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
llow her pride enough to make the first advances. Over her shoulder she saw George pull away the straw from the box, and insinuate reverent hands into it. Very carefully he drew forth what was to her only a dingy-looking vase. Over George’s face had stolen an expression of worship. He set the vase on a table, and stroked it lovingly. Diana realised that he had not been aware of her entrance. She was conscious of a rising rage, but she managed to choke it down.”

  “George!”

  “You—beautiful thing,” said George softly.

  She turned to run straight into his arms, but stopped short when she saw that he had not spoken to her, but to the vase.

  “Put that piece of ugly china down!” she cried

  He looked at her in amazement.

  “Ugly? Ugly! My dear girl, this is a Ming vase!”

  “I don't care if it is! It’s ugly and dingy and dead! I’d like to smash all your horrible china! 1 would, I would!”

  His face grew stern.

  “I don’t advise you to try,” he said. “What you are pleased to call ‘dingy’ is a Ming vase with the aubergine glaze. What is it you want?” He spoke as to a refractory child, and Diana’s passion got the better of her. She sprang forward, and in a flash had knocked the vase out of his caressing hands. It fell on to the parquet floor and was shivered into atoms.

  Diana was pulled up short by her impetuous action. A wave of ashamed repentance swept over her; she put a trembling hand on George’s arm.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t—mean to! I’m very, very sorry!”

  George shook her hand away. He was white with anger, but he spoke quietly.

  “It’s easy enough to say you’re sorry, when you’ve broken the most precious thing I possess.”

  Diana quivered, and flung up her head. Through the tears her eyes flamed into his.

  “Oh, indeed! indeed! The most precious thing you possess! Do you mean that?”

  “Yes, I do!” said George angrily.

  “Very well! If that’s so you won’t mind when I tell you that I’m going home to Mother! She doesn't rank a loathsome vase higher than me! She loves me! As for you—I wish I’d never set eyes on you!”

  “It’s come to that, has it?” he snapped back at her. “You break my vase out of wanton mischief and temper, and rail at me because I’m angry! Let me tell you that I’ve a good deal more cause for complaint than you have.” With that, and forgetting the fragments of china on the floor, he turned on his heel and slammed out of the room.

  Diana was left looking down at her handiwork.

  Horrid, horrid vase!” she whispered, and bent to pick up one of the pieces. “Beastly, spiteful thing! I’m glad I broke you!”

  MRS. GRAFTON exhibited no surprise when her daughter walked into the drawing room of her flat in Brook Street. She merely raised her eyebrows slightly, and even went on with her knitting.

  “Hullo, Diana!” she said.

  Diana pulled her hat off and threw it on to a chair.

  “I’ve left George!” she said jerkily.

  “Dear me,” said Mrs. Grafton placidly.

  “What’s more, I won’t ever go back to him!”

  “What a brute!” remarked her mother, unrolling some more silk.

  “He is! He’s—” She broke off and looked suspiciously at her mother. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “They always are,” said Mrs. Grafton. “Do you propose to stay here?”

  “Of course if y—you don’t w-want me either—”

  “Oh, I don’t mind at all, my dear. Only I must have your bed aired. By the way, why have you left George, apart from his being a brute?”

  Her daughter collapsed on to the sofa and began to hunt for her handkerchief. The day’s calamities passed before her eyes.

  “I slept badly and woke with a headache, Mumsy,” she began.

  Mrs. Grafton looked up, once more with raised brows.

  “No doubt it’s a sufficient reason," she remarked calmly.

  “That’s not all! The eggs were hard-boiled for breakfast, and George was hateful about it.”

  “So you left him? I see.”

  “N-no, that wasn’t the reason,” said Diana, doubtfully. “The—the eggs began it, but I’ve left him because he doesn’t care for me.”

  “Doesn’t he, really?” Mrs. Grafton was politely interested. “I wonder why he married you?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know! He only cares for his china. I—I smashed a Ming vase this morning—on purpose!”

  “I hope he shook you!”

  “You—Mother, don't you realise—”

  “What?”

  “I—I think you might be a little more sympathetic!”

  “Oh, are you looking for sympathy?”

  “No, I’m not!” said her daughter, rising. “I think I’ll go and unpack my things.”

  “I should,” said Mrs. Grafton.

  Mr. Grafton was inclined to be worried over his daughter’s return, but his wife assured him that there was no need for him either to “speak seriously to Diana,” or to sally forth in search of George’s blood.

  “Well, but dear, hadn’t I better go and see George?”

  “Certainly not,” said his wife. “George will come here when he has recovered. In the meantime a little uncertainty won’t do either of them any harm. You leave it to me.”

  Mr. Grafton had never dreamed of disputing his wife’s decisions; he was quite content to leave Diana’s future in her hands. Mrs. Grafton started to devise a plan.

  Secretly Diana was rather ashamed of having deserted her husband, and she would have been overjoyed had he appeared that evening to take her home. But he did not appear. Instead he sat humped over the library fire with his head in his hands and a pipe between his teeth.

  As soon as his first anger had abated, he had gone up to Diana’s bedroom, only to find that she had flown. Never for one instant had he imagined that she meant what she had said. The sight of her dismantled dressing-table was a shock to him. He sat limply down upon the bed, trying to realise that she had really gone.

  At first he was indignant and thought himself badly used. This mood lasted until after lunch, when he was forced to excuse Diana's sudden departure to the maids. He went for a long walk that afternoon, fighting out the problem with himself. He came home to tea, tired and dispirited, and was conscious of a sickening gap in his life when he saw Diana’s empty chair behind the tea-table. Except on rare occasions, the maids were not allowed to touch anything in the library, so that now the shattered Ming vase still lay upon the floor.

  Gloomily George regarded it, reflecting on the loss of so wonderful a treasure. Then he thought of the greater loss of his wife and grew gloomier still. The sight of the smashed vase, lying lonely on the floor, induced a sentimental frame of mind. He reviewed the events of the day, and thought that, perhaps, Diana had not been altogether to blame.

  As far as he remembered, he had been unusually irritable. He ought not to have snapped at her about the eggs. But that did not excuse her offence in breaking the Ming vase. Still, he should not have refused to accept her apology. It must have cost her something to beg his pardon so sweetly. He remembered her little clinging hand, and the repentant catch in her voice. Hang it all, he had been a bit of a brute!

  Yet she had no right to say that he cared more for his china than for her. She must have known that it was untrue. Even if he had been rather absorbed occasionally, she ought to have known that it did not mean that he loved his china best. Of course, she was very young. He had no right to make her feel herself neglected. Something would have to be done about that.

  Gradually he came to a great resolution. He would try to be interested in the things that Diana liked. It was no good expecting her to feel as he did about china. He must try not to be so absorbed in it. In fact—he drew a deep, self-pitying sigh—he had better learn to dance.

  GEORGE was summoned to lunch at Mrs. Grafton’s club next morning. When that lady heard the worried note
in his voice she chuckled, well pleased.

  Over lunch she lectured him severely. He tried at first to justify himself, but collapsed at last. Mrs. Grafton told him that he would have to learn to adapt himself to Diana before she would return to him.

  “But—won't she come back now?” he asked, miserably. “I thought if I told her I was sorry—”

  “Don’t dare to do any such thing!” said Mrs. Grafton. “You’ll only have the same fuss all over again. You wait till Diana comes round.”

  “But will she? I mean—”

  “I know quite well what you mean, George. You’re wrong. Diana’s a naughty child; she always was. It would be very bad for her if you started to eat humble pie. She’ll come to her senses fast enough if you leave her alone.”

  “I can't leave her alone! I can’t do without her!”

  “George,” said Mrs. Grafton, impressively, “am I or am I not a fool?”

  “Of course not. But—”

  “I’ve known Diana twenty years. You’ll never understand her as I do. You’re only her husband. Leave her to me. I don’t want you both to run on to the rocks, which is what you would do if you made it up again in the same old way. You’ve got to learn to adapt yourselves; and because you’re both peppery and impatient you’d better do the first part of the adapting apart. Now, are you going to take my advice?

  George struggled with himself for a moment.

  “All—right. I was thinking of learning to dance,” he said.

  “Excellent! " nodded Mrs. Grafton.

  That evening she took her husband and daughter to dine with an old friend. Diana was unconvincingly gay, but she couldn’t help liking Mr. Haskin.

  He was a man of about fifty-five with a fascinating smile, and a collection of prints and china. Diana stiffened slightly when he mentioned his hobby, but she could not refuse to look at his collection. She listened carefully to all that he said, for she, too, had made a resolution, only half acknowledged.