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
‘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
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