Sylvester

by Georgette Heyer

  Mr Otley, receiving the manuscript and perusing the accompanying letter from Miss Battery, was unimpressed. At first glance he did not think The Lost Heir the sort of book he wished to handle; and the intelligence that it was the work of a Lady of Quality drew from him only a heavy sigh. However, he took The Lost Heir home with him, and read it at a sitting. It did not take him long to perceive that it was to some extent a roman à clef, for although he was unacquainted with the members of the haut ton he was shrewd enough to realise that the authoress in depicting many of her characters was drawing from the life. The success of Glenarvon, published some eighteen months previously, was still fresh in his mind; and it was this circumstance which led him, rather doubtfully, to hand The Lost Heir to his partner.

  Mr Harvey Newsham was unexpectedly enthusiastic; and when Mr Otley pointed out to him that it was not such a book as they had been used to produce he replied caustically that if it enjoyed better sales than had the last three of these works he for one should not complain.

  ‘But will it?’ said Mr Otley. ‘The story is no great thing, after all – in fact it’s nonsensical!’

  ‘No one will care for that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I should have thought it too fantastical myself. In fact, it still has me in a puzzle. How the devil did that Ugolino-fellow get hold of his nephew in the first place? And why didn’t he smother him, or something, when he had got hold of him, instead of keeping him prisoner in that castle of his? And as for the boy’s sister managing to get into the place, let alone that corkbrained hero, and then the pair of them setting sail with the boy – well, they couldn’t have done it!’

  Mr Newsham dismissed such trivialities with a wave of his hand. ‘It doesn’t signify. This female –’ he jabbed a finger at Phoebe’s manuscript – ‘knows how to do the trick! What’s more, the book’s stuffed with people she’s met, and that’s what will make the nobs buy it.’ He glanced down at the manuscript appraisingly. ‘In three volumes, handsomely bound,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘At the start of next season. Say April – skilfully puffed-off, of course. I think it will do, Otley!’

  ‘It will be pretty expensive,’ objected Mr Otley.

  ‘I mean this book to be in every fashionable drawing-room, and it won’t do to get it up shoddy. Colburn issued Lady Caroline Lamb’s tale in tooled leather. It looked very well.’

  ‘Ay, but you may depend upon it Lady Caroline paid for it,’ retorted Mr Otley.

  ‘No reason to suppose this author won’t do the same,’ said the optimistic Mr Newsham. ‘Offer her profit-sharing terms, she to pay all losses. You know, my boy, if the book were to take, Colburn will be as surly as a butcher’s dog to think it wasn’t offered him!’

  ‘So he will!’ agreed Mr Otley, cheered by this reflection. ‘I’ll write off to my cousin next week: we don’t wish to appear over-anxious to come to terms. I shall tell her it ain’t just in our line, besides having a good many faults.’

  This programme, being approved by the senior partner, was carried out; but from then on the negotiations proceeded on quite different lines from those envisaged by Mr Otley. Miss Battery’s prompt reply afforded him a new insight into that lady’s character. Begging his pardon for having put him to the trouble of reading a work which she now realised to be unsuitable matter for the firm of Newsham & Otley she requested him to return it to her by the mail, care of the receiving office in Bath. Further enquiries had given her to think that the manuscript ought to be offered to Colburn, or perhaps to Egerton. She would be much obliged to him for his advice on this point, and remained his affectionate cousin, Sibylla Battery.

  Recovering from this setback, Mr Otley then entered upon some spirited bargaining, agreement being finally reached at the sum of £150, to be received by Miss Battery on behalf of the author upon receipt by the publisher of the bookseller’s accounts. Left to himself Mr Otley would have done his possible to have reduced this figure by £50, but at this stage of the negotiations Mr Newsham intervened, giving it as his opinion that to behave scaly to a promising new author could result only in her offering her second book to a rival publisher. He would have been gratified could he but have known to what dizzy heights his generosity raised Miss Marlow’s spirits. The sum seemed enormous to her; and then and there was born her determination to leave Austerby as soon as she came of age, and with Miss Battery for chaperon to set up a modest establishment of her own in which she would be able without interference to pursue her lucrative vocation.

  Besides Miss Battery only Mr Orde shared the secret of her authorship, and it was not until he had been permitted to see the proof-sheets that Mr Orde was relieved of his suspicion that the whole affair was an attempt to hoax him. He was much more impressed by the sight of the story in actual print than he thought it proper to admit; but he very handsomely acknowledged to the proud author that he had not believed it could read half as well.

  Five

  Miss Battery, a strong-minded female, did not for many minutes allow her consternation to overpower her. Squaring her shoulders, she said: ‘Unfortunate! That you should have taken him in dislike, I mean. No more to be said, if that’s the case. Though I don’t suppose he can be as villainous as Count Ugolino. No one could be.’

  ‘Oh, no! He isn’t villainous at all – at least, I shouldn’t think he would be, but I’m not even acquainted with him! I only chose him for Ugolino because of the way his eyebrows slant, which makes him look just like a villain. And also, of course, because of his – his crested air, which made me long to give him a set-down!’

  ‘Self-consequence?’ said Miss Battery, a little at sea. ‘Thinks too much of his rank?’

  Phoebe shook her head, frowning. ‘No, it isn’t that. It is – yes, it is worse than that! I think it is so natural to him to have all that consequence that he doesn’t give it a thought. Do you understand, Sibby?’

  ‘No. Oughtn’t to give it a thought.’

  ‘It is very difficult to explain, but I am persuaded you will understand, when you see him. It is as though being a duke is so much a part of him that he takes it perfectly for granted, and quite unconsciously expects to be treated everywhere with distinction. I don’t mean to say that his manners are not what they ought to be, for he has a great deal of well-bred ease – a sort of cool civility, you know, towards persons who don’t interest him. I believe he is very amiable to those whom he likes, but the thing is – or so I fancy – that he doesn’t care a button for what anyone may think of him. To be sure, that isn’t wonderful,’ she added reflectively, ‘for the way he is courted and toad-eaten is quite repulsive! Why, when Lady Sefton brought him up to me – she is the Baroness Josceline in my story, you know: the affected, fidgety one! – she introduced him as though she were conferring the greatest favour on me!’

  ‘That doesn’t signify,’ interrupted Miss Battery. ‘Did he behave as though he thought it so?’

  ‘Oh, no! He is so much accustomed to such flattery that he doesn’t appear even to heed it. Being civil to poor little dabs of females who have neither beauty nor conversation is one of the tiresome duties his exalted situation obliges him to perform.’

  ‘Well, if I were you, my dear, I wouldn’t fly into a pucker yet awhile,’ said Miss Battery with strong commonsense. ‘Seems to me you don’t know anything about him. One thing you can depend on: if he’s coming here to make you an offer he won’t treat you with cool civility!’

  ‘Even if he did not – oh, he must have changed indeed if I were to like him well enough to marry him!’ declared Phoebe. ‘I could not, Sibby!’

  ‘Then you will decline his offer,’ said Miss Battery, with a conviction she was far from feeling.

  Phoebe looked at her rather hopelessly, but said nothing. She knew it to be unnecessary. No one understood more thoroughly the difficulties of her situation than her governess; and no one was better acquainted with the ruthlessness of Lady Marlow’s imperious
temper. After a few moments’ reflection Miss Battery said: ‘Speak to your father. He wouldn’t wish you to be forced into a marriage you disliked.’

  This advice was repeated, in substance, by young Mr Orde, upon the following day, when Phoebe, knowing her mama to be out of the way, rode over to the Manor House to confer with him.

  Thomas was the only child of the Squire of the district, a very respectable man, who contrived to maintain thirty or more couples of hounds, a score of hunters for himself, his son, and his huntsmen, several coach-horses and cover-hacks, half a dozen spaniels, and upwards of a hundred gamecocks at walk, on an income of no more than eight thousand pounds a year, and that without being obliged to stint his lady of the elegancies of life, or to allow to fall into disrepair the dwellings of his numerous tenants. His family had been established in the county for many generations, most of its members having been distinguished for their sporting proclivities, and none of them having made any particular mark in the world. The Squire was a man of excellent plain sense, much looked up to as a personage of the first consequence within his circle. While perfectly aware of his own worth, his way of life was unpretentious; although he employed, besides his huntsman, several grooms, a coachman, a gamekeeper, an experienced kennelman, and a cocker, he was content, when he travelled any distance from Somerset, to hire postilions; and his household boasted no more than three indoor menservants.

  He was a fond as well as a judicious parent, and had his son shown the least leaning towards academic pursuits he would have sent him to Oxford upon his leaving Rugby, whatever retrenchments this might have entailed. That they must have been heavy he knew, for it was impossible for such a thoroughgoing sportsman as Tom to maintain a creditable appearance at Oxford on a penny less than six hundred pounds a year, setting aside such debts as the squire thought him bound to incur. A sense of what was due to his heir enabled him to face the necessity of reducing his stable and disposing of his cocks without grumbling or trying to impress Tom with the notion that he was fortunate to possess so generous a father; but he was not at all displeased when Tom said that he thought it would be a great waste of time for him to go up to Oxford, since he was not bookish, and would very likely be ploughed there. What with cocking and coursing, fishing and flapper-shooting in the summer, hunting and pheasant-shooting through the winter, acquiring a knowledge of farming from the bailiff, and learning how to manage the estate, he thought he would be much better employed at home. He was allowed to have his way, the Squire resolving to arrange for him to be given a little town polish when he should be rather older.

  Except for one or two visits to friends living in a different part of the country he had been at home for a year now, enjoying himself very much, and justifying his father’s secret pride in him by taking as much interest in crops as in hounds, and rapidly becoming as popular with the villagers as he was with the neighbouring gentry.

  He was a pleasant youth, sturdy rather than tall, with a fresh, open countenance, unaffected manners, and as much of the good sense which characterised his father as was to be expected of a young gentleman of nineteen summers. From the circumstances of his being an only child he had from his earliest youth looked upon Phoebe, just his own age, as a sister; and since she had been, as a child, perfectly ready to engage with him on whatever dangerous pursuit he might suggest to her, besides very rapidly becoming a first-rate horsewoman, and a devil to go, not even his first terms at Rugby had led him to despise her company.

  When Phoebe divulged to him her astonishing tidings, he was as incredulous as Susan had been, for, as he pointed out with brotherly candour, she was not at all the sort of girl to achieve a brilliant marriage. She agreed to this, and he added kindly: ‘I don’t mean to say that I wouldn’t as lief be married to you as to some high flyer, for if I was obliged to marry anyone I think I’d offer for you rather than any other girl I know.’

  She thanked him.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not a fashionable duke,’ he pointed out. ‘Besides, I’ve known you all my life. I’m dashed if I understand why this duke should have taken a fancy to you! It isn’t as though you was a beauty, and whenever your mother-in-law is near you behave like a regular pea-goose, so how he could have guessed you ain’t a ninnyhammer I can’t make out!’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t! He wishes to marry me because his mama was a friend of mine.’

  ‘That must be a bag of moonshine!’ said Tom scornfully. ‘As though anyone would offer for a girl for such a reason as that!’

  ‘I think,’ said Phoebe, ‘it is on account of his being a person of great consequence, and wishing to make a suitable alliance, and not caring whether I am pretty, or conversible.’

  ‘He can’t think you suitable!’ objected Tom. ‘He sounds to me a regular knock-in-the-cradle! It may be a fine thing to become a duchess, but I should think you had much better not!’

  ‘No, no, but what am I to do, Tom? For heaven’s sake don’t tell me I have only to decline the Duke’s offer, for you at least know what Mama is like! Even if I had the courage to disobey her only think what misery I should be obliged to endure! And don’t tell me not to regard it, because to be in disgrace for weeks and weeks, as I would be, so sinks my spirits that I can’t even write! I know it’s idiotish of me, but I can’t overcome my dread of being in her black books! I feel as if I were withering!’

  He had too often seen her made ill by unkindness to think her words over-fanciful. It was strange that a girl so physically intrepid should have so much sensibility. In his own phrase, he knew her for a right one; but he knew also that in a censorious atmosphere her spirits were swiftly overpowered, none of her struggles to support them alleviating the oppression which transformed her from the neck-or-nothing girl whom no oxer could daunt to the shrinking miss whose demeanour was as meek as her conversation was insipid. He said, rather doubtfully: ‘You don’t think, if you were to write to him, Lord Marlow would put the Duke off?’

  ‘You know what Papa is!’ she said simply. ‘He will always allow himself to be ruled by Mama, because he can’t bear to be made uncomfortable. Besides, how could I get a letter to him without Mama’s knowing of it?’

  He considered for a few moments, frowning. ‘No. Well – You are quite sure you can’t like the Duke? I mean, I should have supposed anything to be better than to continue living at Austerby. Besides, you said yourself you only once talked to him. You don’t really know anything about him. I daresay he may be rather shy, and that, you know, might easily make him appear stiff.’

  ‘He is not shy and he is not stiff,’ stated Phoebe. ‘His manners are assured; he says everything that is civil because he places himself on so high a form that he would think it unworthy of himself to treat anyone with anything but cool courtesy; and because he knows his consequence to be so great he cares nothing for what anyone may think of him.’

  ‘You did take him in dislike, didn’t you?’ said Tom, grinning at her.

  ‘Yes, I did! But even if I had not, how could I accept an offer from him when I made him the villain in my story?’

  That made Tom laugh. ‘Well, you needn’t tell him that, you goose!’

  ‘Tell him! He won’t need telling! I described him exactly!’

  ‘But, Phoebe, you don’t suppose he will read your book, do you?’ said Tom.

  Phoebe could support with equanimity disparagement of her person, but this slight cast on her first novel made her exclaim indignantly: ‘Pray, why should he not read it? It is going to be published!’

  ‘Yes, I know, but you can’t suppose that people like Salford will buy it.’

  ‘Then who will?’ demanded Phoebe, rather flushed.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know! Girls, I daresay, who like that sort of thing.’

  ‘You liked it well enough!’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes, but that was because it was so odd to think of your having written it,’ explained Tom. He saw that she was loo
king mortified, and added consolingly: ‘But I’m not bookish, you know, so I daresay it’s very fine, and will sell a great many copies. The thing is that no one will know who wrote it, so there’s no need to tease yourself over that. When does the Duke come to Austerby?’

  ‘Next week. It is given out that he is coming to try the young chestnut. He is going to hunt too, and now Mama is trying to decide whether to dish up all our friends to entertain him at a dinner-party, or to leave it to Papa to invite Sir Gregory Standish and old Mr Hayle for a game of whist.’

  ‘Lord!’ said Tom, in an awed tone.

  Phoebe gave a giggle. ‘That will teach him to come to Austerby in this odious, condescending way!’ she observed, with satisfaction. ‘What is more, Mama does not approve of newfangled fashions, so his grace will find himself sitting down to dinner at six o’clock, which is not at all the style of thing he is accustomed to. And when he comes into the drawing-room after dinner he will discover that Miss Battery has brought Susan and Mary down. And then Mama will call upon me to go to the pianoforte – she has told Sibby already to be sure I know my new piece thoroughly! – and at nine o’clock Firbank will bring in the tea-tray; and at half past nine she will tell the Duke, in that complacent voice of hers, that we keep early hours in the country; and so he will be left to Papa and piquet, or some such thing. I wish he may be heartily bored!’