Sylvester (26 page)

‘And he is—I understood Lady Henry to say—the Duke’s ward?’

‘Yes, and his heir as well—not that that is likely to signify! Was Ianthe complaining to you about that business?’ she glanced at Phoebe, and said bluntly: ‘You would be ill-advised to refine too much on what she may have said to you, my love. The truth is that she and Sylvester can never deal together.
She
fell into a pelter as soon as she found how things were left—well, I must own I think she should have been joined with Sylvester in the guardianship!—and
he
don’t take the trouble to handle her tactfully.’

‘I can readily believe that!’ Phoebe interjected. ‘Is he fond of the little boy, ma’am?’

‘I daresay he may be, for Harry’s sake—though they say the boy is the image of his mother—but the fact is, my dear, young men don’t commonly dote on nursery brats! He will certainly do his duty by the boy.’

‘Mama did her duty by me,’ said Phoebe. ‘I think I understand what Lady Henry’s feelings must be.’

‘Fiddle!’ said the Dowager. ‘I don’t scruple to tell you, my love—for you are bound to hear it—that they are at odds
now
because the little ninny has got a second marriage in her eye, and knows Sylvester won’t let her take the boy away from Chance.’

‘Oh!’ Phoebe exclaimed, her eyes flashing. ‘How could he be so inhuman? Does he expect her to remain a widow all her life? Ah, I suppose it should be enough for her to have been married to a Rayne! I don’t believe there was ever anyone more arrogant!’

‘Before you put yourself in a taking,’ said the Dowager dryly, ‘let me tell you that if it is arrogance which prompts Sylvester to say he won’t have his heir brought up by Nugent Fotherby it is a fortunate circumstance for the boy that he
is
arrogant!’

‘Nugent Fotherby?’ gasped Phoebe, her righteous wrath suddenly and ludicrously arrested. ‘Grandmama, you can’t mean it? That absurd creature who can’t turn his head because his shirt points are too high, and who let Papa chouse him out of three hundred guineas for a showy chestnut anyone but a flat must have seen was short of bone?’

Somewhat taken aback, the Dowager said: ‘I don’t know anything about horses. And as for your father, if he persuaded Fotherby to buy one that was unsound I call it very shabby dealing!’

‘Oh,
no
,
ma’am!’ Phoebe said earnestly. ‘I assure you there is nothing wrong in
that!
If a man who can’t tell when a horse isn’t fit to go chooses to set up as a knowing one he must expect to be burnt!’

‘Indeed!’ said the Dowager.

Phoebe was silent for a minute or two; but presently she said thoughtfully: ‘Well, ma’am, I don’t think one can precisely blame Salford for not wishing to let his nephew grow up under such a man!’

‘I should think not indeed! What’s more, I fancy that on that head Sylvester and Elvaston are at one. Of course Elvaston don’t like the match, but I daresay he’ll swallow it.’

‘Well, Papa wouldn’t!’ said Phoebe frankly. ‘In fact, he told me once that if ever I took it into my head to marry a bleater who, besides being a man-milliner and a cawker who don’t know a blood-horse from a commoner, encourages every barnacle on the town to hang on him, he would wash his hands of me!’

‘And if that is the language he sees fit to teach you, the sooner he does so the better!’ said her ladyship tartly.

Much abashed, Phoebe begged her pardon; and continued to meditate in silence for the rest of the drive.

Her thoughts were not happy, but it was not Lady Henry’s lapse of taste which cast a damper over her spirits. It was the existence of Lady Henry’s fatherless child.

Dismay had been her first reaction to the evil tidings; it was succeeded by a strong conviction that Fate and Sylvester between them had contrived the whole miserable business for no other purpose than to undo her. She had long known Fate for her enemy, and Fate was clearly responsible for Coincidence. As for Sylvester, however much it might seem to the casual observer that he was hardly to be blamed for possessing a nephew who was also his ward, anyone with the smallest knowledge of his character must recognize at a glance that it was conduct entirely typical of him. And if he had not wished to figure as the villain in a romance he should not have had satanic eyebrows—or, at any rate, amended the ill-used authoress, he should have exerted himself to be more agreeable to her at Lady Sefton’s ball, instead of uttering formal civilities, and looking at her with eyes so coldly indifferent that they seemed scarcely to see her. It would never then have occurred to her to think him satanic, for when he smiled he did not look in the least satanic. Far otherwise, in fact, she decided, realizing with faint surprise that although he had frequently enraged her during their sojourn at the Blue Boar she had never, from his first entering that hostelry, perceived anything villainous in his aspect.

This reflection led her to recall how much she stood in his debt, which resulted in a fit of dejection hard to shake off. Only one alleviating circumstance presented itself to her: he need never know who had written
The Lost Heir
.
But that was a very small grain of comfort, since his ignorance would not make her feel less treacherous.

It was probable that if they had not chanced to meet again only two days later nothing further would have come of Ianthe’s desire to know Phoebe better; but Fate once more took a hand in Phoebe’s affairs. Sent out under the escort of Muker to execute some commissions for her grandmother in Bond Street, she came abreast of a barouche, drawn up beside the flagway, just as Ianthe, a picture of lovely maternity, was helping her child to climb into it. When she saw Phoebe she exclaimed, and at once shook hands. ‘How charming this is! Are you bent on any very important errand? Do come home with me! Mama has driven out to Wimbledon to visit one of my sisters, so we shall be quite alone, and can enjoy such a comfortable chat!’ She hardly waited for Phoebe to accept the invitation, but nodded to Muker, saying that Miss Marlow should be sent home in the carriage later in the day, and made Phoebe get into the carriage, calling on Master Rayne to say how do you do politely.

Master Rayne pulled off his tasselled cap, exposing his sunny curls to the breeze. His resemblance to his mother was pronounced. His complexion was as delicately fair, his eyes as large and as deeply blue, and his locks as silken as hers; but a sturdy frame and a look of determination about his mouth and chin saved him from appearing girlish. Having subjected Phoebe to a dispassionate scrutiny he decided to make her the recipient of an interesting confidence. ‘I am wearing gloves,’

he said.

‘So you are! Very smart ones too!’ she replied admiringly.

‘If I was at home,’ said Master Rayne, with a darkling glance at his parent, ‘I wouldn’t have to wear them.’

‘Now, Edmund—!’

‘But I expect you are enjoying your visit to London, are you not?’ asked Phoebe, diplomatically changing the subject.

‘Indeed he is!’ said Ianthe. ‘Only fancy! his grandpapa promises to take him riding in the Park one morning, doesn’t he, my love?’

‘If I’m good,’ said Edmund, with unmistakable pessimism. ‘But I won’t have my tooth pulled out again!’

Ianthe sighed. ‘Edmund, you know Mama said you should not go to Mr Tilton this time!’

‘You said I shouldn’t go when we came to London afore,’ he reminded her inexorably. ‘But Uncle Vester said I should. And I did. I do not like to have my tooth pulled out,
even
if I am let keep it in a little box, and people do
not
throw it away,’ said Edmund bitterly.

‘No one does,’ intervened Phoebe. ‘I expect, however, that you were very brave.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Edmund. ‘Acos Uncle Vester said he would make me sorry if I wasn’t, and I don’t like Uncle Vester’s way of making people sorry. It hurts!’

‘You see!’ said Ianthe in a low voice, and with a speaking look at Phoebe.

‘Keighley said I was brave when I fell off my pony,’ disclosed Edmund. ‘Not one squeak out o’ me! Full o’ proper spunk I was!’

‘
Edmund
!’
exclaimed Ianthe angrily. ‘If I have told you once I won’t have you repeating the vulgar things Keighley says to you I have told you a hundred times! Beg Miss Marlow’s pardon this instant! I don’t know what she must think of you!’

‘Oh, no, pray do not bid him do so!’ begged Phoebe, perceiving the mulish set to Master Rayne’s jaw.

‘Keighley,’ stated Edmund, the light of battle in his eye, ‘is a prime gun! He is
my partickler
friend.’

‘I don’t wonder at it,’ returned Phoebe, before Ianthe could pick up this gage. ‘I am a little acquainted with him myself, you know, and I am sure he is a splendid person. Did he teach you to ride your pony? I wish you will tell me about your pony!’

Nothing loth, Edmund embarked on a catalogue of this animal’s points. By the time Lord Elvaston’s house in Albemarle Street was reached an excellent understanding flourished between him and Miss Marlow, and it was with considerable reluctance that he parted from her. But his mother had had enough of his company, and she sent him away to the nursery, explaining to Phoebe that if she allowed him to remain with her once he would expect to do so always, which would vex Lady Elvaston. ‘Mama doesn’t like him to play in the drawing-room, except for half an hour before he is put to bed.’

‘I thought you said that she doted on him!’ said Phoebe, forgetting to check her unruly tongue.

‘Oh, yes! Only she thinks that it isn’t good for him to be put forward too much!’ said Ianthe, with commendable aplomb. ‘Now I am going to take you upstairs to my bedchamber, so that you may put off your hat and pelisse, for I don’t mean to let you run away in a hurry, I can tell you!’

It was indeed several hours later when the carriage was sent for to convey Phoebe to Green Street; and she was by that time pretty fully informed of all the circumstances of Ianthe’s marriage, widowhood, and proposed remarriage. Before they had risen from the table upon which a light nuncheon had been spread she knew that Sylvester had never wanted to be saddled with his brother’s child; and she had been regaled with a number of stories illustrative of his harsh treatment of Edmund, and the malice which prompted him to encourage Edmund to defy his mother’s authority. Count Ugolino was scarcely more repulsive than the callous individual depicted by Ianthe. Had he not been attached to his twin-brother? Oh, well, yes, in his cold way, perhaps! But never would dearest Harry’s widow forget his unfeeling conduct when Harry, after days of dreadful suffering, had breathed his last. ‘Held up in his arms, too! You would have supposed him to be made of marble, my dear Miss Marlow! Not a tear, not a word to
me
!
You may imagine how wholly I was overset, too—almost out of my senses! Indeed, when I saw Sylvester lay my beloved husband down, and heard his voice saying that he was dead—in the most
brutal
way!—I was cast into such an agony of grief that the doctors were alarmed for my reason. I was in hysterics for three days, but he cared nothing for that, of course. I daresay he never even knew it, for he walked straight out of the room without one look towards me, and I didn’t set eyes on him again for weeks!’

‘Some people, I believe,’ Phoebe said, rendered acutely uncomfortable by these reminiscences, ‘cannot bring themselves to permit others to enter into their deepest feelings. It would not be right—excuse me!—to suppose that they have none.’

‘Oh, no! But reserve is repugnant to me!’ said Ianthe, rather unnecessarily. ‘Not that I believe Sylvester to have feelings of that nature, for I am sure I never knew anyone with less sensibility. The only person he holds in affection is his mama. I own him to be quite devoted to
her—absurdly
so, in my opinion!’

‘But you are fond of the Duchess, I collect?’ Phoebe asked, in the hope of giving Ianthe’s thoughts a happier direction. ‘She is kind to you?’

‘Oh, yes, but even
she
does not perfectly understand the misery of my situation! And I dare not hope that she will even try to prevail upon Sylvester not to tear my child from my arms, because she quite idolizes him. I pity his wife! She will find herself expected to defer in everything to Mama-Duchess!’

‘Well, perhaps he won’t have a wife,’ suggested Phoebe soothingly.

‘You may depend upon it he will, just to keep poor little Edmund out of the succession. Mama is persuaded that he is hanging out for one, and may throw the handkerchief at any moment.’

‘I daresay! It takes two to make a marriage, however!’

‘Do you mean he might meet with a
refusal
?’

‘Why not?’ said Phoebe.

‘
Sylvester
?
With all that he has to offer? Of course he won’t! I wish he might, for it would do him good to be rebuffed. Only ten to one if it did happen he would set to work to make the girl fall in love with him, and then offer for another!’

‘I see no reason for anyone to fall in love with him,’ declared Phoebe, a spark in her eyes.

‘No, nor do I, but you would be astonished if you knew how many girls have positively
languished over
him!’

‘I should!’ said Phoebe fervently. ‘For my part I should suppose them rather to have fallen in love with his rank!’

‘Yes, but it isn’t so. He can make girls form a tendre for him even when they have started by not liking him in the least. He knows it, too. He bet Harry once that he would succeed in attaching Miss Wharfe, and he
did
!’