Thorpe?” she said, breaking the silence at last. “Well, sir, that is most interesting. You see, I know in what relation you stand to my cousin. I know that you offered your hand to her the day before you met me at the Abbey.” The words came tumbling out. She could not stop them. “Oh yes, I know a great deal about you now, Sir Thomas, probably a great deal too much! I even know that there is some doubt about whether you are actually free to offer for her. There has been talk of some previous attachment.”
She had hoped that saying this would dispel the dreadful sense of disappointment that was clouding over her. To confront exactly what he was and to be brave about it seemed the only way to deal with it, but each word gave her pain. She wanted so much for every word of it to be untrue. She did not want him to be Sir Thomas Thorpe. She wanted her angelic stranger back, not this man whom she had to judge and find sadly wanting. What had seemed glorious, was now tawdry. She did not know how she would look Caroline in the face.
“And you are Miss Farquarson of Glenmorval?” he ventured.
“Yes,” she said and then added with annoyance, “How do you know that?”
“I have met your brother. He told me you were here.” He grimaced as he spoke, pushing both his hands through his hair. “But how can you be her?” he added miserably.
“You would rather I was not Miss Farquarson, of course,” she said.
“Of course! Do you think I would have –”
“No!” she exclaimed. “No, if you had known who I was, you would not have presumed. You would have suppressed any natural feeling. Or perhaps you would not have felt anything at all. Maybe all my charm to you was that you believed I was not that sort of woman.”
“You are very unjust – to accuse me of exactly the thing you are guilty of yourself,” he responded angrily. “If you had known who I was, the result would have been exactly the same. You would not have dared to do what you did.”
“And you think I did not guess exactly what you were?” she said, with a certain amount of bravado. “Believe me, sir, there was very little mystery about you.”
“But you knew nothing of my circumstances or character,” he went on. “I might have been a married man, a practised libertine. I might have been anything.”
“Yes, and are not women always fools to trust men!” she said hotly. “I dare say men would never do anything wicked if women could only be persuaded never to trust them.”
“You refused to tell me who you were,” he said. “What was I to do? I trusted you.”
“You trusted only that I was not respectable,” she said vehemently. “And that is what makes all the difference to me.”
“Respectable women do not behave as you behaved,” he said quietly. “What was I to think? Oh, this is beyond belief. I cannot believe that you did it!”
“But you find nothing odd in your own conduct,” she said. “That is very interesting. Is there nothing odd about betraying the woman you have pledged to marry only the day before? Or does it not count as betrayal because you did not think I was respectable?”
“No, I bitterly regret my conduct,” he said. “I was wicked to indulge myself and I shall be punished the rest of my life for it, knowing that I have been the unthinking cause of your ruin.”
Griselda found herself staring at him. She had not thought of herself as ruined and it was not a description she cared for. There was too much glib judgement in it. She felt she meant no more to him than a piece of fruit he might take at dessert and then throw aside, half eaten.
“Do not waste too many penitent tears over me, sir,” she said as coolly as she could. “I dare say I am not worth the trouble of them. A woman’s virtue can never be redeemed, after all.”
“How can you treat this so lightly!” he exclaimed.
“Do you remember nothing of
She had hoped that saying this would dispel the dreadful sense of disappointment that was clouding over her. To confront exactly what he was and to be brave about it seemed the only way to deal with it, but each word gave her pain. She wanted so much for every word of it to be untrue. She did not want him to be Sir Thomas Thorpe. She wanted her angelic stranger back, not this man whom she had to judge and find sadly wanting. What had seemed glorious, was now tawdry. She did not know how she would look Caroline in the face.
“And you are Miss Farquarson of Glenmorval?” he ventured.
“Yes,” she said and then added with annoyance, “How do you know that?”
“I have met your brother. He told me you were here.” He grimaced as he spoke, pushing both his hands through his hair. “But how can you be her?” he added miserably.
“You would rather I was not Miss Farquarson, of course,” she said.
“Of course! Do you think I would have –”
“No!” she exclaimed. “No, if you had known who I was, you would not have presumed. You would have suppressed any natural feeling. Or perhaps you would not have felt anything at all. Maybe all my charm to you was that you believed I was not that sort of woman.”
“You are very unjust – to accuse me of exactly the thing you are guilty of yourself,” he responded angrily. “If you had known who I was, the result would have been exactly the same. You would not have dared to do what you did.”
“And you think I did not guess exactly what you were?” she said, with a certain amount of bravado. “Believe me, sir, there was very little mystery about you.”
“But you knew nothing of my circumstances or character,” he went on. “I might have been a married man, a practised libertine. I might have been anything.”
“Yes, and are not women always fools to trust men!” she said hotly. “I dare say men would never do anything wicked if women could only be persuaded never to trust them.”
“You refused to tell me who you were,” he said. “What was I to do? I trusted you.”
“You trusted only that I was not respectable,” she said vehemently. “And that is what makes all the difference to me.”
“Respectable women do not behave as you behaved,” he said quietly. “What was I to think? Oh, this is beyond belief. I cannot believe that you did it!”
“But you find nothing odd in your own conduct,” she said. “That is very interesting. Is there nothing odd about betraying the woman you have pledged to marry only the day before? Or does it not count as betrayal because you did not think I was respectable?”
“No, I bitterly regret my conduct,” he said. “I was wicked to indulge myself and I shall be punished the rest of my life for it, knowing that I have been the unthinking cause of your ruin.”
Griselda found herself staring at him. She had not thought of herself as ruined and it was not a description she cared for. There was too much glib judgement in it. She felt she meant no more to him than a piece of fruit he might take at dessert and then throw aside, half eaten.
“Do not waste too many penitent tears over me, sir,” she said as coolly as she could. “I dare say I am not worth the trouble of them. A woman’s virtue can never be redeemed, after all.”
“How can you treat this so lightly!” he exclaimed.
“Do you remember nothing of