The Black Moth, Georgette Heyer [self help books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Georgette Heyer
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Lady Lavinia smiled and nodded towards the chair she had prepared.
“Sit down, Dicky! I am so glad you have come! I was monstrous dull and lonely, I assure you!”
“Were you?” he said, fidgeting with her scissors. “No, I will not sit down. I have something to say to you, Lavinia. Something to tell you.”
“Oh, have you?” she asked. “Something nice, Dicky?”
“I fear you will hardly think so. I am about to make an end.”
“Oh—oh, are you? Of what?”
“Of this—this deceitful life I am leading—have been leading. I—I—I am going to confess the whole truth.”
“Richard!”
He let fall the scissors and paced restlessly away down the room.
“I—I tell you, Lavinia, I cannot endure it! I cannot! I cannot! The thought of what John may be bearing is driving me crazy! I must speak!”
“You—you can’t!” she gasped. “After seven years! Dicky, for heaven’s sake—!” The colour ebbed and flowed in her cheeks.
“I cannot continue any longer this living of a lie—I have been feeling it more and more ever since—ever since I met—Jack—that time on the road. And now I can no longer stand it. Everywhere I go I seem to see him—looking at me—you don’t understand—”
Lavinia cast aside her work.
“No! No! I do not! ‘Pon rep., but you should have thought of this before, Dick!”
“I know it. Nothing can excuse my cowardice—my weakness. I know all that, but it is not too late even now to make amends. In a week they will all know the truth.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“I have requested all whom it concerns to come to Wyncham the Friday after this.”
“Good heavens! Dick, Dick, think!”
“I have thought. God! how I have thought!”
“It is not fair to me! Oh, think of your honour—Wyncham!”
“My honour is less than nothing. ‘Tis of his that I think.”
She sprang up, clutching at his arm, shaking him.
“Richard, you are mad! You must not do this! You must not, I say!”
“I implore you, Lavinia, not to try to make me change my decision. It is of no use. Nothing you can say will make any difference.”
She flew into a passion, flinging away from him, her good resolutions forgotten.
“You have no right to disgrace me! If you do it, I will never forgive you! I won’t stay with you—I—”
He broke in—this was what he had expected; he must not whine; this was retribution.
“I know. I have faced that.”
She was breathless for a moment. He knew! He had faced it! He had taken her seriously—he always expected her to leave him! Oh, he must indeed be tired of her, and wanted her to go! What was he saying?
“I know that you love Lovelace. I—I have known it for some time.”
Lavinia sank into the nearest chair. To what depths had her folly led her?
“I shall put no obstacle in the way of your flight, of course…”
This was dreadful! Lady Lavinia buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. It was true then—he did not love her—he loved Mrs. Fanshawe—_she_ was to elope. She sobbed pitifully as the full horror of the situation struck her.
The temptation to gather her into his arms almost overmastered Richard, but he managed to choke it down. If he allowed himself to kiss her, she would try to break his resolution—mayhap, she would succeed. So he looked away from her, tortured by the sound of her crying.
Lavinia wept on, longing to feel his arms about her, ready to consent to anything if only he would show that he loved her But when he made no movement towards her, pride came back, and flicking her handkerchief across her eyes, she rose to her feet.
“You are cruel!—cruel!—cruel! If you do this thing I shall leave you!”
Now surely he would say something—contradict her!
With an immense effort, Richard controlled himself.
“I am—sorry—Lavinia,” he said in a queer, constrained voice.
It was of no avail. She had killed his love, and he was longing to be rid of her. She walked to the door, and turned.
“I see that you do not love me,” she said, with deadly calmness. “I understand perfectly.” Then, as she wrenched the handle round: “I hate you!” she cried, and fled, her silken skirts rustling furiously down the corridor. A door slammed in the distance, and there was silence.
Carstares stood very still, staring down at her crumpled broidery. Presently he stooped to pick it up, and her violet scent was wafted up to him. He carried it to his lips, passionately.
If Lavinia had been able to see him, it would have changed the whole state of affairs; as it was she locked herself into her room and continued her cry in private. When she had no more tears to shed, she sat up and tried to think that she wanted to elope. Harold would be very good to her, she was sure, and she would doubtless lead a very exciting life, but—somehow the more she thought of it, the less she wanted to elope. Then she remembered that Dicky—why had she never realised how much she cared for him?—was in love with some horrid widow, and did not want her to remain with him. The idea was not to be borne, she was not going to be the unwanted wife. She would have to go away, though not with Lovelace. Dicky should not force her to elope with another man. She would go somewhere alone—she had forgotten—she had no money. The dowry that had been hers was spent years ago. She was utterly dependent on her husband. That settled it: she must elope with Harry!
“Oh, was anyone ever so beset!” she sobbed as her misery swept in upon her with full force. “Why should I run away if I don’t want to?”
LADY LAVINIA GOES TO THE PLAY
RICHARD was away from home all next day, and his wife had plenty of time in which to meditate upon her situation. She had quite come to the conclusion that she must elope with Lovelace, and was only waiting for to-night to tell him so. She would never, never ask Richard to let her stay with him now that she knew he loved another. Truly a most trying predicament. The Carstares were going to-night to Drury Lane to see Garrick play one of his most successful comedies: the Beaux’ Stratagem. The monde that would flock to see the inimitable Archer was likely to be a very distinguished one, especially as the cast held the added attraction of Mrs. Clive, and ordinarily Lady Lavinia would have looked forward with much excitement to seeing the piece. To-day, however, she felt that she would far rather go to bed and cry. But Lovelace had to be answered, and besides that, she had invited two cousins, new come from Scotland, to accompany her, and she could not fail them.
So that evening saw her seated in her box, wonderfully gowned as usual, scanning the house. Behind her stood her husband—when she thought that this was the last time she would ever go with him to the theatre she had much ado to keep from bursting into tears before them all—and in the chair at her side was the cousin, Mrs. Fleming. Mr. Fleming stood with his hands behind his back, exclaiming every now and then as his kinsman, young Charles Holt, pointed out each newcomer of note. He was a short, tubby little man, dressed in sober brown, very neat as regards his wrists and neckband, but attired, so thought Lavinia, for the country, and not for town. His dark suit contrasted strangely with Mr. Holt’s rather garish mixture of apple-green and pink, with waistcoat of yellow, and Richard’s quieter, but far more handsome apricot and silver. His wig, too, was not at all modish, being of the scratch type that country gentlemen affected. His wife was the reverse of smart, but she was loud in her admiration of her more affluent cousin’s stiff silks and laces.
She had married beneath her, had Mrs. Fleming, and the Belmanoirs had never quite forgiven the shocking mésalliance. William Fleming was nought but a simple Scotsman, whose father—even now the family shuddered at the thought—had been a farmer!
Lavinia was not over-pleased that they should have elected to visit London, and still less pleased that they should evince such an affection for the Hon. Richard and his wife.
“Well, to be sure, Lavvy, ‘tis pleasant to sit here and admire all the people!” exclaimed Mrs. Fleming, for perhaps the twentieth time. “I declare I am grown positively old-fashioned from having lived for so long in the country!—yes, my dear, positively old-fashioned! … I cannot but marvel at the great hoops everyone is wearing! I am sure mine is not half the size of yours, and the lady down there in the stage-box has one even larger!”
Lavinia directed her gaze towards the box in question. At any other time she would have been annoyed to see that the occupant was Lady Carlyle, her pet rival in all matters of fashion. Now she felt that nothing signified, and merely remarked that she considered those absurd garlands of roses on the dress quite grotesque.
Behind, Holt was directing Mr. Fleming’s attention to a box at the back of the house.
“‘Pon my soul, William! ‘Tis the Duchess of Queensberry and her son—March, you know. I assure you there is no one more amiable in town. When I last visited her—”
“Charles knows well-nigh everyone here,” remarked Mrs. Fleming ingenuously, and wondered why her cousin laughed.
When the curtain rose on the first act, Lovelace was nowhere to be seen, and Lavinia tried to interest herself in the play. But it is difficult to be interested in anything when one’s whole mind is occupied with something else far more overwhelming. She was not the only one of the party that Garrick failed to amuse. Richard sat wretchedly in the shadow of the box, thinking how, in a short while, he would never again conduct his wife to the theatre and never again sit at her side watching her every change of expression.
In the first interval Lovelace had still not arrived, but many other acquaintances had arrived and called to see the Carstares. Markham, Wilding, Devereux, Sir John Fortescue—all came into the box at different times, paid homage to Lavinia, were introduced to Mrs. Fleming, laughed and cracked jokes with the men, and drifted away again.
How was it she had never before realised how much she enjoyed her life? wondered Lavinia. She settled down to listen to the second act, and Garrick’s skill caught her interest and held it. For a moment she forgot her woes and clapped as heartily as anyone, laughing as gaily.
The next instant she remembered again, and sank back into unutterable gloom.
But Richard had heard her merry laugh, and his heart was even gloomier than hers. There was no help for it: Lavinia was delighted at the thought of leaving him.
As the curtain fell, Mrs. Fleming suddenly demanded if it was not Tracy seated in the box over on the other side. Lavinia turned to look. In the box, alone, sat his Grace, seemingly unaware of her presence.
“Is it not Tracy?” persisted Mrs. Fleming. “I remember his face so well.”
“Yes,” nodded Lavinia, and waved to him.
Andover rose, bowed, and left his box. In a few moments he was in their own, kissing his cousin’s hand.
Lavinia now caught sight of Lovelace standing on the floor of the theatre looking up at
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