Sylvester (24 page)

Here her ladyship’s thoughts suffered a check. She had no intention of allowing Phoebe to abjure the world (as Phoebe had suggested), but although her health might benefit by chaperoning the child to one or two private balls, nothing could be more prejudicial to it than interminable evenings spent at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, or at parties given by hostesses with whom she was barely acquainted. But the check was only momentary: the Dowager remembered the existence of her meek daughter-in-law. Rosina, with two girls of her own to chaperon, could very well take her niece under her wing: such an arrangement could make no possible difference to her.

This was a small matter, and soon disposed of; far more important, and far more difficult to solve, was the riddle of Sylvester’s behaviour.

He was coming to visit her. She had received this message with every appearance of indifference, but she had pricked up her ears at it. He was, was he? Well, it would go against the grain to do it, but if he did come she would receive him affably. Perhaps, if she saw him, she might be able to discover just what game he was playing. His actions invited her to suppose that he had fallen in love with Phoebe, and was bent on displaying himself to her in his most pleasing colours. But if Phoebe’s account of what had passed during his stay at Austerby were to be believed it was hard to detect what he had seen in her to captivate him. The Dowager did not think he had gone to Austerby with the intention of liking what he found there, for she was well aware that she had erred a trifle in her handling of him, and set up his back. It had been quite a question, when she had seen that sparkle of anger in his eyes, whether she should push the matter farther, or let it rest. She had decided on the bolder course because he had told her that it was his intention to marry, and once he had made up his mind to it there was clearly not a day to be wasted in presenting Phoebe to his notice.

Recollecting in what stringent terms she had commanded Marlow not to breathe a word to a soul, her thin fingers crooked into claws. She might have known that That Woman would speedily drag the whole business out of such a prattle-box; but could anyone have foreseen that she was such a fool as to tell Phoebe everything that was most certain to set her against Sylvester?

Well, it was useless to rage over the irrevocable past. The future, she thought, was not hopeless. Too often men fell in love with the unlikeliest girls; it was possible that Sylvester, indifferent to the charms of the many Beauties who had flung out lures to him season after season, had been attracted to Phoebe because she was (to say the least of it) an unusual girl, and, far from encouraging his addresses, had repulsed them.

Possible, but not probable, thought Lady Ingham, considering Sylvester. He might have been piqued; she found it hard to believe that he had been fascinated. A high stickler, Sylvester: never, even in his callow youth, a Blood who sought fame in eccentricity. Indeed, the scandalous exploits of this fraternity won from him no other comment than was conveyed by a slight, contemptuous shrug of his shoulders; so how could one suppose that he would see anything to admire in a girl who outraged convention? Such conduct as Phoebe’s was much more likely to have disgusted him. Angered him, too, reflected the Dowager, as well it might! A mortifying experience for any man to know that the prospect of receiving a proposal of marriage from him had driven a gently nurtured girl into headlong flight, and, for one of Sylvester’s pride, intolerable.

Suddenly the Dowager wondered whether it had been with the intention of punishing Phoebe rather than her grandmother that Sylvester had sent her up to London. He might certainly have supposed that a grandmother, learning of her outrageous behaviour, would have dealt her very short shrift. He could not have guessed that when the child had poured out to her the story of her adventure she had seen not Phoebe but Verena, for Sylvester had never known Verena.

An excess of sensibility was not one of Lady Ingham’s failings. There had been a moment of aching memory, awakened by some fleeting expression on Phoebe’s face, but her ladyship was not going to think of that. She was not concerned with Verena now, but with Verena’s daughter. If Sylvester hoped to find Phoebe in her black books he was going to suffer a disappointment, and would be well served for his malice.

It was not until she was slipping over the edge of wakefulness that Lady Ingham remembered the landlady’s daughter. It was Sylvester who had insisted on her accompanying Phoebe to London, and whatever motive it was that had prompted him it was not malice. It would be unwise to hope, she thought drowsily, but there was no need yet to despair.

14

On the following morning Phoebe found her grandmother in brisk spirits, and very full of plans for the day. Foremost among these was a visit to a silk-warehouse and another to her ladyship’s own modiste. ‘To dress you becomingly is the first necessity, child,’ said the Dowager. ‘The sight of you in that shabby gown makes me nervous!’

The prospect of choosing fashionable raiment was enticing, but Phoebe was obliged to beg her grandmother to postpone this programme. She had promised to show Alice all the most notable sights of London, and, in particular, to take her to the Pantheon Bazaar.

She had a little difficulty in persuading the Dowager to consent to any part of this scheme, for it did not at all suit that lady’s sense of propriety to permit her granddaughter to wander about, seeing the lions, with no other escort than a raw country-girl. She told Phoebe that Alice would enjoy herself more in the company of one of the maidservants, but was persuaded finally to sanction an expedition to the Pantheon Bazaar, having recollected that before she herself could prosecute her various designs she must write a letter to Lord Marlow, and another to her daughter-in-law. Phoebe’s own letter to her papa was already written; and she was able to frustrate the Dowager’s intention to send her forth in her town carriage by reminding her how much her coachman was likely to object to having his horses kept standing in inclement weather. Phoebe had a piece of very secret business to transact, and she by no means wished Lady Ingham’s coachman to report to his mistress that her first port of call had been the offices of Messrs Newsham & Otley, Publishers.

She entered those premises with high hopes, and left them in a mood of such black foreboding as made it hard for her to enter into Alice’s raptures at all that met her eyes. It had not occurred to Phoebe that it might be too late for her to delete from her forthcoming romance every mention to Count Ugolino’s distinctive eyebrows.

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 just such a way by persons 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 set beneath black brows rising steeply towards his temples, and 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.