Джорджетт Хейер: Venetia

Venetia came to the bedside, and bent over her aunt, kissing her cheek affectionately: “Dearest aunt, I’m going home!”

“No, no!” cried Mrs. Hendred, clutching her sleeve. “Oh, dear, I shall become perfectly distracted! I didn’t mean it! Heaven knows what’s to be done, but your uncle will think of something, depend upon it! Venetia, if I said anything—”

“Of course you didn’t, ma’am!” Venetia said, smiling at her, and patting her shoulder caressingly. “But you cannot hope to re-establish my credit, and I would so much rather you didn’t make the attempt. You have been too kind to me already, and I’m a wretch to make you so uncomfortable. But, you see, it’s my whole life I’m fighting for, and I can’t be sure that even now it’s not too late! Pray try to forgive me, my dear aunt, and—and understand a little!”

“Venetia, only consider !” implored Mrs. Hendred. “Good God, you cannot throw yourself at that man’s head! What would he think of you?”

“I have considered. It does seem quite shocking, doesn’t it? I hope my courage won’t fail! No, I don’t think it will, because there’s nothing I couldn’t say to him, or he not understand. Don’t be distressed! I wish I need not have disturbed you again, but I couldn’t go without bidding you goodbye, and thanking you for being so very kind to me. I’ve told Bradpole and Worting that Edward brought me bad news of Aubrey, and is to accompany me to York by the mail, so you mustn’t fret over what any of the servants will think. And I have packed my trunk, and desired Betty to cord it, and to send it to me by the carrier—when I write to tell you my direction. I can’t take more than a portmanteau on the mail, you know.”

“Listen, Venetia, only wait until we can consult your uncle!” said Mrs. Hendred feverishly. “He will be at home by breakfast-time tomorrow—why, he may even arrive this very evening! Now, do, do—”

“Not for the world!” said Venetia, with a quiver of laughter. “I am very much obliged to my uncle, but the thought that he might find another way of rescuing me from my dear rake puts me in the liveliest dread!”

“Wait, dear child! I have had a very good notion! If you find your affections don’t change when you have had time to see more of the world—no, no, do but listen!—I won’t say a word against this dreadful marriage! But Lord Damerel would tell you himself that it’s far too soon for you to commit yourself! Your uncle shall think of a way to overcome what happened today, and I shall put off Theresa’s coming-out in the spring, and bring you out instead!”

“Oh, poor Theresa!” exclaimed Venetia, laughing outright. “When she is counting the days!”

“She may very well wait for another year,” said Mrs. Hendred resolutely. “Indeed, I am much inclined to think she should, for I noticed a spot on her face the other evening, and you know, my dear, if she is going to fall into that vexatious way young girls have of throwing out a spot whenever one particularly wishes them to be in their best looks, it would be useless to bring her out next year! Now, what do you say to that?”

“Horrid!” replied Venetia, rubbing her cheek lightly against her aunt’s before disengaging herself from the clutch on her sleeve, and going to the door. “Long before the season ended—if not before it started!—Damerel would be heaven knows where, strewing rose-leaves about for some abandoned female to tread on! Well, one thing at least I’m determined on! If he must indulge in such wasteful habits he shall strew his rose-leaves for me to tread upon, not one of his ridiculous Paphians!” She blew a kiss to her aunt, and the next instant was gone.

Venetia reached York midway through the afternoon of the following day, the mail having been considerably delayed by fog in and around London. If she was in very much better spirits than on her previous journey, she was far more exhausted. She alighted from the coach feeling battered and tousled, and instead of immediately hiring a chaise and pair to convey her to the Priory, which had been her intention, bespoke a bedchamber, some hot water, and some tea. Anxious to reach her journey’s end though she might be, she had no desire to arrive at the Priory in a crumpled dress, her face unwashed, and her hair unbrushed. When the chambermaid at the inn led her up to an empty bedchamber, one glance at the looking-glass was enough to confirm her in the belief that no lady, however handsome, could drive for two hundred miles in a mail-coach carrying its full complement of six inside passengers without emerging at her destination in an unbecomingly travel-worn condition.

She had been fortunate to have succeeded in booking a seat at such short notice; it was naturally not one of the corner seats; and she had very soon discovered that between a private post-chaise and a mail coach there was a world of difference. Unlike two of her fellow passengers, who snored hideously throughout the night, she was quite unable to sleep; and when a respite of twenty minutes was allowed the travellers at breakfast-time she was able only to swallow two sips of scalding coffee before being summoned to resume her place in the coach, because she was obliged to wait for fifteen minutes before the over-driven waiter slapped the coffee-pot down on the table in front of her.

A wash and a cup of tea revived her a little; and she thought that if she lay down on the large fourposter bed for half an hour her headache might go off. That was her undoing, for hardly had she drawn the coverlet over herself than she fell asleep.

She awoke in darkness, and to hear the Minster clock chiming the three-quarters, and started up in dismay, groping for the bell-rope that hung beside the bed. When the chambermaid appeared, bearing a candle, she was somewhat relieved to learn that the hour was not quite so far advanced as she had feared. It wanted ten minutes to seven. The chambermaid, a kindly soul, said that she had taken a look-in at her at four o’clock, but had thought it would be a shame to rouse her. She suggested that Miss must be ready for her dinner, which was now being served in the coffee-room; but Venetia, though ravenously hungry, merely begged her, as she scrambled into the clean dress she had earlier unpacked from her portmanteau, to run downstairs to the landlord, and to bespeak on her behalf a chaise-and-pair, or any other available vehicle, to convey her immediately to Elliston Priory.

It had been her intention, after the refreshment of half an hour on that treacherous bed, to have stepped round to Mr. Mytchett’s place of business, for after buying her ticket on the mail, paying for the breakfast she had had no time to eat, and tipping the guard, her resources had dwindled to no more than would enable her to defray the charges at the inn. She was just able to do that; and presently climbed up into the job-chaise in reduced circumstances, but heartened by the reflection that someone at the Priory—Aubrey, or Damerel, or Imber—could defray the postboy’s charges.

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 left Yorkshire? Don’t stand there gaping at me! do you take me for a ghost? Where is his lordship?”