Sylvester (25 page)

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. Having 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 among 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
tete-a-tete
with Phoebe. The only
tete-a-tete
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!’

15

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 role 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!’

She was certainly unable to do so, for at that moment her attention was drawn to Lady Elvaston, who had risen to take leave of her hostess. She too got up, and put out her hand to Phoebe, saying in her soft voice: ‘I see Mama is ready to go, and
so
I must say goodbye. Do you make a long stay in town? It would be so agreeable to meet again! Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of coming to see me one day? I should like you to see my little boy.’

‘Oh, is he with you?’ exclaimed Phoebe, a good deal surprised. ‘I had collected—I mean, I should like very much to visit you, ma’am!’

‘My bringing him to town was not at all approved of, I can assure you,’ responded Ianthe plaintively. ‘But even his guardian can scarcely forbid me to take him to stay with my parents! Mama quite dotes on him, and would have been so grieved if I hadn’t brought him with me!’

She pressed Phoebe’s hand, and floated away, leaving Phoebe a prey to doubt and curiosity.

From the outset Phoebe had been fascinated by her beauty; within a minute of making her acquaintance she had been captivated by her appealing manners, and the charm of a smile that hinted at troubles bravely borne. But Phoebe was a shrewd observer; she was also possessed of strong common-sense; and while the romantic side of her nature responded to the air of tragic mystery which clung about Ianthe the matter-of-fact streak which ran through it relentlessly pointed out to her certain anomalies in what had been disclosed, and compelled her to acknowledge that confidences uttered upon so short an acquaintance were not, perhaps, to be wholly credited.

She was anxious to discover Ianthe’s identity. She now knew her to be a member of the Rayne family, but the family was a large one, and in what degree of relationship to Sylvester Ianthe stood she had no idea. Her grandmother would no doubt be able to enlighten her.

Lady Ingham was well able to enlighten her. ‘Ianthe Rayne?’ she said, as they drove away from Mrs Stour’s house. ‘A pretty creature, isn’t she? Gooseish, of course, but one can’t but pity her. She’s Elvaston’s daughter, and married poor Harry Rayne the year she was brought out. He died before their son was out of short coats. A dreadful business! I fancy they never discovered what ailed him: you would have said there was not a healthier young man alive! Something internal: that’s all I ever heard. Ah, if they had but called in dear Sir Henry Halford!’

‘I knew she had been married to a member of that family, ma’am, but—who
was
her husband?’

‘Who was he?’ repeated the Dowager. ‘Why, Sylvester’s younger brother, to be sure! His twin-brother, too, which made it worse.’

‘Then the child—Lady Henry’s little boy—?’ Phoebe faltered.

‘Oh, there’s nothing amiss with him that ever I heard!’ replied the Dowager, leaning forward to obtain a clearer view of a milliner’s shop-window as she spoke. ‘My love, I wonder if that chip-straw—no, those pink flowers wouldn’t become you! What were you saying? Oh, Harry’s son! A splendid little fellow, I’m told. I’ve never seen him myself: he lives at Chance.’