The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [129]
Ash did not answer. He was feeling dazed and sick, and in spite of everything, disbelieving. He would not and could not believe it of Belinda. Of George, yes. The story explained a great deal about George: his appalling sensitiveness and lack of confidence; that abrupt transformation from tongue-tied timidity to brashness and truculence when Belinda set out to charm him and Mrs Harlowe treated him with consideration and kindness, and he began to believe in himself at last; and most of all, his complete moral and physical collapse now that his make-believe world had been exposed as a sham. But Belinda could never have behaved in the manner he described. George was inventing again and allowing his guilty conscience to put into her mouth sentiments that he had already applied to himself. Because these were the sort of things he was afraid she might say, he was punishing himself by pretending she had actually said them – and quite possibly, too, that she was engaged to Mr Podmore-Smyth, which was something else that he, Ash, was not prepared to believe until he heard it from her own mouth. Then if her parents were really putting pressure on her to force her into marrying some dirty old man in his dotage, he would expose them for what they were.
He stood up and jerked the chik aside, and shouted for the servant to call him a tonga.
‘You aren't going?’ gasped George, in a panic. ‘Don't go yet. Please don't go! If you leave me I'll – I'll only get drunk again, and it's worse when I'm drunk. Besides, b-brandy only makes me feel braver. I might g-go out and d-do something stupid. Like going to the Club this morning and m-making a fool of myself.’
‘Then don't get drunk,’ snapped Ash, exasperated. ‘And for God's sake, George, stop feeling so damn' sorry for yourself. You don't have to go to pieces just because you've been found out telling a pack of silly taradiddles about your grandmother. Who the hell cares what your grandmother was or wasn't? You are still you, aren't you? It's sheer poppycock to pretend that people only liked you because they thought your grandmother was a Greek or an Italian or whatever it was. And if you imagine for one minute that Belinda or anyone else is going to spread around any stories about her, you must be mad. You know what it is, George? – you've exaggerated the whole thing out of all proportion, and been so busy being sorry for yourself that you haven't even stopped for a minute to think about it sensibly.’
‘You didn't hear what Belinda s-said to me,’ gulped George. ‘If you'd heard her -’
‘I daresay she was damned angry with you for telling her a lot of fatuous lies, and only wanted to punish you for that. Try and use your head for half a second and stop behaving like a hysterical rabbit. If Belinda is what I believe her to be she'll keep quiet about it for your sake, and if she's what you like to think she is, she'll keep it even quieter for her own – and that goes for her mother and Mrs Gidney too, for I don't suppose either of them will care to advertise the fact that they've been a pair of gullible old tabbies.’
‘I never thought of that,’ admitted George, cheering up slightly. ‘Yes, I suppose…’ His shoulders slumped again. ‘But then no one spoke to me at the Club this morning except Mrs Viccary. The rest just looked at me and whispered and sniggered and -’
‘Oh, stow it, George,’ interrupted Ash angrily. ‘You turn up at the Club on a Saturday morning as drunk as an owl and are surprised because people notice it. For the love of God, stop dramatizing yourself and try to keep a sense of proportion.’
He reached for his hat as a clatter of hooves and the jangle of a bell announced the arrival of a tonga, and George said wistfully: ‘I'd hoped you'd stay on a b-bit and – and advise me. It's been awful just sitting here alone and thinking; and if I could just talk about it –’
‘You've talked about it for over an hour,’ observed Ash tartly. ‘And if you really want my advice, you'll forget all about