To do him justice, Captain Harold was really in love with her and was quite ready to relinquish his commission if only she would run away with him. He had private means of his own, and promised her that her every whim should be satisfied. But Lavinia scolded him, and shook her head. Apart from any ulterior consideration, Richard was, after all, her husband; he, too, loved her, and she was very, very fond of him, although she did plague him dreadfully.
Lovelace assured her that her husband did not love her nearly as much as he, and when she smiled her disbelief, lost his temper and cried that all the town knew Carstares to be at Mrs Fanshawe’s feet!
Lavinia stiffened.
‘Harold!’
‘I am only surprised that you have been blind to it,’ he continued. ‘Where do you think he goes every day for so long? White’s? No. To 16, Mount Street! Stapely called there and met him; another day Lady Davenant saw him with her; Wilding has also met him at her house. He spends nearly every afternoon with her!’
Lavinia was a Belmanoir, and she had all the Belmanoir pride. Rising to her feet she drew her cloak about her with her most queenly air.
‘You forget yourself, Harold,’ she said haughtily. ‘Never dare to speak to me of my husband again in that tone! You may take me at once to my brother.’
He was very penitent, wording his apology most cleverly, smoothing her ruffled plumage, withdrawing his words, but at the same time contriving to leave their sting behind. She forgave him, yes, but he must never offend her so again.
Although she had indignantly refused to believe the scandal, it nevertheless rankled, and she found herself watching her husband with jealous eyes, noticing his seeming indifference towards her and his many absences from home. Then came a day when she caused her chair to be borne down Mount Street at the very moment when Richard was coming out of No. 16.
That was enough for Lavinia. So he was indeed tired of her! He loved another woman! – some wretched widow! For the first time a real worry plagued her. She stayed at home that evening and exerted all her arts to captivate her husband. But Richard, seeing John unhappy, reproachful, every way he turned, his head on fire, his brain seething with conflicting arguments, hardly noticed her, and as soon as he might politely do so, left her, to pace up and down the library floor, trying to make up his mind what to do.
Lady Lavinia was stricken with horror. She had sickened him by her megrims, as Tracy had prophesied she would! He no longer cared for her! This was why he continually excused himself from accompanying her when she went out! For once in her life she faced facts, and the prospect alarmed her. If it was not already too late, she must try to win back his love, and to do this she realised she must cease to tease him for money, and also cease to snap at him whenever he felt at all out of sorts. She must charm him back to her. She had no idea how much she cared for him until now that she thought he did not care for her. It was dreadful: she had always been so sure of Dicky! Whatever she did, however exasperating she might be he would always adore her.
And all the time, Richard, far from making love to Mrs Fanshawe, was hearing anecdotes of his brother from her, little details of his appearance, things he had said. He drank in all the information, clutching eagerly at each fresh scrap of gossip, greedy to hear it if it in any way concerned John. His brain was absorbed with this one subject, and he never saw when Lavinia smiled upon him, nor did he seem to hear her coaxing speeches. When she remarked, as she presently did, on his pallor, he almost snapped at her, and left the room. Once she put her arms about him and kissed him on the lips; he put her gently aside, too worried to respond to the caress, but, had she known it – grateful for it.
His Grace of Andover meeting his sister at Ranelagh Gardens, thought her face looked pinched, and her eyes unhappy. He enquired the reason, but Lady Lavinia refused to confide even in him, and pleaded a headache. Andover, knowing her, imagined that she had been refused some kickshaw, and thought no more about it.
He himself was very busy. Only two days before a groom had presented himself at St James’s Square, bearing a missive from Harper, very illegible and illspelt, but to the point:
Yr. Grace,
I have took the liberty of engageing this Man, Douglas, in Yr. Name. I hope I shall soon be Able to have carried out the Rest of yr. Grace’s Instructions, and trust my Connduct will met Yr. Grace’s Approvall.
Very Obed’tly,
M. Harper
Tracy confirmed the engagement and straightway dispatched the man to Andover, where the head groom would undoubtedly find work for him to do. He was amused at the blind way in which the man had walked into his trap, and meditated cynically on the frailty of human nature, which will always follow the great god of Mammon.
Not three days later came another letter, this time from Mr Beauleigh, addressed to him at White’s, under the name of Sir Hugh Grandison. It asked for the man Harper’s character.
His Grace of Andover answered it in the library of his own home, and smiled sarcastically as he wrote Harper down ‘exceeding honest and trustworthy, as I have always found’.
He was in the middle of the letter when the door was unceremoniously pushed open and Andrew lounged into the room.
His Grace looked up frowning. Not a bit dismayed by the coolness of his reception, his brother kicked the door to and lowered his long limbs into a chair.
‘May I ask to what I owe the honour of this intrusion?’ smiled Tracy dangerously.
‘Richard,’ was the cheerful reply, ‘Richard.’
‘As I am not interested in either him or his affairs –’
‘How truly amiable you are to-day! But I think you’ll be interested in this, ’tis so vastly mysterious.’
‘Indeed? What is the matter?’
‘Just what I want to know!’
Tracy sighed wearily.
‘Pray come to the point, Andrew – if point there be. I have no time to waste.’
‘Lord! Busy? Working? God ha’ mercy!’ The young rake stretched his legs out before him and cast his eyes down their shapeliness. Then he stiffened and sat up, staring at one white-stockinged ankle.
‘Now, damn and curse it! where did that come from?’ he expostulated mildly.
‘Where did what come from?’
‘That great splash of mud on my leg. Brand new on this morning, and I’ve scarce set my nose without doors. Damn it, I say! A brand new –’
‘Leg?’
‘Hey? What’s that you say?’
‘Nought. When you have quite finished your eulogy, perhaps you would consent to tell me your errand?’
‘Oh, ay! but twenty shillings the pair! Think of it!… Well, the point – there is one, you see – is this: it is Richard’s desire that you honour him with your presence at Wyncham on Friday week, at three in the afternoon exactly. To which effect he sends you this.’ He tossed a letter on to the desk. ‘You are like to have the felicity of meeting me there.’
Tracy ripped open the packet and spread the single sheet on the desk before him. He read it through very deliberately, turned it over, as if in search of more, re-read it, folded it, and dropped it into the waste-paper basket at his side. He then picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink again.
‘What think you?’ demanded Andrew, impatiently.
His Grace wrote tranquilly on to the end of the line.
‘What think I of what?’
‘Why, the letter, of course! What ails the man? “Something of great import to impart to us,” forsooth! What means he?’
‘Yes, I noticed ’twas very badly worded,’ commented Tracy. ‘I have not the vaguest notion as to his meaning.’
‘But what do you make of it? Lord, Tracy, don’t be such a fish! Dick is summoning quite a party!’
‘You appear to be in his confidence, my dear Andrew. Allow me to congratulate you. No doubt we shall know more – ah – on Frid
ay week, at three o’clock.’
‘Oh, you’ll go, then?’
‘Quite possibly.’ He went on writing unconcernedly.
‘And you’ve no idea of what ’tis about? Dick is very strange. He hardly listens to what one has to say, and fidget – Lord!’
‘Ah!’
‘I think he looks ill, an’ ’pon my soul, so does Lavvy! Do you suppose there is aught amiss?’
‘I really have no idea. Pray do not let me detain you.’
Andrew hoisted himself out of his chair.
‘Oh, I’m not staying, never fear!… I suppose you cannot oblige me with – say – fifty guineas?’
‘I should be loth to upset your suppositions,’ replied his Grace sweetly.
‘You will not? Well, I didn’t think you would somehow! But I wish you might contrive to let me have it, Tracy. I’ve had prodigious ill-luck of late, and the Lord knows ’tis not much I get from you! I don’t want to ask Dick again.’
‘I should not let the performance grow monotonous, certainly,’ agreed the other. ‘Fifty, you said?’
‘Forty-five would suffice.’
‘Oh, you may have it!’ shrugged his Grace. ‘At once?’
‘Blister me, but that’s devilish good of you, Tracy! At once would be convenient to me!’
His Grace produced a key from his vest pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk. From it he took a small box. He counted out fifty guineas, and added another to the pile. Andrew stared at it.
‘What’s that for?’ he inquired.
‘The stockings,’ replied Tracy, with a ghost of a smile.
Andrew burst out laughing.
‘That’s good! Gad! but you’re devilish amusing, ’pon rep. you are!’ He thanked his Grace profusely and gathering up the money, left the room.
Outside he gave vent to a low whistle of astonishment. ‘Tare an’ ouns! he must be monstrous well-pleased over something!’ he marvelled. ‘I shall awaken soon, I doubt not.’ He chuckled a little as he descended the staircase, but his face was full of wonderment.
Lovelace called nearly every day at Wyncham House, but was always refused admittance, as Lady Lavinia deemed it prudent not to see him. There came a day, however, when he would not be gainsaid, and was ushered into her drawing-room. He kissed her hands lingeringly, holding them for a long while in his.
‘Lavinia! Cruel fair one!’
She drew her hands away, not too well pleased at his intrusion.
‘How silly, Harold! I cannot have you tease me every day!’
She allowed him to sit by her on the window seat, and he again possessed himself of her hands. Did she love him? She hoped he was not going to be foolish. Of course not. He did not believe her, and started to plead his suit, imploring her to come away with him. In vain Lady Lavinia begged him to be quiet; she had stirred up a blaze, and it threatened to consume her. He was so insistent that, expecting Richard at any moment, and terrified lest there should be a disturbance, she promised to give him an answer next evening, at the theatre. She managed to be rid of him in this way, and, with a relieved sigh, watched him walk down the square. She was very fond of dear Harry, but really, he was dreadfully tiresome at times.
She brought her tiny mirror out from her pocket and surveyed her reflection critically, giving a tweak to one curl, and smoothing another back. She was afraid she was looking rather old this evening, and hoped that Richard would not think so. She glanced up at the clock, wondering where he was; surely he should be in by now? Then she arranged a chair invitingly, pushed a stool up to it and sat down opposite. With a sigh, she reflected that it was an entirely new departure for her to strive to please and captivate her husband, and she fell a-thinking of how he must have waited on her in the old days, waiting as she was waiting now – hoping for her arrival. Lady Lavinia was beginning to realise that perhaps Dick’s life had not been all roses with her as wife.
The door opened and Richard came into the room. Deep lines were between his brows, but his mouth was for once set firmly. He looked sombrely down at her, thinking how very beautiful she was.
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.’
‘Rich-ard!’
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 over-mastered 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 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?’