Sylvester

  But so it was. Mr Otley, confronted by a nameless lady in an ugly stuff gown who announced herself to be the authoress of The Lost Heir, almost burst with curiosity. He and his senior partner had often speculated on the identity of that daring authoress, but neither of them had supposed that she would prove to be nothing more than a dowdy schoolgirl. His manner underwent a change, and a note of patronage crept into his voice. Phoebe’s disposition was friendly to a fault, but she was quite unused to being addressed in such a way by a person of Mr Otley’s order. Mr Otley, encountering an amazed stare, hastily revised his first impression, and decided that it might be wise to call in the senior partner.

  Mr Newsham’s manner was perfect: a nice blend of the respectful and the fatherly. Had it been possible he would have delayed publication gladly, and as gladly have incurred the expense of having the book entirely reset. But, alas! The date of issue was fixed, a bare month ahead, the edition fully prepared. Nothing could have been more unfortunate, but he ventured to think that she must still be pleased by the result of his labours.

  Well, she was pleased. So handsome were they, those three slim volumes, elegantly attired in blue leather, the fore-edges of the pages gilded, and the title enclosed in a scroll! It didn’t seem possible that between those opulent covers reposed a story of her weaving. When the volumes were put into her hands she gave an involuntary gasp of delight; but when she opened the first volume at random her eyes fell upon a fatal paragraph.

  Count Ugolino’s appearance was extraordinary. His figure was elegant, his bearing graceful, his air that of a well-bred man, and his lineaments very handsome; but the classical regularity of his countenance was marred by a pair of feline orbs, which were sinister in expression. Matilda could not repress a shudder of revulsion.

  Nor could Matilda’s creator, hurriedly shutting the volume, and looking imploringly up at Mr Newsham. ‘I cannot allow it to be published!’

  It took patience and time to convince Phoebe that it was not in her power to arrest publication, but Mr Newsham grudged neither. His tongue was persuasive, and since he was astute enough to perceive that an optimistic forecast of the book’s chances of success would only dismay her he explained to her how rarely it was that a first novel enjoyed more than a modest sale, and how improbable it was that it would come under the notice of persons of ton.

  She was a little reassured, but when she parted from him it was with the resolve to write immediately to Miss Battery, imploring her to use her influence with her cousin to arrest publication. For his part, having bowed her off the premises, Mr Newsham instantly sought out the junior partner, demanding: ‘Didn’t you tell me that that cousin of yours is governess in a nobleman’s household! Who is he? Mark my words, that chit’s his daughter, and we’ve got a hit!’

  ‘Who is the fellow – I mean the real fellow – she wants to alter?’ asked Mr Otley uneasily.

  ‘I don’t know. Only one of the nobs,’ replied his partner cheerfully. ‘They don’t bring actions for libel!’

  It was nearly a week later when Miss Battery’s letter reached her one-time pupil, and by then Phoebe, caught up in what seemed to her a whirl of fashionable activity, had little time to spare for her literary troubles. It was impossible to be apprehensive for very long at a time when her life had been miraculously transformed. Lady Marlow’s unsatisfactory daughter-in-law had become her grandmother’s pet, and it was wonderful what a change it wrought in her. Lady Ingham was well-satisfied. Phoebe would never be a beauty, but when she was prettily dressed, and not afraid of incurring censure every time she unclosed her lips, she was quite a taking little thing. A touch of town bronze was needed, but she would soon acquire that.

  Miss Battery wrote affectionately but not helpfully. More conversant than Phoebe with the difficulties of publishing, she could only recommend her not to tease herself too much over the remote possibility of the Duke’s reading her book. Very likely he would not; and if he did Phoebe must remember that no one need know she was the authoress.

  That was consoling, but Phoebe knew she would feel guilty every time she met Sylvester, and almost wished the book unwritten. After his kindness to have portrayed him as a villain was an act of treachery; and it was no use, she told herself sternly, to say that she had done this before she became indebted to him, for that was mere quibbling.

  The season had not begun, but the unusually hard weather was driving a number of people back to town. Several small parties were being given; Grandmama prophesied that long before Almack’s opening night the season would be in full swing, and she wished to lose no time in making it known that she now had her granddaughter living with her. In vain did Phoebe assure her that she did not care for balls. ‘Nonsense!’ said her ladyship.

  ‘But it’s true, ma’am! I am always so stupid at big parties!’

  ‘Not when you know yourself to be as elegantly dressed as any girl in the room – and very much more elegantly than most of ’em!’ retorted the Dowager.

  ‘But, Grandmama!’ said Phoebe reproachfully. ‘I meant to be a comfort to you: not to go out raking every night!’

  The Dowager glanced sharply at her, saw that the saintly tone was belied by eyes brimming with mischief, and thought: If Sylvester has seen that look – ! But why the deuce hasn’t he paid us a visit yet?

  Phoebe wondered why he had not, too. She knew of no reason why he should wish to see her again, but he had asked her to tell Grandmama that he would call on her when he came to town, and surely he must have reached town days ago? Tom, she knew, was at home; so the Duke could not still be at the Blue Boar. She was not in the least affronted, but she found herself wishing several times that he would call in Green Street. She had such a lot to tell him! Nothing of importance, of course: just funny things, such as Alice’s various remarks, which Grandmama had not thought very funny (Grandmama had not taken kindly to Alice), and how Papa had written her a thundering scold, not for having run away from Austerby, but for having done so without first telling him where she kept the key to the chest containing the horse-medicines. Grandmama had not thought that funny either; and a joke lost some of its savour when there was no one with whom one could share it. It was a pity the Duke had not come to London after all.

  In point of fact he had come, but he had left again almost immediately for Chance, one of the first scraps of news that had greeted him on arrival at Salford House being that Lady Henry was also in town, with her child, staying with Lord and Lady Elvaston. Since she had not mentioned to him that she had formed any such intention this made him very angry. Her comings and goings were no concern of his (though she had no right to remove Edmund without his permission), but he thought it unpardonable that she should have left the Duchess during his absence, and without a word of warning to him. He posted back to Leicestershire; but as he found his mother not only in good spirits but looking forward to a visit from her sister he did not remain for more than a few days at Chance. During his stay he made no mention of his visit to Austerby. The Duchess was left with the impression that he had been all the time at Blandford Park; and since he had straitly charged Swale and Keighley to preserve discreet silence he was reasonably sure that no account of his adventures would filter through the household channels to her ears.

  Just why he was reluctant to divulge to her an episode which would certainly amuse her was a question he found difficult to answer; and since a fleeting apprehension of this occurred to him he did not tax his brain with it. After all, it could afford her no pleasure to know that he had passed the daughter of her dearest friend under review and found her to be unworthy to become his wife.

  In London he found quite a pile of invitations awaiting him, including a graceful note from Lady Barningham, bidding him (if he did not disdain a small, informal party) to a little dance at her house that very evening. Now, Lady Barningham’s daughter was the vivacious girl who came second on the list of the five candidates for his hand. Havin
g formed no other plan than to look in at one or other of his clubs, he decided to present himself at the Barninghams’ house, where he could be sure of meeting several friends, and sure also that his hostess would accept his excuses for having left her invitation unanswered.

  He was right on both counts. His arrival coincided with that of Lord Yarrow, who hailed him on the doorstep, and demanded where the devil he had been hiding himself; he found two more of his intimates in the drawing-room; and was received by a hostess who told him that his apologies were unnecessary – indeed, absurd, for he must know that this dance was the merest impromptu. What was one to do, Duke, in March, of all impossible months, and with London still so thin of company?

  ‘You have hit on the very thing, of course,’ he replied. ‘I have nothing to do but be glad I reached London in time to present myself, and was so fortunate as to escape a deserved scold!’

  ‘As though we were not well enough acquainted to dispense with ceremony! I warn you, you will find none here tonight! I perform no introductions, but leave you to choose whom you will for your partner, since I fancy all are known to you.’

  In high good-humour was her ladyship, but careful not to betray her triumph to jealous eyes. With Salford one never knew, and a hint of complacence now would be remembered by the dear friends who were present, if he let another season go without making Caroline an offer, or offered instead for Sophia Bellerby, or the lovely Lady Mary Torrington. It would not do to indulge optimism too far. She had done that last year, and his grace had not come up to the scratch; and however pleased he seemed to be in Caroline’s company no one could accuse him of making her his sole object. Not one of the twelve young ladies present would go home feeling that he had slighted her; three of them at least had enjoyed charming flirtations with him.

  She would have been dismayed had she known that Sylvester had discovered a sad fault in Miss Barningham. She was too compliant. He had only to lift his brows, to say: ‘You cannot be serious!’ and she was ready in an instant to allow herself to be converted. She was not going to argue with him, she knew his intellect to be superior. Well! If people (unspecified) supposed him to like that sort of flattery they were mistaken: it was a dead bore. Not that he had not enjoyed the party: he had spent an agreeable evening amongst friends; and it had been pleasant, after his experience in Somerset, to be welcomed with such cordiality. He wondered how he would be received in Green Street, and smiled wryly as he recollected what cause he had given his godmother to regard him with a hostile eye.

  But there was no trace of hostility in Lady Ingham’s face or manner when he was ushered into her drawing-room; indeed, she greeted him with more enthusiasm than her granddaughter. He found both ladies at home, but Phoebe was engaged in writing a note for the Dowager, and although she rose to shake hands, and smiled at Sylvester in a friendly way, she asked him to excuse her while she finished her task.

  ‘Come and sit down, Sylvester!’ commanded Lady Ingham. ‘I have been wishing to thank you for taking care of Phoebe. You may guess how very much obliged to you I am. According to what she tells me she wouldn’t be with me today if it hadn’t been for your kind offices.’

  ‘Now, how, without disrespect, does one tell one’s godmother that she is talking nonsense?’ countered Sylvester, kissing her fingers. ‘Does Miss Marlow make a long stay, ma’am?’

  ‘She is going to make her home with me,’ replied the Dowager, smiling blandly at him.

  ‘But how delightful!’ he said.

  ‘What a hoaxing thing to say!’ remarked Phoebe, hunting in the writing-table for a wafer. ‘You can’t pretend you thought it delightful to endure my company!’

  ‘I have no need to pretend. Do you think we didn’t miss you abominably? I promise you we did!’

  ‘To make a fourth at whist?’ she said, pushing back her chair.

  He rose as she came to the fire, retorting: ‘No such thing! Whist was never in question. Mr Orde remained with us only one night.’

  ‘What, did he take Tom home immediately?’

  ‘No, he left him with me while he himself went home to allay the anxieties of Mrs Orde and your father. He came back three days later, and bore Thomas off most regally, in an enormous carriage, furnished by Mrs Orde with every imaginable comfort, from pillows to smelling-salts.’

  ‘Smelling-salts! Oh, no!’

  ‘I assure you. Ask Thomas if he didn’t try to throw them out of the window! Tell me how you fared! I know from Keighley that you did reach town that night: were you very tired?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t care for that. And as for Alice, I think she would have driven on for hours, and still enjoyed it! Oh, I must tell you that you have been eclipsed in her eyes, Duke!’

  ‘Ah, have I?’ he said, eyeing her suspiciously. ‘By a freak?’

  She laughed. ‘No, no, by Horwich!’

  ‘Come, that’s most encouraging! What did he do to earn her admiration?’

  ‘He behaved to her in the most odious way imaginable! As though she had been a cockroach, she told me! I was afraid she must be wretchedly unhappy, but I don’t think anything she saw in London impressed her half as much! She confided to me that he was much more her notion of a duke than you are!’

  He burst out laughing, and demanded further news of Alice. But the Dowager said that rustics didn’t amuse her, so, instead, Phoebe told him about her father’s letter, and he incensed the Dowager by enjoying that hugely. Even less than by rustics was she amused by Lord Marlow’s fatuity.

  Sylvester did not remain for long, nor was he offered the chance of a tête-à-tête with Phoebe. The only tête-à-tête granted him was a brief one with the Dowager, who found an excuse to send Phoebe out of the room for a few minutes, so that she could say to him: ‘I’m glad you didn’t tell the child she had me to thank for your visit to Austerby. I’m sorry for that, Sylvester, and think the better of you for having sent her to me, when I don’t doubt you were feeling vexed with me. Mind, if I’d known she’d met you already, and not fancied you, I would never have done it! However, there’s no harm done, and no need to think of it again. She won’t, and you may depend on it I shan’t either. Now that I know her better I see you wouldn’t suit at all. I shouldn’t wonder at it if she’s going to prove as hard to please as her mother was.’ He was spared having to answer this speech by Phoebe’s coming back into the room. He rose to take his leave, and, as he shook hands with Phoebe, said: ‘I hope we may meet again soon. You will be attending all the balls, I expect. I hardly dare ask you – if I really did cut you at Almack’s! – if you will stand up with me?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she responded. ‘It wouldn’t be very civil in me to refuse, would it?’

  ‘I might have known it!’ he exclaimed. ‘How could I be such a flat as to offer you the chance to give me one of your set-downs?’

  ‘I didn’t!’ she protested.

  ‘Then heaven help me when you do!’ he said. ‘Goodbye! Don’t grow too civil, will you? But I need not ask that: you won’t!’

  Fifteen

  Before Phoebe saw Sylvester again she had encountered another member of his family: accompanying her grandmother on a morning visit she met Lady Henry Rayne.

  Several ladies had elected to call on old Mrs Stour that day, but the younger generation was represented only by Lady Henry and Miss Marlow. Lady Henry, brought by her mama, was so heartily bored that even the entrance of an unknown girl came to her as an alleviation. She seized the first opportunity that offered of changing her seat for one beside Phoebe’s, saying, with her pretty smile: ‘I think we have met before, haven’t we? Only I am so stupid at remembering names!’

  ‘Well, not precisely,’ replied Phoebe, with her usual candour. ‘I never saw you but twice in my life, and I wasn’t introduced to you. Once was at the Opera House, but the first occasion was at Lady Jersey’s ball last year. I am afraid it was the circumstance of my staring
at you so rudely which makes you think we have met! But you looked so beautiful I couldn’t drag my eyes away! I beg your pardon! You must think me very impertinent!’

  Not unnaturally Ianthe found nothing impertinent in this speech. Her own words had been a mere conversational gambit; she had no recollection of having seen Phoebe before, but she said: ‘Indeed I didn’t! I am sorry we were never introduced until today. I am not often in London.’ She added, with a wistful smile: ‘I am a widow, you know.’

  ‘Oh – !’ Phoebe was genuinely shocked. It seemed incredible, for she had supposed Ianthe to be little older than herself.

  ‘I was hardly more than a child when I was married,’ explained Ianthe. ‘I am not so very old now, though I have been a widow for several years!’

  ‘I thought you were my own age!’ said Phoebe frankly.

  No more was needed to seal the friendship. Ianthe, laughing at this misapprehension, disclosed that her only child was six years of age; Phoebe exclaimed: ‘Oh, no! Impossible!’ and stepped, all unknown to herself, into the rôle of Chief Confidante. She learned within the space of twenty minutes that the life of a recluse had been imposed on Ianthe by her husband’s family, who expected her to wear out the rest of her widowhood in bucolic seclusion.

  ‘I wonder you should yield to such barbarous notions!’ said Phoebe, quite appalled.

  ‘Alas, there is one person who holds a weapon I am powerless to withstand!’ said Ianthe in a melancholy tone. ‘He is the sole arbiter of my poor child’s destiny. Things were so left that I found myself bereft at one stroke of both husband and son!’ She perceived a startled look on Phoebe’s face, and added: ‘Edmund was not left to my guardianship. I must not say more, and should not have said as much, only that I knew, as soon as we met, that you would understand! I am persuaded I can trust you! You cannot conceive the relief of being able to speak openly: in general I am obliged to be reserved. But I mustn’t talk any more about my troubles!’