Acting on Impulse Read online

  Although she had no direct experience of living in a grand house – Heyer had grown up in pleasant but mostly rented homes – at the time of this story’s writing she was friends with Dorothea Arbuthnot. Dorothea was the great-niece of the Duchess of Atholl and had grown up in the Manor House in Hollingbourne with a retinue of servants; she was also the “Doreen” to whom Heyer would dedicate two of her novels. From girlhood, Heyer had enjoyed entrée to some of the “best” houses in Wimbledon where she had absorbed many details of how the wealthy and well-connected lived. Although the life she describes in “Whose Fault Was It?” had become less common after the Great War, it was still the dream of many. Having given her protagonists every reason to enjoy their marriage, Heyer teases out their one problem: Diana “had every intention of enjoying life. George, too, meant to enjoy life; unhappily their ideas of enjoyment did not blend.” This is the crux of Heyer’s story.

  George is obsessed with Chinese porcelain and finds it “inconceivable that anyone could be bored when looking at a K’ang hi [sic] vase.” He is outraged when Diana describes a recently-purchased vase as “ugly”: “Ugly? Ugly? My dear girl, this is a Ming vase!” (in fact, the Kangxi period belongs to the early part of the Qing dynasty). Heyer must have had a penchant for this sort of china, for years later she would write a superb scene in A Civil Contract (1961) in which the magnificent vulgarian Jonathan Chawleigh presents his aristocratic son-in-law with a Kangxi vase. Chinese porcelain forms a vital part of “Whose Fault Was It?” and Heyer uses it in several subtle ways to reveal character, to progress the plot and as a metaphor for how a broken marriage maybe mended.

  The theme of compatibility in marriage was something she had been thinking about a lot, and she had recently completed a novel on the subject: Instead of the Thorn, which would be published just three months after “Whose Fault Was It?”. Like the short, the book is about marriage and about the things that can go wrong between two people who don’t really understand one another. Though the novel is far more serious in tone, both demonstrate the unmarried Heyer’s interest and insight into marriage.

  She had been observant from a young age and even her earliest writing shows how perceptive she could be about relationships and love. In this period Heyer was close to Joanna Cannan, who was married to Harold Pullein-Thompson. It was with Joanna that Heyer had often talked about the realities of wedded life and Instead of the Thorn is dedicated to her for having “discussed the fortunes of Elizabeth Arden not once but many times,” and for “good counsel” and “sympathy in moments of depression.” It is likely that the short story grew out of the novel, though it is considerably more humorous and much more lightly drawn than the longer work.

  WHOSE FAULT WAS IT?

  THE eggs were hard-boiled, and there were no fewer than three printer’s errors in George’s article on Porcelain of the Yuan Dynasty. He looked up from the paper with a glowering brow and addressed his wife in a voice of icy politeness.

  “I believe I asked you once before to speak to the cook about the boiling of eggs,” he said.

  Diana had slept badly and had awakened with a headache. She answered every mite as coolly, and without raising her eyes from her morning’s correspondence.

  “I daresay you did.”

  George’s frown grew darker. One of the printer’s errors destroyed the whole meaning of his paragraph.

  “I should have thought that it was your business to keep an eye on the cook,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

  “I can’t be forever nagging at her,” Diana replied. “You complain about something or other every meal.”

  “That,” said George, “is hardly my fault.”

  “It certainly isn’t mine.”

  “Indeed! I suppose you’ll say next that the management of the house is not your affair?”

  “I’ll say something more to the point,” his wife answered, looking up at last. “I didn’t marry you with the idea of being your housekeeper! I’m fed up with it!”

  “I consider that a most unjust and uncalled-for speech!” said George sharply.

  “Oh, do you? It’s been perfectly evident to me ever since we came back from our honeymoon that you didn’t want a wife at all, but a housekeeper. You don't care for anything except your beastly old china!”

  “You’re talking like a hysterical child. If you would take a little more interest in my china, and a little less in this everlasting dancing, and—”

  “Thank you! I’m to sink my own tastes and inclinations, am I? It may interest you to know that if you were less absorbed in Chinese porcelain, or whatever it is, and thought more about what I like to do—”

  “To hear you anyone would think that I neglect you!”

  “So you do!”

  “You know that’s a lie.”

  “Oh, do I? You think of nothing but china from the moment you get up to the moment you go to bed. I believe you dream about it. I’m beginning to wish you had to work for your living. Then you wouldn’t be able to gloat over your treasures all day long.”

  George rose with extreme deliberation, and picked up his coffee cup.

  “I think it is a little too much if I’m to be subjected to senseless tirades at breakfast!” he said. “I shall finish my coffee in the library.”

  “No sooner had the door closed with exaggerated softness behind him, than Diana began to cry into her half-eaten egg.

  She had been married to George Doone for just a year, and this was by no means the first quarrel they had had. Diana had only been nineteen when she had married George, and she had sallied gaily forth into her new life with no idea of the pitfalls ahead. During her six months’ engagement she had admired George’s collection of china, and had tried her best to make intelligent remarks on it. George had been so attentive that she had not realised how big a place in his heart china occupied. Her mother had warned her, and had even suggested that Diana should study the subject, but she had only laughed, and shaken her pretty head.

  The first months of marriage were months of bliss. Then they came home from their long honeymoon abroad, and settled down in a beautiful Tudor house about twenty miles from London. Diana had her car and her horses, and a large allowance. She had every intention of enjoying life. George, too, meant to enjoy life; unhappily their ideas of enjoyment did not blend. George was not a dancing-man, and he was not fond of theatre-going. Diana had known this, but she had not anticipated a stubborn refusal to learn to dance, or that George would grumble when she suggested a theatre-party.

  George had known that Diana was ignorant on the subject of china, but he had never imagined that her interest in his collection during their engagement was mere politeness. To him it was inconceivable that anyone could be bored when looking at a K’ang Hi Vase.

  He very soon discovered that Diana thought his hobby wearisome and dull. Even then they might have learned to adapt themselves to each other’s tastes, if both had not been endowed with quick tempers. Neither had cultivated patience; any argument usually ended in a short but violent quarrel. It was not surprising that the quarrels grew more frequent. Diana began to think herself a neglected wife because George was often abstracted; George told himself that Diana was unreasonable and unjust.

  HAVING rendered her egg wholly uneatable by her tears, Diana began to nibble at some toast, punctuating each bite with a watery sniff. To fortify herself for her coming interview with the cook-housekeeper she drank another cup of coffee. Then, being very young and inexperienced, she went in fear and trembling to the kitchen.

  The interview with the cook made her headache worse, and she began to feel ill-used and worse-tempered than before. She went with lagging steps to the library, secretly hoping that George would not only make it up, but would comfort her and kiss away her unhappiness.

  George was ripping open a small packing case. He had taken his coat off, and the frown had gone from his face. He was all excitement, and he hardly noticed his wife’s entrance. Diana went to the window, trying to swa