Acting on Impulse Read online

  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