‘I should think he would be. Perhaps he won’t offer for you after all!’ said Tom.
‘How can I dare to indulge that hope, when all his reason for visiting us is to do so?’ demanded Phoebe, sinking back into gloom. ‘His mind must be perfectly made up, for he knows already that I am a dead bore! Oh, Tom, I am trying to take it with composure, but the more I think of it the more clearly do I see that I shall be forced into this dreadful marriage, and I feel sick with apprehension already, and there is no one to take my part, no one!’
‘Stubble it!’ ordered Tom, giving her a shake. ‘Talking such slum to me! Let me tell you, my girl, that there’s not only me to take your part, but my father and mother as well!’
She squeezed his hand gratefully. ‘I know you would, Tom, and Mrs Orde has always been so kind, but – it wouldn’t answer! You know Mama!’
He did, but said, looking pugnacious: ‘If she tries to bully you into this, and your father don’t prevent her, you needn’t think I shall stand by like a gapeseed! If the worst comes to the worst, Phoebe, you’d best marry me. I daresay we shouldn’t think it so very bad, once we had grown accustomed to it. At all events, I’d rather marry you than leave you in the suds! What the devil are you laughing at?’
‘You, of course! Now, Tom, don’t be gooseish! When Mama is so afraid we might fall in love that she has almost forbidden you to come within our gates! She wouldn’t hear of it, or Mr Orde either, I daresay!’
‘I know that. It would have to be a Gretna Green marriage, of course.’
She gave a gasp. ‘Gretna Green? Of all the hare-brained – No, really, Tom, how can you be so tottyheaded? I may be a hoyden, but I’m not abandoned! Why, I wouldn’t do such a shocking thing even if I were in love with you!’
‘Oh, very well!’ he said, a trifle sulkily. ‘I don’t want to do it, and if you prefer to marry Salford there’s no more to be said.’
She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. ‘Indeed, I am very much obliged to you!’ she said contritely. ‘Don’t be vexed with me!’
He was secretly so much relieved by her refusal to accept his offer that after telling her severely that it would be well if she learned to reject such offers with more civility he relented, owned that a runaway marriage was not quite the thing, and ended by promising to lend his aid in any scheme she might hit on for her deliverance.
None occurred to her. Lady Marlow took her to Bath to have her hair cut in a smarter crop, and to buy a new dress, in which, presumably, she was to captivate the Duke. But as Lady Marlow considered white, or the palest of blues and pinks, the only colours seemly for a débutante, and nothing showed her to worse advantage, it was hard to perceive how this staggering generosity was to achieve its end.
Two days before the arrival of Lord Marlow and the Duke it began to seem as if one at least of the schemes for his entertainment was to be frustrated. Lord Marlow’s coachman, a weatherwise person, prophesied that snow was on the way; and an item in the Morning Chronicle carried the information that there had been heavy falls already in the north and east. A hope, never very strong, that the Duke would postpone his visit wilted when no message was brought to Austerby from its master, and was speedily followed by something very like panic. If the Duke, who was coming ostensibly to see how he liked the young chestnut’s performance in the hunting-field, was undeterred by the threat of snow he must be determined indeed to prosecute his suit; and if there were no hunting to remove him during the hours of daylight from the house he would have plenty of opportunity to do it. Try as she would Phoebe could not persuade herself that the weather, which had been growing steadily colder, showed any sign of improvement; and when the Squire cancelled the first meeting of the week, and followed that up by going away to Bristol, where some business had been for some time awaiting his attention, it was easy to see that he, the best weather-prophet in the district, had no expectation of being able to take his hounds out for several days at least.
It was very cold, but no snow had fallen when Lord Marlow, pardonably pleased with himself, arrived at Austerby, bringing Sylvester with him. He whispered in his wife’s ear: ‘You see that I have brought him!’ but it would have been more accurate to have said that he had been brought by Sylvester, since he had accomplished the short journey in Sylvester’s curricle, his own and Sylvester’s chaise following with their valets, and all their baggage. The rear of this cavalcade was brought up, some time later, by his lordship’s hunters, in charge of his head groom, and several underlings. Sylvester, it appeared, had sent his own horses back to Chance from Blandford Park. Keighley, the middle-aged groom who had taught him to ride his first pony, was perched up behind him in the curricle; but although the postilions in charge of his chaise wore his livery the younger Misses Marlow, watching the arrivals from an upper window, were sadly disappointed in the size of his entourage. It was rather less impressive than Papa’s, except that Papa had not taken his curricle to Blandford Park, which, after all, he might well have done. However, his chaise was drawn by a team of splendid matchbays; the pair of beautiful gray steppers harnessed to the curricle were undoubtedly what Papa would call complete to a shade; and to judge from the way this vehicle swept into view round a bend in the avenue the Duke was no mere whipster. Mary said hopefully that perhaps this would make Phoebe like him better.
Phoebe, in fact, was not privileged to observe Sylvester’s arrival, but since she had frequently seen him driving his highperch phaeton in Hyde Park, and already knew him to be at home to a peg, her sentiments would scarcely have undergone a change if she had seen how stylishly he took the awkward turn in the avenue. She was with Lady Marlow in one of the saloons, setting reluctant stitches in a piece of embroidery stretched on a tambour-frame. She wore the white gown purchased in Bath; and as this had tiny puff sleeves, and the atmosphere in the saloon, in spite of quite a large fire, was chilly, her thin, bare arms showed an unattractive expanse of gooseflesh. To Lady Marlow’s eye, however, she presented as good an appearance as could have been hoped for. Dress, occupation, and pose befitted the maiden of impeccable birth and upbringing: Lady Marlow was able to congratulate herself on her excellent management: if the projected match fell through it would not, she knew, be through any fault of hers.
The gentlemen entered the room, Lord Marlow ushering Sylvester in with a jovial word, and exclaiming: ‘Ah, I thought we should find you here, my love! I do not have to present the Duke, for I fancy you are already acquainted. And Phoebe, too! You know my daughter, Salford – my little Phoebe! Well, now what could be more comfortable? Just a quiet family party, as I promised you: no ceremony – you take your pot-luck with us!’
Sylvester, uttering his practised civilities as he shook hands with his hostess, was out of humour. He had had time enough in which to regret having accepted Marlow’s invitation, and he had been wishing himself otherwhere ever since leaving Blandford Park. His lordship’s prowess in the hunting-field was forgotten, and the tedium of his conversation remembered; and long before Austerby was reached he had contrived not only to bore Sylvester, but to set up his back as well. Naturally expansive, he had not deemed it necessary, once he was sure of his noble guest, to maintain the discretion imposed on him by Lady Ingham. He had let several broad hints drop. They had fallen on infertile soil, their only effect having been to ruffle Sylvester’s temper. He had told Sylvester, too, that he would find himself the only guest at Austerby, which was by no means what Sylvester had bargained for, since such an arrangement lent to his visit a particularity he had been anxious to avoid. Whatever his lordship might have said about not standing on ceremony with him he had supposed that he would find several other persons gathered at Austerby, for form’s sake, if not in an endeavour to render his chief guest’s stay agreeable. His lordship, concluded Sylvester, was devilish anxious to get his daughter off; but if he imagined that the head of the great house of Rayne could be jockeyed into taking one step not of his own choosing he w
ould very soon learn his mistake. It had then occurred to Sylvester that he might be said to have taken one such step already, in coming to Austerby: a reflection which piqued him so much that he decided, a little viciously, that unless Miss Marlow proved to be something quite out of the common way he would have nothing to say to the proposed connection.
This unamiable resolve was strengthened by his first impression of Austerby. One swift glance round the entrance hall was enough to convince him that it was not at all the sort of household he liked. The furniture was arranged with rigid formality; the small fire smouldering on the hearth was inadequate to overcome the icy nature of several draughts; and although there was really no fault to be found with the butler, or with the two London-bred footmen, who relieved the gentlemen of their coats and hats, Sylvester was sure that the establishment would be found to be under-staffed. It would not surprise him to learn that a female presided over the kitchen; and he had little doubt that there was no groom of the chambers to attend to the comfort of visitors. The fact that he frequently stayed in houses by far less magnificent than his own and never gave the size and style of their domestic arrangement a thought did not, in his present mood, occur to him; and the knowledge that he was so severely critical of Lord Marlow’s house would have greatly astonished a number of his less affluent friends and relations. One of his favourite cousins, a lively young woman married to an impecunious Major of Dragoon Guards, would, indeed, have been incredulous, since none of the visitors to her modest establishment was more adaptable than he, or more ready to be pleased with his entertainment. But Sylvester liked Major and Mrs Newbury; Lord Marlow he was in a fair way to disliking cordially.
He was received by Lady Marlow in what her lord recognised as her most gracious manner. It struck Sylvester as condescending, and he was taken aback by it.
He turned from her to meet Miss Marlow, and his gloomiest forebodings were realised. She had neither beauty nor countenance, her complexion was poor and her figure worse, her dress was tasteless, and the colourless voice in which she murmured how-do-you-do confirmed him in his instant belief that she was insipid. He wondered how soon he would be able to bring his visit to an end.
‘You will remember my little Phoebe, Salford,’ persevered Lord Marlow optimistically. ‘You have danced with her in London, haven’t you?’
‘Of course – yes!’ said Sylvester. He perceived that more was required of him, and fired a shot at a fairly safe venture. ‘At Almack’s was it not?’
‘No,’ said Phoebe. ‘At the Seftons’ ball. When you saw me at Almack’s I don’t think you recognised me.’
This girl, thought Sylvester indignantly, wants conduct as well as countenance! Is she trying to put me to the blush? Very well, Miss Marlow! Aloud, he said lightly: ‘How rude of me! But perhaps I didn’t see you.’ Then he perceived that she had flushed up to the roots of her hair, her eyes flying to her mother-in-law’s face, and he remembered that Lady Ingham had said she did not show to advantage in Lady Marlow’s presence. A glance at this lady surprised a quelling stare directed at Phoebe, and he was a little sorry: enough to make him add: ‘I have frequently been accused of cutting people at Almack’s. But the Assemblies have become such shocking squeezes that it is wonderful if one can discover one’s oldest friends amongst such a press of persons.’
‘Yes, it – it is – isn’t it?’ stammered Phoebe.
‘Pray be seated, Duke!’ commanded Lady Marlow. ‘You have been staying with the Beauforts. You are a hunting-man, I collect. I am not myself a friend to the sport, but Marlow is greatly addicted to it.’
‘Oh, you must not talk so to Salford!’ said Lord Marlow. ‘He is a clipping rider, you know: showed us all the way!’
Beyond directing an enigmatical look at his host Sylvester made no response to this piece of flattery. Lady Marlow said that she believed the Duke of Beaufort to be a very worthy man, but as she followed up this encomium by deploring the dandyism of his heir the conversation did not prosper. Lord Marlow struck in with a sporting anecdote, and Phoebe, picking up her tambour-frame and setting another crooked stitch, sat listening for the next twenty minutes to a three-cornered dialogue that would have diverted her had it not vexed her too much to seem amusing. Lady Marlow’s part in it took the form of a series of statements, which, according to her custom, she announced in a fashion that admitted of no argument; Lord Marlow, in an effort to check her, broke in whenever he could with a flow of jovial remarks and reminiscences, all of which were extremely trivial; and Sylvester, civil, and cool, and unhelpful, replied to each of his hosts in turn, and encouraged neither.
To hear her father striving with such eager anxiety to engage Sylvester’s interest very soon made Phoebe angry. He was an inveterate talker, and his most fervent admirers could scarcely have called him a sensible man, but he was a much older man than Sylvester, he was doing his best to please, and she thought it detestable of Sylvester to accord him nothing but polite tolerance. Her dislike of him grew to such large proportions that when Lady Marlow announced that they dined at six o’clock she was almost disappointed to see that he bore the announcement with fortitude. Fuel for her rancour would have been supplied by the knowledge, could she but have come by it, that it was just what he had expected.
When she entered her chilly bedchamber to change her dress for dinner Phoebe found a screw of paper stuck into the frame of the looking-glass, and realised, as she drew it out and unfolded it, that it must have been put there by Firbank, the butler, whose extraordinary grimaces, as she had passed him in the hall in the wake of Lady Marlow, she had been quite unable to interpret. She saw that it was from Tom, but its message was slightly disappointing. After informing her that he was on his way to dine with friends he added that he should leave betimes, and drop in at Austerby on his way home to learn how she had gone on. ‘I have greased Firbank in the fist, and he will let me in the side-door, and says we shall be safe in the morning-room, so come there before you retire to bed. By the bye, the Mail was four hours late reaching Bath today on account of snow as far as Reading. I shouldn’t wonder at it if you had this Duke of yours quartered on you for a se’enight.’
At Austerby Phoebe did not enjoy the luxury of an abigail, so there was no one to compel her to spend more time than was strictly necessary over the changing of her dress. She made haste out of her muslin frock and arrayed herself in a somewhat scrambling way in the evening-gown prescribed by Lady Marlow. It was as unbecoming to her as the muslin, but beyond combing out her ringlets and clasping a string of pearls round her throat she made no attempt to render herself more presentable. Her ears were on the prick to catch the sounds of male voices. When she heard these, and knew that her father was escorting the Duke to his bedchamber, her toilet was done. Wrapping a shawl round her shoulders she slipped out of her room, and across the hall to Lord Marlow’s dressing-room.
‘Papa, may I speak to you?’
His valet was with him, and he had already put off his coat, but being naturally affable he was about to welcome his daughter, when he saw that she was labouring under barely repressed agitation, and he at once felt uneasy. He said in a bluff voice: ‘Well, unless it is of immediate importance, my dear –’
‘It is of most immediate importance, Papa!’
His uneasiness grew. ‘Oh, well, then – ! Well, I can spare you five minutes, I daresay!’
His valet went out of the room. Hardly had he shut the door than Phoebe said breathlessly: ‘Papa, I wish to tell you – I cannot like the Duke of Salford!’
He stood there staring at her, at first aghast, and then, as a sense of ill-usage crept over him, with gathering choler. He said explosively: ‘Well, upon my word, Phoebe! A fine moment you have chosen to break this news to me!’
‘How could I break it to you earlier? If you had but told me before you went to Blandford Park what you intended! Papa, you know Mama would never have permitted me to send a servant there with a
letter from me, begging you to go no further in the business! Oh, pray, Papa, don’t be angry! Indeed, it is not my fault you were kept in ignorance of – of my sentiments upon this occasion!’
The colour in his florid cheeks darkened; he really did feel that he had been abominably used. His pride in having contrived to draw the Duke into Lady Ingham’s net had been great; already he was three parts persuaded that the scheme had been all his own, and that he had been put to considerable trouble on his daughter’s behalf. Now it seemed that his care was to be thrown away. That was bad; and still worse would be the awkwardness of his situation, if he were obliged to inform Sylvester that Phoebe would have none of him. In an attempt to turn aside her protests, he said: ‘Pooh, nonsense! The merest irritation of nerves, my dear! You are shy – yes, yes, you are shy, I say, and who should know better than your father? You have a great deal of sensibility – I always thought it had been wiser not to have told you what Salford’s purpose was in visiting us, but your mama – however, that’s nothing to the purpose now the mischief has been done! Your senses are in disorder! I don’t deny that your situation is embarrassing. I declare I am vexed to death that your mama should have – But you will not regard it! I assure you, I have given a great deal of thought to this matter, and am satisfied that Salford will make you an amiable husband. You will allow that I am more fitted to be the judge of a man’s character than you! Well, I am satisfied with Salford: he is as sound as a roast!’ He gave his hearty laugh, and added: ‘I am prepared to wager the day is not far distant when you will wonder how you can have been such a goose! How I shall joke you about it!’
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