant at the time, but now she knew there would be no point in making Beryl unhappy.

  If anyone must bear the consequences of a wrong action, it should be the person who had done it.

  “Whatever you may say, Torilla,” Beryl went on, “you make me want to be good and who knows – perhaps one day I shall succeed!”

  She spoke seriously, then with a puckish look in her eyes, she added,

  “What a bore I should be! I am quite certain Gallen would leave me at once!”

  She danced across the room holding the white gown she wished Torilla to wear, in her arms.

  “Can you not see how dull it would be for everyone if I became saintly and thought only of good works?” she teased. “Lord Newall would stop wishing to kiss me! Gallen would undoubtedly return to the arms of one of his flirts and half the dressmakers and the caterers in London would go out of business!”

  She flung the white gown over a chair.

  “No, no!” she laughed. “Each to his proper place, yours on a pedestal, mine in a bath of champagne!”

  Torilla could not help laughing.

  “A bath of champagne?” she questioned.

  “It is really true that some of the beauties in London do bathe in champagne because they think it is good for their skin,” Beryl explained.

  “I have never imagined such a thing! I know the Dandies use it for polishing their hessians, but a whole bath of it – I have never heard of such ridiculous extravagance.”

  “People will do anything to look beautiful, but thank goodness, I don’t have to trouble about my skin.”

  “It has always been quite perfect!” Torilla agreed.

  “Like yours,” Beryl replied. “Oh, I forgot to tell you – ”

  She turned from the mirror where she had been looking at her reflection to say impressively,

  “Gallen likes you! I never expected he would. As I told you, he never speaks to girls.”

  Torilla longed to retort that, whatever the Marquis felt about her, it was of no relevance and she hated him.

  Instead she found herself listening attentively, as if fascinated, to what Beryl had to impart.

  “I asked him what he thought of my cousin and my greatest friend and do you know what he replied?”

  “What – did he say?” Torilla asked.

  “He said, ‘She is a very unusual person and exceptionally lovely’!”

  Torilla found herself blushing.

  “Really? I am sure – he was only being – polite,” she said a little incoherently.

  “You don’t know Gallen if you think he would lie about that sort of thing. He is usually brutally frank about people. He was the person who first said that Lady Jersey ‘looked like an in
quisitive parakeet!’ and that Beau Brummel was a ‘clothes horse on legs’.”

  Beryl laughed.

  “I assure you, Torilla, he administers more put-downs than he pays compliments. But I want him to like you, because once we are married you can come and stay with us and I will find you a suitable husband.”

  Torilla thought privately that it was very unlikely after what she had said to him today that the Marquis would welcome her to any house that he owned, but aloud she replied,

  “You are very kind to me, Beryl dearest, and thank you for the gown.”

  “I have told my maid to take a whole lot of things to your room already,” Beryl said, “and they are packing them in readiness for our trip to London tomorrow.”

  “Thank you so very much,” Torilla said again.

  “There is also a whole heap of clothes in Curzon Street that I shall never wear again,” Beryl added, “so you need not keep those rubbishy dresses you brought from the North. Tell the maids to put them all on the bonfire.”

  “I will take them back with me,” Torilla said firmly.

  She knew that once she returned to Barrowfield she would feel overdressed and far too ostentatious in anything Beryl might give her.

  When she went downstairs to dinner and entered the salon where already some people had arrived, she could not help looking at the Marquis to see if he noticed her.

  It was wrong, she knew, to value in any way his opinion, yet because he had said that she was beautiful when she was wearing the threadbare blue gown that Abby had made her, it was impossible not to wonder what he would think of her now!

  She knew the exquisite white gauze gown, which must have cost an astronomical sum made her look sylph-like and showed off her figure to perfection.

  Her fair hair had been dressed in a fashionable manner by one of the maids and because she had no jewellery, she had added a tiny spray of spring flowers.

  She would not have been honest with herself if she had not realised when she looked in the mirror that she was very different from the dowdy girl who had dined with the Marquis at The George and Dragon.

  What she did not realise was that, however fashionable the gown she was wearing, there was in her face and eyes a spirituality which made her appear different and somehow apart from the other people in the room.

  Because she was so slim and so graceful, she seemed almost to float rather than walk across the salon. Then as her eyes met the Marquis’s Torilla felt her heart behave in a very strange manner.

  Quickly she looked away from him.

  He did not speak to her or come near her all the evening, but seemed intent on making himself very pleasant to the guests who drank his and Beryl’s health.

  They all proclaimed in fulsome tones the virtues of the engaged couple over and over again to anyone who would listen.

  “It could not be a more suitable marriage,” Lady Clarke said to Torilla.

  “Yes – indeed, ma’am,” Torilla agreed.

  “And it must be your turn next,” Lady Clarke went on, who had known Torilla’s family when they lived in Hertfordshire.

  She put her hand on Torilla’s shoulder as she said,

  “I am sure you will find there are plenty of young men anxious to marry you and who will not be put off by the fact that you are from a Vicarage and have no dowry.”

  She was an elderly woman and meant to be kind, but she made Torilla feel her own lack of position.

  Despite the fact that she had known many of the guests in the past, Torilla was glad when the evening was over.

  They had departed, still expressing their delight at the engagement, and promising that all sorts of expensive presents would be delivered to The Hall in the near future.

  “They are a lot of old hypocrites!” Beryl said when the last one left. “If I was not marrying Gallen, I doubt if I should get anything better than a silver toast rack!”

  “They are all very fond of you, dearest,” Torilla said.

  “Nonsense!” Beryl retorted. “They have never ceased expressing their disapproval of me ever since I grew up. It is only now that I am on the way to becoming eminently respectable that they have found that they always admired my outrageous behaviour!”

  Torilla thought that one of the most endearing things about Beryl was that she could laugh at herself.

  “Well, thank goodness that is over!” the Earl said coming into the salon, “and when you get to London, Beryl, make it clear to your mother that I have no intention of putting up with any more junketing until the actual day of the wedding.”

  “I am sure Mama will be very disappointed if you refuse to escort us to the parties that are being given in my honour,” Beryl replied.

  “I will turn up in time to shake hands with all the fools who have nothing better to do than stuff themselves into St. George’s, Hanover Square to see you married – otherwise I am staying here with my horses and my dogs.”

  “I think that makes a lot of sense, Papa,” Beryl said. “You know how unhappy you are among the Beau Ton.”

  She kissed her father and added,

  “Tell Gallen when he comes in that I have gone to bed.”

  “Where is the Marquis?” Torilla asked curiously.

  “I expect he is walking in the garden, feeling romantic all by himself, but I have no intention of joining him – I am far too tired.”

  She linked her arm through Torilla’s.

  “It is going to be amusing when we get to London. Gallen told me tonight that he is not joining us for a few days, so you will be able to meet Lord Newall. I am longing to hear what you think about him.”

  “Oh, Beryl, is that wise?”

  “It may not be wise, but it is a lot of fun!” Beryl replied. “And don’t try to stop me, Saint Torilla. Every woman is entitled to a last fling before her wedding day.”

  She kissed her cousin and whisked off into her own bedroom before Torilla could reply.

  Torilla lay awake for a long time thinking over the day and remembering with a sense of embarrassment all that she had said to the Marquis.

  Could he be thinking over what she had told him, she wondered, while he walked around the garden alone?

  She wished now that, once having started to speak of the mine, she had talked to him quietly and earnestly, explaining the horrors of what was happening rather than raging at him accusingly.

  ‘Perhaps that was my chance to ask him to make a few reforms,’ she thought, ‘and I made a mess of it.’

  She felt the tears come into her eyes and gradually begin to run down her cheeks.

  It all seemed such an inexpressible mix-up – the manner in which she had become involved with the Marquis and the worry she felt about Beryl marrying without love.

  And most of all, although she tried not to think of it, the wonder of his kiss which she had treasured deep in her heart but which was now spoilt and besmirched because it had been – wrong.

  *

  London was, Torilla thought, even more fantastic than she had expected.

  Her Aunt Louise had greeted them in characteristic style by telling Beryl sharply that she should have been there earlier and hoping that Torilla intended to help rather than hinder her cousin.

  It was just like the old days, Torilla thought, with her aunt breaking up their games because it was time for bed, or punishing them for quite inoffensive actions and ignoring completely those that were far more reprehensible.

  The Countess of Fernleigh was different in every way from her younger sister Elizabeth.

  Sometimes Torilla wondered if the reason she was often so sharp and even at times disagreeable was that she was not as happy in her marriage as her sister had been.

  It was painfully obvious that the Earl and Countess did not get on together and they were, both of them, content to live most of the year apart.

  The Countess, who was still extremely good-looking, had a large number of admirers who were always ready to squire her in her husband’s absence.

&nb
sp; As the Earl was completely content, as he put it, with his horses and dogs they both lived the lives they wanted, which did not include each other’s company.

  ‘Perhaps all women need the protection of a husband,’ Torilla thought, but it was obvious that the Countess thought in many ways she was misused.

  “I suppose your father, as usual, is going to do nothing about the wedding, and leave everything to me,” she said sharply soon after Beryl and Torilla arrived at Fernleigh House in Curzon Street.

  “You know what Papa is like, Mama,” Beryl replied.

  “I do indeed,” the Countess said acidly, “and I only hope he is prepared to meet the bills without making too much fuss about them.”

  “I am sure he will do that, especially if we don’t ask him to do anything else except to write his name on the cheques.”

  “As long as he does that I suppose I must accept the inevitable,” the Countess remarked. “The first thing we must do tomorrow is choose your gown and, I suppose, Torilla’s.”

  “It is very kind of you, Aunt Louise,” Torilla said humbly.

  “I cannot think why Beryl wants you to be her only bridesmaid,” the Countess said in the tone of one who is determined to find fault. “I should have thought a retinue of at least ten would have been very effective.”

  “I wish on my wedding day to be alone in my glory,” Beryl said positively, “with, of course, the exception of Torilla. She can hold my bouquet, while a lot of gawky girls clumped behind me would spoil the whole effect.”

  “I see your point,” the Countess agreed reflectively. “Is the Marquis sending the flowers for the Church from The Castle?”

  “I have not the slightest idea,” Beryl answered. “I leave those details to you, Mama.”

  “As I might have expected – I have to organise everything,” the Countess moaned. “What you would do without me I cannot think.”

  Beryl threw out her hands.

  “If you want me to say there would be a complete muddle, all right, Mama, I have said it!”

  “You wait until you have to do everything yourself,” the Countess said warningly, “you will then appreciate my difficulties for a change.”