Read Online The Reluctant Widow by Georgette Heyer - Free Book Online
Authors: Georgette Heyer
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your peace with your Maker?” implored Presteign.
Cheviot had fallen back against his pillows, exhausted by his fit of passion, his eyelids dropping. The doctor stayed by him, his fingers counting the feeble pulse, his eyes watchful on the livid face. At the table Carlyon was writing steadily. Once he paused and looked thoughtfully at Cheviot, as if considering. Then his quill resumed its scratching. Cheviot roused again from his stupor. “My will! Lights! I can’t see plain in this infernal darkness!”
“Gently! You shall sign your will in good time,” Carlyon said, not raising his head. Cheviot peered across the room at him. “You’re there, are you?” “Yes, I am here.”
“I always hated you,” Cheviot remarked conversationally.
“Mr. Cheviot, I most earnestly conjure you to put these thoughts out of your mind, and before it is too late to—”
“Leave him, man, for God’s sake!” Greenlaw said, under his breath. “Yes, I always hated you,” repeated Cheviot. “I don’
t know why.”
Carlyon shook the sand from his paper, rose with it in his hand, and came to the bed. “Are you able to sign your will, Cousin?” he asked.
“Yes, yes!” Cheviot whispered eagerly, trying to grasp the quill that was placed between his fingers.
“You bequeath all the property of which you die possessed to your wife, Elinor Mary Cheviot. Is that your wish?”
A little laugh shook Cheviot. He caught his breath on a stab of pain, and gasped, “Yes, yes, I don’t care! If only I could see more plain!”
“Hold the candle nearer!”
Mr. Presteign picked up the branch in a shaking hand. “It’s not that, my lord,” the doctor muttered.
“I know. Come, Eustace, here is the pen, and. there is enough light now. Write down your name!”
The dying man seemed to make a great effort. For a moment, held up in Carlyon’s arms, he peered stupidly at the paper under his hand; then his eyes cleared a little and his aimless clutch on the quill tightened. Slowly he traced his signature at the foot of the paper. The pen slipped from his fingers, the ink on it staining the quilt. “Oh, I know what I should do!” he said,
as though someone had challenged this. “Put my—put my hand on it, and say—and say—I give this as my last will and testament. That’s it. By God, I beat you at the post, Carlyon!” Carlyon lowered him onto the pillows, and removed the paper from under his hand. “You two are witnesses,” he told the other men. “Sign it, if you please!”
“If he is of sound mind—” Presteign said doubtfully.
The doctor smiled sourly. “Don’t tease yourself on that score! His mind is as sound as ever it was.”
“Oh, if you are assured of that—” Presteign said, and wrote his name quickly on the paper. Someone scratched on the door. Carlyon went to it and opened it, to find Hitchin there, with the intelligence that Mr. Carlyon was belowstairs.
“Mr. Carlyon?”
“Mr. John, my lord. I’ve shown him into the parlor. Mr. Carlyon is very wishful to see your lordship.”
“Very well, I will come directly.”
The doctor rose from the table and gave Cheviot’s will back to Carlyon. “There, it’s done, and I hope you may not regret this night’s work, my lord,” he said.
“Thank you; I do not expect to regret it.”
“To be throwing a good estate to the four winds for a scruple!” the doctor grumbled. Carlyon shook his head and went out of the room. Downstairs he found Elinor-seated by the fire in the parlor, and his brother John Carlyon standing in the middle of the room and staring at her in perplexity. He turned as he heard the door open, and said quickly, “Ned! For God’s sake, what is this farrago of nonsense? I am met by that fool Hitchin, who tells me I shall find Cheviot’s betrothed in the parlor, and now this lady informs me that she is married to him!” “Yes, that is quite true,” Carlyon replied, “My brother John, Mrs. Cheviot. I am glad you are here, John.
Cheviot had fallen back against his pillows, exhausted by his fit of passion, his eyelids dropping. The doctor stayed by him, his fingers counting the feeble pulse, his eyes watchful on the livid face. At the table Carlyon was writing steadily. Once he paused and looked thoughtfully at Cheviot, as if considering. Then his quill resumed its scratching. Cheviot roused again from his stupor. “My will! Lights! I can’t see plain in this infernal darkness!”
“Gently! You shall sign your will in good time,” Carlyon said, not raising his head. Cheviot peered across the room at him. “You’re there, are you?” “Yes, I am here.”
“I always hated you,” Cheviot remarked conversationally.
“Mr. Cheviot, I most earnestly conjure you to put these thoughts out of your mind, and before it is too late to—”
“Leave him, man, for God’s sake!” Greenlaw said, under his breath. “Yes, I always hated you,” repeated Cheviot. “I don’
t know why.”
Carlyon shook the sand from his paper, rose with it in his hand, and came to the bed. “Are you able to sign your will, Cousin?” he asked.
“Yes, yes!” Cheviot whispered eagerly, trying to grasp the quill that was placed between his fingers.
“You bequeath all the property of which you die possessed to your wife, Elinor Mary Cheviot. Is that your wish?”
A little laugh shook Cheviot. He caught his breath on a stab of pain, and gasped, “Yes, yes, I don’t care! If only I could see more plain!”
“Hold the candle nearer!”
Mr. Presteign picked up the branch in a shaking hand. “It’s not that, my lord,” the doctor muttered.
“I know. Come, Eustace, here is the pen, and. there is enough light now. Write down your name!”
The dying man seemed to make a great effort. For a moment, held up in Carlyon’s arms, he peered stupidly at the paper under his hand; then his eyes cleared a little and his aimless clutch on the quill tightened. Slowly he traced his signature at the foot of the paper. The pen slipped from his fingers, the ink on it staining the quilt. “Oh, I know what I should do!” he said,
as though someone had challenged this. “Put my—put my hand on it, and say—and say—I give this as my last will and testament. That’s it. By God, I beat you at the post, Carlyon!” Carlyon lowered him onto the pillows, and removed the paper from under his hand. “You two are witnesses,” he told the other men. “Sign it, if you please!”
“If he is of sound mind—” Presteign said doubtfully.
The doctor smiled sourly. “Don’t tease yourself on that score! His mind is as sound as ever it was.”
“Oh, if you are assured of that—” Presteign said, and wrote his name quickly on the paper. Someone scratched on the door. Carlyon went to it and opened it, to find Hitchin there, with the intelligence that Mr. Carlyon was belowstairs.
“Mr. Carlyon?”
“Mr. John, my lord. I’ve shown him into the parlor. Mr. Carlyon is very wishful to see your lordship.”
“Very well, I will come directly.”
The doctor rose from the table and gave Cheviot’s will back to Carlyon. “There, it’s done, and I hope you may not regret this night’s work, my lord,” he said.
“Thank you; I do not expect to regret it.”
“To be throwing a good estate to the four winds for a scruple!” the doctor grumbled. Carlyon shook his head and went out of the room. Downstairs he found Elinor-seated by the fire in the parlor, and his brother John Carlyon standing in the middle of the room and staring at her in perplexity. He turned as he heard the door open, and said quickly, “Ned! For God’s sake, what is this farrago of nonsense? I am met by that fool Hitchin, who tells me I shall find Cheviot’s betrothed in the parlor, and now this lady informs me that she is married to him!” “Yes, that is quite true,” Carlyon replied, “My brother John, Mrs. Cheviot. I am glad you are here, John.
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