Acting on Impulse

by Georgette Heyer

  Though set in the same era as Heyer’s novels The Black Moth and The Transformation of Philip Jettan, “Love” is very different from those light-hearted romances. It is the story of Henry, a married man trapped in a loveless marriage; his wife is capricious, demanding and given to fits of uncontrollable hysteria. He loves another woman, Mary, and she loves him, but Mary’s brother is smitten with Henry’s wife, Sophia. When the story opens, Mary is desperate to see her brother freed from Sophia’s clutches before he is ruined.

  This is a story about love – true love and fickle love, love of things, love of power, and love’s sacrifice. It is not a happy story but it is very well-written and, like the ending of These Old Shades, the reader believes in these people and in the melodrama that is their lives. It is, however, a departure from Heyer’s usual type of story and it is possible that a recent stay in hospital had turned her mind to tragedy rather than comedy.

  She’d had serious surgery in the first week of September, just two months before “Love” was published. She’d written a story on the eve of her operation and it is likely that the story was “Love.” The surgery kept her in hospital for three weeks and had left her with “a very hot line in tubes sticking out of my neck. When I eat I can feel it move inside! Perfectly filthy!” She’d sent the story to her agent after the operation and later wrote to him to say:

  I don’t know in the slightest what the story is about! In fact, I never even read it through! When my surgeon heard how I spent the eve of my operation he was filled with awe and wonder! But it reads like that, doesn’t it? The operation was entirely successful and you'll be relieved to hear that I behaved like a perfect lady throughout. I also managed to shake off that chewed banana feeling quite quickly, and am now quite well and cheery, if a trifle exhausted.

  She ended the letter with a characteristic postscript, ‘Have just read this through. If the construction and phraseology of my story is anything like this it must be choice.’

  Of course, being Heyer, the prose was polished, the dialogue elegant and evocative, and the plot well-executed. But, though it is a Heyer story, “Love” has a very different message for her readers. In her long career, out of twenty short stories and fifty-five novels, only “Love” (1923), Barren Corn (1930), Penhallow (1942) and Cousin Kate (1968) would deal in tragedy.

  LOVE

  I.

  THE woman in the high-backed chair sat very still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes upon the man by the window. He was standing with his back to the room, looking out into the fog. A flame, springing to life in the open hearth, cast a shimmer over the sleeve of his peach-satin coat where it caught the light. His thin hand lay on the window-sill, listless.

  The woman spoke, low and evenly.

  “It is common talk now, my lord—they laugh about it at White’s—how Lord Farquhar’s wife has a lover in Mathew Hatton, and Mathew’s sister in Lord Farquhar.”

  My lord turned his head; his eyes were very weary, set in a face of extraordinary beauty; young still, but marred by lines telling of late nights and dissipation. His mouth was finely curved, with pale lips and very white teeth.

  “I know,” he said. There was a note of sadness in his voice, and of disillusionment, never absent. It was very sweet and level.

  The woman moved her hands restlessly.

  “I cannot go on, Henry. She is ruining Mathew. He is changing under mine eyes.”

  My lord was silent, looking out once more into the fog.

  “I am his sister, Henry. Can’t you—understand what it means to me? To see him swayed by—your wife’s—influence?”

  My lord flung out his hand in an appealing gesture.

  “Mary, I know all this. We have spoken of it so many, many times! To what avail? It is to talk to you that I have come, and of our lives. Of what concern are these others?”

  “He is my brother,” she answered quietly.

  “He is no longer a child.”

  “And she—is your wife, Henry.”

  He came back into the room, to the fire-place. A bitter smile hovered about his mouth.

  “Ay, my wife… Why rake all this up again, Mary? God knows I tried to act rightly by her, but she made everything impossible. It is over now, and we tread different paths.”

  Tears came to the woman’s eyes.

  “It is not right,” she said. “You could win her again.”

  “You counsel that, Mary? You?”

  “I must,” she whispered. “It is—Mathew, you see. He is—all I have.”

  My lord winced imperceptibly.

  “I am nothing, Mary?”

  “You—should be, my lord.”

  “You’ll make me so?” Still more bitter became the smile.

  “God help me!” she said, and covered her face with her hands.

  He went to her, his silks rustling, and the jewels on his fingers glittering in the firelight.

  “My dear…” he said, and knelt beside her chair, drawing her into his arms. “You’re over-wrought, love. You cannot mean what you say! It’s our lives, dear one, yours and mine. Can’t you forget Mathew? Can’t you trust yourself to me?”

  She was weeping now, quietly, her cheek against his.

  “You are fighting still, Mary? Nothing matters save that we love.”

  “Ah, no, no!” she sobbed.

  “Listen, Mary! I want to take you home—to my home in Italy. I will be so good to you, dear—I swear it! I want to take you to find happiness. There is so little in the world, child, one should seize what comes gratefully. I want to take you to Venice. Do you know it, my dear? There is a house there, an old, old house, deserted now, where I was born.

  “I have not seen it since my boyhood—oh, a long time ago, Mary! But it is there still, as it was left, awaiting my return. Do you think I have not dreamed of you there? I see you as its mistress, dear—its wonderful mistress. I see you in every room, in every corner of its gardens. And I want to go back there—with you. Ah, Mary, don’t turn away! It would be the fulfilment of my dreams!”

  She loosened the clasp about her with trembling fingers.

  “Do not, oh, do not, my lord! I—I am not that kind of woman! I cannot… I cannot…!”

  He carried her hands to his lips.

  “Afraid, dear heart? Afraid, and with me?”

  She looked sadly down into the tired, wistful eyes.

  And you, Henry? What would you do there?” She touched his cheeks lingeringly. “You think to cast this fashionable life behind you, but I know it is impossible.”

  “Ah no, by God!” he cried. “Do you think it cures me? I hate every minute I spend in London when not at your side! I am sick unto death of the life we all lead. I want to start afresh, with you at my side!”

  “I cannot! Don’t ask me, Henry! Please, please be merciful! I want you to help me—you’ve always been—so kind! Don’t fail me now!”

  He still held her hands.

  “What is it you want of me?” he asked. His voice had sunk back into its level sweetness.

  “Separate them. Hurry, for my sake! It—it is the last thing I shall ask of you.” She pressed his fingers, leaning forward. “You could win her from him, Henry! You could!”

  He seemed to shrug.

  “For how long? A month? A day? An hour?”

  “Long enough, my dearest. Just to give me back my brother! You could do it!”

  “Ay, I could do it. Do you know what it means? It means feigning a love I do not feel. I must hold her in my arms as I hold you now, and I must kiss her painted lips. Have you thought what that means, Mary?”

  Her head was bowed.

  “She is your wife,” she whispered.

  “And you are my love.”

  “You would make me—your mistress.”

  He did not answer, and for a long while nothing broke the stillness save the crackle of the wood in the hearth. It was my lord who spoke first.

  “So this is the end,” he said wistfully. “We might have
been so happy, dear.”

  She shook her head dumbly. He sighed.

  “Well… what now, Mary?”

  “My lord—if you would but—send him back to me!”

  “’Tis only Sophia can do that, love.”

  “You could—induce her. Henry—for my sake!”

  “For your sake…” He touched her hair caressingly. “Very well, child. He shall be sent back to you, but ’twill be the end. There can then be nothing more between us. You know that.”

  “It—is best,” she answered dully. Suddenly she caught at his shoulders. “You won’t—think hardly of me? I love you so, my lord! I love you so!”

  For a minute she lay against his heart, clinging to him. Then she drew herself away resolutely.

  “Please—go now, my lord. You will find them together—as always. Please go!”

  He rose, she also. She gave him her hands, and for a long moment he held them, looking down into her brave eyes. Then he bent and kissed the quivering fingers very tenderly.

  “God keep you, child—and give you—happiness.”

  “And you,” she whispered, broken-hearted.

  II.

  HE walked home through the clearing fog, his hand clenched on his snuff-box, his cloak swinging open from his shoulders. Someone hailed him from across the street, but he neither saw nor heard. He was thinking drearily of what lay before him.

  His wife for six years… He remembered her as she had been when first they were married. He thought of her sensual desire for emotion, her hysterics, the luxury of her repentances. He had gone through all that. A hundred times she had transgressed, a hundred times returned to his arms, lapped in yet another sensation.

  He had tried to hold her, God knew! but she would not have it so. Then, at last, sick to death of the constant quarrels, of the unrestrained reconciliations, worn out with the anxiety of trying to hold a wife whose heart was too shallow for constancy, he had given up the never-ending struggle.

  For three years now they had met as chance acquaintances, although she lived still in his house, spending his money. He allowed her to tread her own path so that he might have peace… Then Mary, with her sweet mouth and her steadfast eyes. That was over too. He must take back Sophia for Mary’s sake, bear with her moods, submit to her caresses.

  Mr. Hatton was in the boudoir with my lady. Lord Farquhar was indifferent to the curious glance the footman bestowed on him. He threw down his hat and cloak and walked to the great carven-oak staircase. He mounted it slowly, one waxen hand on the baluster, dreading the scene that awaited him. Every fibre of his body was shrinking from it, but his face was impassive as ever, the eyes quietly cynical, deadly tired.

  He opened the door and went in, shutting it behind him. He stood looking at his wife, and at Mathew, bending over her.

  The air was heavy with some sickly perfume, the room over-furnished and almost voluptuous. Sophia sat on a cushioned couch by the fire, richly dressed in bright-hued silks, cut low across her thin chest. She was not yet thirty, but only traces of the beauty that had been hers remained.

  Her cheeks were raddled by the paint she laid on them, her eyes were haggard and restless, tired as his own were from endless gaieties and uncontrolled emotions. She saw him, and cried out, paling beneath her rouge.

  “La! You startled me, I vow! Indeed, and what brings you to my room thus unexpectedly? I should be honoured, I suppose!” Her voice was nervous, high-pitched and jangling.

  Young Hatton sprang up, defiant.

  “My lord, I—”

  Farquhar held up one hand, silencing him. Emeralds glittered on it, and diamonds. He walked forward, pressing his handkerchief to his lips. His hand was very steady. He began to speak in his sweet, deliberate voice. My lady was conscious once again of his wonderful fascination. She caught her breath, listening.

  “There was once a man, Mr. Hatton, who desired always to act well in the eyes of the world. Alack, he was but a frail creature, and it seems at every turn he failed. He married a lady”—his eyes flickered to Sophia’s face—“very beautiful, very charming. He loved her, Mr. Hatton, but in some way or other things went awry between them. There was another man—a boy—too young for such pastimes.”

  “My lord—”

  “Ah, hush!... The husband came home one day, and found this man—with his wife.” Again, Farquhar touched his lips with the handkerchief. Sophia was watching him closely, leaning forward, eyes gleaming, a red spot on either cheekbone. “I have said, Mr. Hatton, that he desired always to do that which was best.”

  Sophia spoke, her unmusical voice contrasting strangely with his.

  “And the end of the story, my lord? The end?”

  “Was between the husband, my dear, and his wife.”

  She flushed deeper, glancing from one to the other of the two men.

  “I don’t understand the meaning of this rigmarole,” cried Hatton. “What part does the other man play—in the end?”

  My lord withdrew his gaze from my lady’s face. His eyes rested on the younger man’s face almost compassionately.

  “None, Mr. Hatton. Between that husband and his wife that other man was, you see, nothing.”

  “That, my lord, is for Sophia to say! Not you!”

  “A man and his wife are one,” replied Farquhar gently. “But let her speak, if you wish it.”

  Mathew flung round to my lady’s side. She put up her hand, warding him off, she was looking at her husband, uncertain yet, but suppressedly eager.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Henry. This new attitude sits strangely on your shoulders, after these years of neglect.”

  “It is as I said, my dear. I have desired to act well by you. But somehow things have gone awry. You know best how far I am to blame. I desire now to set things right between us.”

  She sprang up jerkily, her thin bosom panting.

  “I don’t understand you! You wish everything to be—as once it was? You?”

  He took her hand.

  “Is it not possible, Sophia?”

  Mathew brushed forward.

  “By heaven, Sophia—”

  She waved him aside. Beside my lord he was as nothing.

  “Oh, you weary me! Be silent, pray!”

  The boy fell back.

  “You—you tell me—to go?”

  She stamped petulantly.

  “It was but a game! I am tired of it! Leave me! Leave me!”

  Again Farquhar glanced at Mathew with that same compassion. Mathew turned to him.

  “My friends will wait on you, my lord!”

  My lord smiled faintly.

  “My dear lad, that is for me to say. And I do not say it. Go now.”

  Mathew flushed angrily.

  “You think me a blackguard, sir—”

  “No.”

  “—but what of yourself? This magnanimity becomes you not at all. Do you think I am ignorant and—” He stopped, and under my lord’s steady gaze his eyes sank. He grew redder, and muttered beneath his breath.

  “You are very young,” said Farquhar. “One day perhaps you will understand a little. Go now.”

  Hatton strode to the door. With his hand on the knob he turned.

  “One thing, Lord Farquhar, I wish to make clear to you! As your doors are closed to me, so are mine to you!” There was triumph in his look, but my lord only nodded:

  “Ay.”

  He waited for Hatton to go out, then he sighed and released his wife’s hand.

  III.

  MY lady’s eyes brimmed slowly with easy tears. Her hands fidgeted with her kerchief; her mouth was twisted.

  “Henry…!” There was a sob in her voice. Suddenly she sank down on the floor beside the couch, her face buried in the cushions, luxuriant in grief. Her shoulders shook with a tempest of sobs, noisy, unrestrained.

  My lord watched her for a moment, his lips firmly together. Seeing her thus and listening to her weeping brought back so many past scenes akin to this. An hour on and he would have
forgotten her tears, even the cause of them. A feeling of nausea stole over him; he wanted to fling open the windows, to let the heavy sickly perfume escape. His thoughts carried him to the quiet room from which he had come with only the fresh scent of flowers in the air, and only a still, great-hearted woman seated there by the fire…

  He raised his hand to his eyes as if to shut out the sight of this picture, but let it fall again. He bent and touched his wife’s powdered hair. Her hands clasped together, convulsively.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  “My dear…” he said, even pitifully. “Calm yourself, Sophia, I beg of you.”

  “It is you who have brought me to this! It is you, you, you!”

  “Hush, Sophia! The servants will hear you. Has there not been scandal enough?”

  “It is your coldness!” she sobbed passionately. “You do not love me! You have never loved me!”

  “Never, my dear? Have you forgotten?”

  She seemed to sink deeper and deeper into her sea of misery.

  “You’ll say ’twas my fault! You never understood me! Never knew me!”

  “I tried, Sophia. I did my best—only it was never good enough. Can we not—start again?”

  “You don’t mean it! You don’t really love me!”

  He was silent.

  “God help me! Oh, God help me! I am so unhappy! You never made me happy! You never tried! You never understood! You are cruel!”

  He knew that it was hopeless to soothe her. He drew away to the fire and stood with his hand on the mantel-shelf, staring down into the blaze. On the floor by the couch Sophia wept on, alternately pouring forth recriminations and broken appeals for forgiveness.

  But presently her sobs abated, and she crouched listless on the thick carpet. Then he went to her, and raised her. It was the old routine; the three past years might not have been. He brought her her salts, and sat beside her, holding her hand. At last she opened her eyes.

  “You want to take me back?” she asked, husky from crying.

  “Yes, Sophia. Have we drifted too far?”