Venetia Read online

  But Imber, opening the door to this wholly unexpected visitor shortly after half-past eight, merely goggled more than ever at an airy request to pay off the postboy, and repeated in such stunned accents: ‘Pay off the postboy, miss?’ that Venetia said, impatient of further delay: ‘Oh, never mind! His lordship will give you the money! Where shall I find him? Is he in the library?’

  Still staring at her with dropped jaw Imber slowly shook his head. A numbing fear clutched her heart; she stammered: ‘G-gone? Imber, has he l-left Yorkshire? Don’t stand there gaping at me! do you take me for a ghost? Where is his lordship?’

  He swallowed, and replied: ‘He’s in the dining-room, miss, but – but he’s eaten Hull cheese, Miss Venetia! You hadn’t ought – Miss – !’

  But as this excursion into the vernacular was quite incomprehensible to Venetia, she paid no heed to the note of urgent entreaty in Imber’s voice, but went quickly down the hall towards the dining-room. Opening the door, she stepped into the room, and stood on the threshold, hesitating a moment, because suddenly, mingled with the longing to see her love again, she was aware of shyness.

  All the way north she had pictured this meeting, wondering what Damerel would say, and how he would look, what she herself would say to him. It had not occurred to her that he would neither speak nor look at her, or that their actual meeting would be so wholly unlike anything she had imagined.

  He was alone, sprawling in the carved armchair at the head of the table, one arm resting on the table, and the fingers of that hand crooked round the stem of a wineglass. The covers had been removed, and a half-empty decanter stood at his elbow, its stopper lying beside it. He was always rather careless of his appearance, but never had Venetia seen him so untidy. He had loosened his neckcloth, and his waistcoat hung open, and his black hair looked as if he had been in a high wind. He sat immobile, his shoulders against the high chair-back, his legs stretched out, and his brooding gaze fixed. The harsh lines of his face seemed to be accentuated, and his sneer was strongly marked. As Venetia moved softly forward into the candlelight he at last turned his eyes and looked at her. She stood still, shyness and mischief in her smile, and a hint of enquiry. He stared uncomprehendingly at her, and then, startling her, lifted his hand to his eyes, to shut her from his sight, ejaculating in a thickened voice of repulsion: ‘O God! No!’

  This entirely unexpected reaction to her arrival might well have daunted Venetia, but as she had by this time realised that his lordship was, in the common phrase, extremely well to live, she was undismayed, and even rather amused. She exclaimed: ‘Oh, Damerel, must you be foxed just at this moment? How odious you are, my dear friend!’

  His hand fell; for one instant he gazed at her incredulously, then he was on his feet, knocking over his wineglass. ‘Venetia!’ he uttered. ‘Venetia!’

  Two hasty, uncertain strides brought him round the corner of the table; she moved towards him, and melted into his arms as he seized her.

  He held her in a crushing embrace, fiercely kissing her, uttering disjointedly: ‘My love – my heart – oh, my dear delight! It is you!’

  She had flung one arm round his neck, and as he raised his head to devour her face with his eyes she tenderly smoothed back the dishevelled lock of hair from his brow. Whatever qualms or doubts had assailed her had vanished; she smiled lovingly up at him, and said, turning the word into a caress: ‘Stoopid!’

  He gave a laugh like a groan, kissing her again, tightening his arms round her until she could scarcely breathe. Then he seemed to recollect himself a little, and slackened his hold, exclaiming shakily: ‘I must reek of brandy!’

  ‘You do!’ she told him frankly. ‘Never mind it! I daresay I shall soon grow accustomed to it.’

  He released her, pressing his hands over his eyes. ‘Hell and the devil! I’m jug-bitten – drunk as a wheelbarrow! I can’t –’ His hands dropped, he demanded almost angrily: ‘What brings you here? O God, why did you come?’

  ‘The mail-coach brought me, love, and I’ll tell you why presently. Oh, my dear friend, I have so much to tell you! But first we must pay off the chaise. Imber seems not to have any money, so will you let him have your purse, if you please?’

  ‘What chaise?’

  ‘The one I hired in York to bring me here. I hadn’t enough of my own money left – in fact, I am run quite off my legs, and must now hang on your sleeve! Damerel, do, pray, give me your purse!’

  He dived a hand mechanically into his pocket, but apparently he was not carrying his purse, for he brought it out again empty. His love, apostrophising him affectionately as a castaway pea-goose, turned from him to go in search of Aubrey, and found that Imber was standing in the doorway, his face a study in disapproval, curiosity, and astonishment.

  ‘Marston is paying the postboy, miss,’ he said. ‘But, begging your pardon, if he’s to be sent back to York – Miss Venetia, you don’t mean to stay here?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she responded. ‘Tell Marston to send the chaise away, if you please!’

  This seemed to penetrate to Damerel’s somewhat clouded brain. ‘No!’ he said forcefully, if a little huskily.

  ‘No, my lord,’ agreed Imber, relieved. ‘Shall I tell him to rack up for a while, or –’

  ‘Pay no heed to his lordship!’ said Venetia. ‘Surely you must be able to see that he is not himself! Send the chaise off, and then, if you don’t wish me to drop into a swoon, do, I implore you, fetch me some supper! All I’ve eaten since yesterday is one slice of bread-and-butter, and I am famished! Tell Mrs Imber I beg her pardon for being so troublesome, and that some cold meat will do very well!’

  Imber looked for guidance towards his master, but as Damerel was occupied in an attempt to marshal his disordered wits, and paid no attention to him, he went reluctantly away to carry out Venetia’s orders.

  ‘Venetia!’ said Damerel, raising his head from between his hands, and speaking with painstaking clarity. ‘You can’t remain here. I won’t let you. Out of the question. Not so top-heavy I don’t know that.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear friend! Aubrey is all the chaperon I need. Where is he, by the by?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not here. Gone – forget the fellow’s name – some parson! Grinder.’

  ‘What, is Mr Appersett home again?’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew I dared not wait another hour! Has Aubrey left you already? Oh, well! it can’t be helped, and, to own the truth, I don’t care a rush!’

  He frowned. ‘Not left me. Gone to dine at the Parsonage. Appersett. Yes, that’s right. He came home yesterday – or the day before. Can’t remember. But it doesn’t signify. You can’t remain here.’

  She regarded him with a sapient eye. ‘Yes, I see how it is,’ she remarked. ‘I daresay it is the same with every man, for I recall that whenever Conway was in the least disguised he would take some notion into his head, in general an idiotish one, and hold to it buckle and thong!’

  He repeated, very creditably: ‘“Idiotish”!’ A laugh shook him. ‘I thought I should never hear you say that again!’

  ‘Do I say it a great deal?’ she asked, and then, as he nodded: ‘Oh dear, how very tiresome of me! I must take care!’

  ‘No. Not tiresome. But,’ said his lordship, sticking to his guns, ‘you can’t remain here.’

  ‘Well, I warn you, love, that if you cast me out I shall build me a willow cabin at your gates – and very likely die of an inflammation of the lungs, for November is not the month for building willow cabins! Oh, good-evening, Marston! Have you paid the postboy for me? I am very much obliged to you!’

  ‘Good-evening, ma’am,’ said the valet, with one of his rare smiles. ‘May I say how very happy I am to see you here again?’

  ‘Thank you – I am very happy to be here!’ she replied warmly. ‘But what is to be done? Here is his lordship threatening to turn me out of doors: not at all happy to see me!’

  ‘J