Black Moth

by Georgette Heyer

  It was true that she had retired into her shell, a little hurt at what she termed his man’s blind obstinacy. She had laid her heart bare for him to read; she had offered herself to him as plainly as if she had spoken in terms less general than in the pleasance; she had fought desperately for her happiness, thrusting aside all thought of maiden modesty, and when she afterwards had realised what she had done, and tried to imagine what he must think of her, she had blushed dark, and mentally flayed herself for her lack of proper pride and manners. Terrified that he might think her immodest, overwhelmed with sudden shyness, she had been colder in her attitude towards him than she had intended, even in her anxiety not to appear forward. But in spite of her coldness, how intensely had she hoped that he would sense her love and all that she wanted him to know! Incomprehensible the ways of women!

  Not endowed with feminine perspicacity or intuition, how could John hope to understand her dual feelings? He only knew that he had hurt her, and that she had drawn back that she might not lay herself open to more. He could not hope to understand her when she did not fully understand herself.

  Reflecting on the swiftness with which love had come to them, he believed that with a like swiftness it might fade, at least from Diana’s memory. He told himself that he hoped for that end, but he was honest enough to know that it was the last thing in the world he wanted. The mere thought of Diana indifferent to him, or worse, another man’s bride, made him bite on his underlip and tighten his hold on the rein.

  O’Hara cast many a surreptitious glance at the stern young profile beside him, wondering whether his lordship would last out the tedious ride or no. He knew enough of Carstares’ indomitable courage to believe that he would, but he feared that it would prove too great a strain on him in his present weakened condition.

  Very wisely he made no attempt to draw Carstares out of his abstraction, but continued to push on in silence, past fields knee-deep in grass, soon to be hay, with sorrel and poppies, growing apace, long lanes with hedges high above their heads on either side, over hill and down dale – always in silence.

  Presently O’Hara fell a little to the rear that he might study his friend without palpably turning to do so. He thought he had never seen Jack’s face wear such a black look. The fine brows almost met over his nose with only two sharp furrows to separate them; the mouth was compressed, the chin a little prominent, and the eyes, staring ahead between Jenny’s nervous ears, seemed to see all without absorbing anything. One hand at his hip was clenched on his riding-whip, the other mechanically guided the mare.

  O’Hara found himself admiring the lithe grace of the man, with his upright carriage and splendid seat.

  Suddenly, as if aware that he was being studied, my lord half turned his head and met O’Hara’s eyes. He gave a tiny shrug and with it seemed to throw off his oppression. The frown vanished, and he smiled.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miles. I am a surly fellow.’

  ‘Mayhap your shoulder troubles you,’ suggested O’Hara tactfully.

  ‘N-no, I am barely conscious of it. I’ve no excuse beyond bad manners and a worse temper.’

  From thence onward he set himself to entertain his friend, and if his laugh was sometimes rather forced, at least his wit was enough to keep O’Hara in a pleasurable state of amusement for some miles.

  By the time they arrived at Thurze House, Carstares was suspiciously white about the mouth, and there was once more a furrow – this time of pain – between his brows. But he was able to greet my Lady O’Hara with fitting elegance and to pay her at least three neat, laughing compliments before O’Hara took him firmly by the arm and marched him to his room, there to rest and recover before the dinner hour.

  Shortly after, Jim arrived, highly contented with his new surroundings, and able to give a satisfactory verdict on Jenny’s stalling. He had quite accepted O’Hara as a friend, after some jealous qualms, and was now well pleased that his master should be in his house instead of roaming the countryside.

  At five o’clock, as the gong rang, my lord descended the stairs resplendent in old gold and silver trimmings, determined to be as gay and light-hearted as the occasion demanded, as though there had never been a Diana to upset the whole course of a man’s life.

  Not for nothing had he fought against the world for six long years. Their teaching had been to hide all feeling beneath a perpetual mask of nonchalance and wit; never for an instance to betray a hurt, and never to allow it to appear that he was anything but the most care-free of men. The training stood him in good stead now, and even O’Hara wondered to see him in such spirits after all that had passed. Lady Molly was delighted with her guest, admiring his appearance, his fine, courtly manners, and falling an easy victim to his charm.

  O’Hara, watching them, saw with content that his capricious little wife was really attracted to my lord. It was a high honour, for she was hard to please, and many of O’Hara’s acquaintances had been received, if not with actual coldness, at least not with any degree of warmth.

  At the end of the meal she withdrew with the warning that they were not to sit too long over their wine, and that Miles was not to fatigue his lordship.

  O’Hara pushed the decanter towards his friend.

  ‘I’ve a piece of news I daresay will interest ye!’ he remarked.

  Carstares looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘Ay. ’Tis that his Grace of Andover has withdrawn his precious person to Paris.’

  Carstares raised one eyebrow.

  ‘I suppose he would naturally wish to remain in the background after our little fracas.’

  ‘Does he ever wish to be in the background?’

  ‘You probably know him better than I do. Does he?’

  ‘He does not. ’Tis always in front he is, mighty prominent. Damn him!’

  My lord was faintly surprised.

  ‘Why that? Has he ever interfered with you?’

  ‘He has interfered with me best friend to some purpose.’

  ‘I fear the boot was on the other leg!’

  ‘Well, I know something of how he interferes with Dick.’

  Carstares put down his glass, all attention now.

  ‘With Dick? How?’

  O’Hara seemed to regret having spoken.

  ‘Oh, well – I’ve no sympathy with him.’

  ‘What has Tracy done to him?’

  ‘’Tis nothing of great moment. Merely that he and that worthless brother of his seek to squeeze him dry.’

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘Andrew. I know very little of Robert.’

  ‘Andrew! But he was a child –’

  ‘Well, he’s grown up now, and as rakish a young spendthrift as ye could wish for. Dick seems to pay their debts.’

  ‘Devil take him! Why?’

  ‘Heaven knows! I suppose Lavinia insists. We all knew that ’twas for that reason Tracy flung you both in her way.’

  ‘Nonsense! We went of our own accord. She had but returned from school.’

  ‘Exactly. And whose doing was that but Tracy’s?’

  Carstares opened his eyes rather wide and leant both arms on the table, crooking his fingers round the stem of his wine glass.

  ‘Do the debts amount to much?’

  ‘I can’t tell ye that. ’Twas but by chance I found it out at all. The Belmanoirs were never moderate in their manner of living.’

  ‘Nor were any of us. Don’t be so hard on them, Miles!… I knew, of course, that the Belmanoir estate was mortgaged, but I did not guess to what extent.’

  ‘I don’t know that either, but Dick’s money does not go to pay it off. ’Tis all frittered away on gambling and pretty women.’

  My lord’s brow darkened ominously.

  ‘Ye-s. I think I shall have a little score to settle with Tracy on that subject – some day.’

  Miles said nothing.
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  ‘But how does Dick manage without touching my money?’

  ‘I do not know.’ O’Hara’s tone implied that he cared less.

  ‘I hope he is not in debt himself,’ mused Carstares. ‘’Tis like enough he is in some muddle. I wish I might persuade him to accept the revenue.’ He frowned and drummed his fingers on the table.

  O’Hara exploded.

  ‘Sure, ’twould be like you to be doing the same. Let the man alone for the Lord’s sake, and don’t be after worrying your head over a miserable spalpeen that did ye more harm than –’

  ‘Miles, I cannot allow you to speak so of Dick! You do not understand.’

  ‘I understand well enough. ’Tis too Christian ye are entirely. And let us have an end of this farce of yours! I know that Dick cheated as well as you do, and I say ’tis unnatural for you to be wanting him to take your money after he’s done you out of honour and all else!’

  Carstares sipped his wine quietly, waiting for Miles’ anger to evaporate, as it presently did, leaving him to glower balefully. Then he started to laugh.

  ‘Oh Miles, let me go my own road! I’m a sore trial to you, I know.’ Then suddenly sobering: ‘But I want you not to think so hardly of Dick. You know enough of him to understand a little how it all came about. You know how extravagant he was and how often in debt – can you not pardon the impulse of a mad moment?’

  ‘That I could pardon. What I cannot forgive is his – unutterable meanness in letting you bear the blame.’

  ‘O’Hara, he was in love with Lavinia –’

  ‘So were you.’

  ‘Not so deeply. With me ’twas a boy’s passion, but with him ’twas serious.’

  O’Hara remained silent, his mouth unusually hard.

  ‘Put yourself in his place,’ pleased Jack. ‘If you –’

  ‘Thank you!’ O’Hara laughed unpleasantly. ‘No, Jack, we shall not agree on this subject, and we had best leave it alone. I do not think you need worry about him, though. I believe he is not in debt.’

  ‘Does he have fair luck with his racing and his –’

  O’Hara smiled grimly.

  ‘Dick is a very changed man, John. He does not keep racehorses, neither does he play cards, save for appearance’s sake.’

  ‘Dick not play! What then does he do?’

  ‘Manage your estates and conducts his wife to routs. When in town,’ bitterly, ‘he inhabits your house.’

  ‘Well, there is none else to use it. But I cannot imagine Dick turned sober!’

  ‘’Tis easy to be righteous after the evil is done, I’m thinking!’

  My lord ignored this remark. A curious smile played about his mouth.

  ‘Egad, Miles, ’tis very entertaining! I, the erstwhistle sober member – what is the matter? – am now the profligate: I dice, I gamble, I rob. Dick the ne’er-do-well is a saint. He – er – lives a godly and righteous life, and – er – is robbed by his wife’s relations. After all, I do not think I envy him overmuch.’

  ‘At least, you enjoy life more than he does,’ said O’Hara, grinning. ‘For ye have no conscience to reckon with.’

  Carstares’ face was inscrutable. He touched his lips with his napkin and smiled.

  ‘As you say, I enjoy life the more – but as to conscience, I do not think it is that.’

  O’Hara glanced at him sitting sideways in his chair, one arm flung over its back.

  ‘Will ye be offended if I ask ye a question?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then – do ye intend to go back to this highroad robbery?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘What then will you do?’

  The shadows vanished, and my lord laughed.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Miles, I’ve not yet settled that point. Fate will decide – not I.’

  Sixteen

  Mr Bettison Proposes

  Mr Bettison could make nothing of Diana of late. Her demeanour, at first so charming and so cheerful, had become listless, and even chilling. She seemed hardly to listen to some of his best tales, and twice she actually forgot to laugh at what was surely a most witty pleasantry. It struck him that she regarded him with a resentful eye, as if she objected to his presence at Horton House, and had no desire to be courted. But Mr Bettison was far too egotistic to believe such a thing, and he brushed the incredible suspicion away, deciding that her coldness was due to a very proper shyness. He continued his visits until they became so frequent that scarce a day passed without his strutting step being heard approaching the house and his voice inquiring for the Miss Beauleighs. Mr Beauleigh, who secretly hoped for Mr Bettison as a son-in-law, would not permit the ladies to deny themselves, and he further counselled Miss Betty to absent herself after the first few moments, leaving the young couple together. Thus it was that it so continually fell to Diana’s lot to receive the Squire and to listen to his never-ending monologues. She persistently snubbed him, hoping to ward off the impending proposal, but either her snubs were not severe enough, or Mr Bettison’s skin was too thick to feel them; for not a fortnight after my lord’s departure, he begged her hand in marriage. It was refused him with great firmness, but, taking the refusal for coquettishness, he pressed his suit still more amorously, and with such a self-assured air that Mistress Di became indignant.

  ‘Sir,’ she cried, ‘it seems you have indeed misread my attitude towards you!’

  Mr Bettison was struck dumb with amazement. It had never entered his brain that Diana could seriously refuse him. He could hardly believe his ears at this quite unmistakable tone of voice, and sat gaping.

  ‘I must beg,’ continued Diana, ‘I must beg that you will discontinue your all-too-frequent visits here. Please do not deem me unkind, but your persecution of me – I can call it nothing else – is wearying – and – you will forgive the word – tiresome. I confess I am surprised that you had not perceived your attentions to be distasteful to me.’

  ‘Distasteful!’ cried Mr Bettison, recovering after two or three unsuccessful attempts from his speechlessness. ‘Do you mean what you say, Miss Diana? That you will not wed me?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes, Mr Bettison, I do.’

  ‘And that my attentions are displeasing to you! Well, Miss Beauleigh! Well, indeed!’

  Diana softened a little.

  ‘I am indeed sorry that you should have misconstrued –’

  ‘No misconstruction, madam!’ snapped the Squire, who was fast losing control over his temper. ‘Do you dare aver that you did not encourage me to visit you?’

  ‘I do, most emphatically!’

  ‘Oh, I see what ’tis! You cannot hoodwink me. ’Twas never thus with you before that fellow came!’

  ‘Mr Bettison, I am entirely at a loss, but I desire you to leave this room before you say aught you may afterwards regret.’

  He disregarded her.

  ‘You are infatuated by that over-dressed popinjay – that insufferable Carr, who, from all I hear, is but a shady fellow, and who –’

  With a sweeping movement Diana had risen and walked to the bell-rope. She now pulled it with such vigour that a great peal sounded throughout the house.

  She stood perfectly still, a statue of Disdain, tall, beautiful and furious, with compressed lips and head held high. Mr Bettison broke off and mopped his brow, glaring at her.

  Startled Thomas appeared at the door.

  ‘Did you ring, madam?’

  ‘Show Mr Bettison out,’ was the proud answer.

  The Squire got up awkwardly.

  ‘I am sure I apologise if I said aught that was untrue,’ he mumbled. ‘I hope you will not take my words amiss –’

  ‘I shall try to forget your insults, sir,’ she replied. ‘The door, Thomas!’

  Mr Bettison went out, and his step had lost some of its self-confident swa
gger.

  For a full minute after the great front door had shut behind him, Diana stood where she was, and then the colour suddenly flamed in her cheeks, and she turned and ran out of the room, up the stairs, to her own chamber, where she indulged in a luxurious fit of crying. From this enjoyable occupation she was interrupted by a rap on the door, and Miss Betty’s voice desiring to know if she was within.

  She instantly started up and with hasty fingers straightened her tumbled curls.

  ‘Pray enter!’ she called, trying to sound jaunty. To complete the illusion, she started to hum. Her aunt entered.

  ‘I came to see if you had my broidery. I cannot find it, and I am sure ’twas you brought it in from the garden this morning.’

  ‘Yes – oh, yes – I am so sorry! ’Tis in that corner on the chair, I think,’ replied Diana, keeping her face averted.

  Miss Betty cast a shrewd glance at her, and sat down on the sofa with the air of one who means to stay.

  ‘What is it, my love?’ she demanded.

  Diana pretended to search for something in a cupboard.

  ‘Nothing, aunt! What should there be?’

  ‘I do not know. ’Tis what I want to find out,’ answered Miss Betty placidly.

  ‘There is nought amiss, I assure you!’ To prove the truth of this statement, Diana essayed a laugh. It was a poor attempt, and wavered pitifully into a sob.

  ‘My pet, don’t tell me! You are crying!’

  ‘I – I’m n-not!’ avowed Diana, hunting wildly for her pocket-handkerchief. ‘’Tis a cold in the head I have had these three days.’

  ‘Indeed, my love? Longer than that, I fear.’

  ‘Yes – perhaps so – I – What do you mean?’