Sylvester (29 page)

‘Oh, I didn’t!’ she protested, gurgling irrepressibly. ‘You know I didn’t!’

‘Do I, indeed? I promise you I was in the liveliest dread that you would start at any moment to giggle. If you had seen your own face—!’

‘Well, I own it was a very close-run thing with me,’ she admitted. ‘How you were able to answer him so gravely I can’t imagine!’

‘Oh, he has been on the town for as long as I have, so that I have grown inured to him! I can understand, of course, that the first sight of his magnificence must come as a severe shock.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, but I can’t plead that excuse. I was for ever seeing him last year. In fact, I—’

‘In fact you—?’ he prompted, after waiting for a moment for her to finish the sentence.

She had broken off in confusion, the words:
I put him into my book
only just bitten back in time. She said now, with a tiny gasp: ‘Grew so accustomed to him that I began not to notice him! Except when he came to a ball in a green velvet coat, and a waistcoat embroidered all over with pink roses!’

He did not immediately reply, and glancing a little nervously at him she saw that the flying line of his brows was accentuated by a slight frown which drew down their inner corners. He looked steadily at her, and said: ‘Yes? But that isn’t what you were going to say, is it?’

She hoped her countenance did not betray her, and said, with a fair assumption of ease: ‘No, but I daresay I ought not to tell you what
that
was. You won’t repeat it? It was not his appearance which nearly had me in whoops, but that peacocky chestnut of his, and the things he said of him! He bought him from Papa, and paid three hundred guineas for him! And thinks himself a
downy
one!’

He burst out laughing, and she hoped the dangerous moment had passed. But although he laughed at Marlow’s successful essay in flat-catching, he said: ‘I am still wondering what it was that you really meant to say, Sparrow.’

She was thankful to see Major and Mrs Newbury cantering towards them. There was time only to return a light rejoinder before Georgie called out to them, with news of a charming glade to be visited. They waited for Ianthe and Sir Nugent to come up with them, and there was no further opportunity for private talk.

The incident cast a cloud over Phoebe’s pleasure. She could not be comfortable. To uneasiness was added a strong sense of guilt, which was not rendered less by the flattering distinction with which Sylvester was treating her. It was scarcely to be called gallantry, though he showed her wishes to be his first object; he quizzed rather than flirted; but there was a smiling look in his eyes when they met hers, and an informality in his manners that made her feel as if she had known him for a very long time. There had been a moment, before the Newburys had joined them, when she had hovered on the brink of telling him just what she had done. She had been strongly tempted, and the temptation recurred several times, only to be driven back by fear of what the consequences might be. When Sylvester looked at her with warmth in his eyes she felt that she could tell him anything, but she had seen him wear quite another expression; and she knew just how swiftly and with what perfect civility he could retire behind a film of ice.

She was still in a state of wretched indecision when she parted from him at the end of the day; but as she trod up the steps of Lady Ingham’s house she thought suddenly that if anyone could advise her it must be her grandmother; and she determined, if her mood was propitious, to tell her the whole.

She found the Dowager in perfect good-humour, but a trifle preoccupied. She had received a visit from an old friend, just returned from a protracted sojourn in Paris, and Mrs Irthing’s account of the delightful time she had spent there, the charming nature of the parties given by dear Sir Charles Stuart and Lady Elizabeth at the Embassy—just as it was used to be before that horrid Bonaparte spoilt everything with his vulgar ways!—the exclusiveness of society—so different from London, where one was increasingly at the mercy of mushrooms and tuft-hunters!—the comfort of the hotels, and the amazing quality and style of the goods in all the shops had reawakened her desire to remove to Paris for a few months herself. It was just the right time of year for such a visit; the Ambassador and his wife were old friends of hers; and Mrs Irthing had been charged with messages for her from quite a number of French acquaintances whom she had not met for years but who all remembered her and wished that they might have the felicity of seeing her again. Well, she wished it too, and was much inclined to think it would do her a great deal of good to go abroad for a spell. She did not regret having assumed the charge of her granddaughter, of course, but it did just cross her mind that Phoebe might very well reside with Ingham and Rosina while she was away. A moment’s reflection, however, caused her to abandon this scheme: Rosina was a fool, in no way to be trusted with the delicate task of promoting a marriage between Phoebe and Sylvester. The Dowager was feeling very hopeful about this affair, but there was no doubt that it needed skilful handling. Rosina would be bound to blunder; moreover, nothing was more likely to cause Sylvester to shy off than to find Phoebe always in company with her good, dull cousins. No, it would not do, the Dowager decided. It would not do to take Phoebe to Paris either: the Dowager was no believer in the power of absence over the heart, particularly when the heart in question belonged to Sylvester, who had so many girls on the catch for him.

The project had to be abandoned, but Mrs Irthing’s visit had roused many memories. The Dowager fell into a reminiscent vein, and it was not until she and Phoebe removed to the drawing-room after dinner that she emerged from it, and bade Phoebe tell her about her own day. Phoebe said that she had enjoyed herself very much, and then, drawing a resolute breath, took the plunge. ‘Grandmama, there is something I must tell you!’

She would not have been surprised if her confession of having commenced author had met with censure; but the Dowager, once assured that a strict anonymity had been preserved, was rather amused. She even said that she had always known Phoebe to be a clever little puss.

Possibly she considered it unlikely that her granddaughter’s book would be read by any member of the ton; possibly she thought it even more unlikely that a portrait drawn by so inexperienced a hand would be recognizable. She only laughed when Phoebe told her the dreadful truth. But when Phoebe asked her if she thought Sylvester ought to be warned of what was hanging over his head she said quickly: ‘On no account in the world! Good God, you must be mad to think of such a thing!’

‘Yes, ma’am. Only—I can’t be comfortable!’ Phoebe said.

‘Nonsense! He will know nothing about it!’ replied the Dowager.

17

Unlike Lord Byron, Phoebe could not say that she awoke one morning to find herself famous, for clever Mr Newsham had allowed no clue to her identity to escape him. He saw no profit in allowing it to be known that a schoolroom chit had written
The Lost Heir
:
far better, he told his partner, to set the ton wondering. Poor Mr Otley, protesting in vain that none but sapskulls would sport the blunt to the tune of eighteen shillings for a romance by an unknown author resigned himself to ruin, and watched with a jaundiced eye the efforts of the senior partner to puff off the book to the ton.

But Mr Newsham had been right all along. The skilful letters he had written to influential persons, the flattery he had expended, the mysterious hints he had dropped, bore abundant fruit. The list of private subscribers presently caused Mr Otley’s eyes to start in his head. ‘Ay! and that’s only the beginning!’ said Mr Newsham. ‘These are the nobs who would melt a fortune not to be behindhand in the mode. All females, of course:
I
knew they wouldn’t risk the chance that a
roman a
clef
might not take! By the bye, I’ve discovered who that fellow with the eyebrows is: none other than his grace of Salford, my boy! If that ain’t enough to make the nobs mad after the book, tell me what is!’

Since Mr Newsham continued to correspond only with Miss Battery, Phoebe never knew that her book had been launched until she saw the three handsome volumes in Lady Sefton’s drawing-room. ‘Dear Lady Ingham, has this audacious book come in your way? But I need not ask! Is it not the wickedest thing imaginable?’ cried her ladyship, with much fluttering of her fan and her eyelids. ‘Odious creature, whoever she is!—and it is
not
Caro Lamb, or that Irish woman: that I know for a fact! Setting us all in the pillory! I forgive her only for her sketch of poor dear Emily Cowper! I own I laughed myself into stitches! She has not the least notion of it, of course—thinks it meant for the likeness of Mrs Burrell! But Ugolino—oh, dear, dear,
what
must be his feelings if ever the book should come in his way? And that it must, you know, because everyone is talking about it!’

Too soon for her peace of mind did Phoebe prove the truth of this statement. Some, like the haughty Countess Lieven, shrugged it off, calling it an almond for a parrot; some delighted in it; some were shocked by it; but all were eager to discover its authorship. Never, thought Phoebe, could an author have watched the success of her first venture with more consternation! All her pride and pleasure in it were destroyed, and by one tiny thing that might so easily have been changed! Could she but have removed from the book every mention of a pair of eyebrows the rest would have been forgiven her, for only in that one portrait had she been blind to the virtues of her victims.

Lady Ingham, startled to find that the whole town (or as much of it as signified) was discussing her granddaughter’s novel, demanded a copy of it from the reluctant author. Phoebe, who had received a set, forwarded to her by Miss Battery, shrinkingly presented her ladyship with the three elegant volumes.

The Dowager read it through, for some time anxiously watched by her trembling granddaughter, whose nerves suffered severely from the rapid transitions from hope to despair engendered by the Dowager’s frequent utterances. A chuckle sent her spirits up; an ejaculated ‘Good God!’ brought them down with a rush; and she was obliged many times to slip out of the room, unable to bear the suspense.

‘Recognize himself?’ said the Dowager, when she had come to the end. ‘Of course he will! Lord, child, how came you to commit such an imprudence? What a mercy that the whole thing is such a farrago of nonsense! I shouldn’t wonder at it if Sylvester treats it as beneath his notice. We must hope he will, and at all events it need never be known that you wrote it. Who knows the truth besides your governess?—I collect she is to be trusted?’

‘Indeed, she is, ma’am! The only other is Tom Orde.’

The Dowager clicked her tongue. ‘I don’t like that! Who’s to say that a young rattle won’t boast of being acquainted with the author when he finds you’ve become famous? You must write to him instantly, Phoebe, and warn him!’

Phoebe was hot in defence of her old playfellow, but it was not her championship that allayed the Dowager’s alarm: it was the appearance on the scene of Tom himself, accompanied by his father, and managing to walk very creditably with the aid of a stick.

No sooner were the guests announced than Phoebe flew across the room to hug first one and then the other. The Squire, kissing her in a fatherly way, said: ‘Well, puss, and what have you to say for yourself, eh?’ and nothing could have been more brotherly than Tom’s greeting. ‘Hallo, Phoebe!’ said Tom. ‘Take care what you’re about, now! Don’t you go rumpling my neckcloth, for the lord’s sake! Well, by Jove!’ (surveying her) ‘I’m dashed if you don’t look quite modish! Won’t Susan stare when I tell her!’

Nothing lover-like about Tom, decided the Dowager, turning her attention to the Squire.

It could not have been said that Lady Ingham and Mr Orde had much in common, but her ladyship, welcoming the Squire kindly for Phoebe’s sake, soon found him to be a blunt, sensible man, who seemed to feel just as he ought on a number of important subjects, notably the folly of Lord Marlow, and the pretentiousness, sanctimonious hypocrisy, and cruelty of his spouse. They soon had their heads together, leaving Tom and Phoebe to talk undisturbed in the window-bay.

Knowing his Phoebe, Tom had come in the expectation of being pelted with questions about everyone at Austerby and at the Manor, but except for a polite inquiry after Mrs Orde’s health, and an anxious one about Trusty and True, Phoebe asked him none. She was in regular communication with Miss Battery, an excellent correspondent, had received several letters from Susan, and even one or two scribbled notes from Lord Marlow, his lordship’s happy disposition having led him to believe, within a very short time, that if he had not actually connived at his daughter’s flight to her grandmother, at least this adventure had had his approval. Phoebe was more interested to learn what had brought Tom to town, and for how long he meant to remain.

Well, the Squire had had business to transact, and it was so abominably slow at home, when one couldn’t yet ride, or fish, or even walk very far, that there was no bearing it, so Tom had come to London with his father. They were putting up at Reddish’s Hotel, and meant to stay for at least a se’enight. The Squire had promised to take his son to visit one or two places he had long wanted to see. No, no, not
edifices
.
He had seen them years ago!
Interesting
places, such as the Fives Court, and Jackson’s Saloon, and Cribb’s Parlour, and the Castle Tavern. Not in Phoebe’s line, of course. And he was going to call on Salford.

‘He told me to be sure and do so if ever I was in town, so I shall. He wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t meant it, do you think?’