Sylvester

by Georgette Heyer

  In spite of himself Sylvester’s face relaxed. ‘She did?’

  ‘She did,’ asseverated Sir Nugent gravely. ‘“My sweet life,” I said – you’ve no objection to that. Duke?’

  ‘Not the least in the world.’

  ‘You haven’t?’ exclaimed Sir Nugent, slewing his body round to stare at Sylvester, an exertion which the stiff points of his collar and the height of that Oriental Tie made necessary.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘You’ve put your finger on the nub, Duke!’ said Sir Nugent. ‘Why should you? I can’t tell. And I believe I’ve cut my wisdoms. “My love,” I said (if you’ve no objection) “you’ve got a maggot in your idea-pot.”’

  ‘And what had she to say to that?’ enquired Sylvester, conscious of a wish that Phoebe had not cantered ahead.

  ‘She denied it,’ said Sir Nugent. ‘Said you were bent on throwing a rub in our way.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Just what I said myself! “Oh!” I said.’

  ‘Not “my love”?’

  ‘Not then. Because I was surprised. You might say I was betwattled.’

  ‘Like a duck in a thunderstorm.’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Nugent, giving this his consideration. ‘I fancy, Duke, that if you were to ask all round the ton if Nugent Fotherby had ever looked like any species of fowl in such a situation the answer would be, in a word, No!’

  ‘Well, I haven’t the least desire to throw a rub in the way of your marriage to my sister-in-law. You may marry her with my good-will, but you will not prevail upon me to relinquish my nephew into your care.’

  ‘But that’s another nub!’ objected Sir Nugent. ‘You may say it’s the primest nub of all! Her la’ship won’t give him up!’

  ‘A man of your address must surely be able to persuade her to do so.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I thought myself,’ said Sir Nugent. ‘Queer creatures, females! Devilish attached to the infantry. Let us discuss the matter!’

  ‘No. Let us do no such thing!’ interrupted Sylvester. ‘Talking to me will pay no toll. I have only this to say: I have neither the power nor the desire to scotch your marriage to Ianthe, but there is no argument you can advance that will induce me to delegate the least part of my authority over Edmund to you or to anyone! Try if you can twist Ianthe round your thumb: don’t waste your time on me!’

  He spurred his horse forward as he spoke, and cantered on to overtake the rest of the party.

  Phoebe, meanwhile, after enjoying an all too brief gallop, had been forced to pull up, and to continue at a walking-pace beside Ianthe, who wanted to talk about herself, and had found Georgiana an unresponsive audience. She disclosed that she had brought Sir Nugent in place of her brother because she was convinced that Sylvester’s dislike of him arose from mere prejudice. He was barely acquainted with Sir Nugent: did not Phoebe think that if he were given this opportunity of getting to know him better he might well reconsider his cruel decision to part a mother from her child?

  Phoebe found it impossible to answer this question, since a flat negative was clearly ineligible. Fortunately Ianthe was more interested in her own opinion than in Phoebe’s, and had posed the question in a rhetorical spirit. Without waiting for an answer, she continued: ‘For my part, I am persuaded that Sylvester must be agreeably surprised in him. I don’t mean to say that his understanding is superior, for it is not – in fact, he has a great deal less than commonsense, and is sometimes quite addlebrained – but if I don’t care for that I’m sure I don’t know why Sylvester should! His disposition is amiable, and his manners excessively polished and civil. He is a man of rank, and of the first stare of fashion; and if he does associate with inferior persons, and fritter a fortune away in gaming-halls, that will cease when he is married. And as for his racehorses, he is so wealthy that losses on the Turf can’t signify. In any event, it is nonsensical to suppose that it would do Edmund the least harm. Besides, even Sylvester must own that there can be no one better able to teach Edmund just how he should go on in all matters of taste and ton! He is always in the high kick of fashion, and makes the other men appear positively shabby! You have only to look at him!’

  Phoebe looked instead at her, and in wonder. Beside Sylvester’s quiet elegance and Major Newbury’s military cut she had been thinking that Sir Nugent presented all the appearance of a coxcomb. He was a tall man, rather willowy in build, by no means unhandsome, but so tightly laced-in at the waist, so exaggeratedly padded at the shoulders, that he looked a little ridiculous. From the striking hat set rakishly on his Corinthian crop (he had already divulged that it was the New Dash, and the latest hit of fashion) to his gleaming boots, everything he wore seemed to have been chosen for the purpose of making him conspicuous. His extravagantly cut coat was embellished with very large and bright buttons; a glimpse of exotic colour hinted at a splendid waistcoat beneath it; his breeches were of white corduroy; a diamond pin was stuck in the folds of his preposterous neckcloth; and he wore so many rings on his fingers, and so many fobs and seals dangling at his waist, that he might have been taken for a jeweller advertising his wares.

  Phoebe was not obliged to make any comment on Ianthe’s last observation, for Sylvester overtook them just then, and a minute later Sir Nugent ranged alongside, trying to convey to Ianthe by a series of shrugs and grimaces, which nearly overset Phoebe’s gravity, that his mission had not prospered. She stole an apprehensive glance at Sylvester, fearing that Sir Nugent had put him out of temper, and was relieved to see no trace of the cold look of indifference she so much disliked. He looked rather amused, and when he addressed Sir Nugent it was in a light, good-humoured tone. Encouraged by this, Sir Nugent, who had been looking dejected, brightened, and asked him for his opinion of the horse he was riding. He won so courteous a reply that Phoebe took her underlip firmly between her teeth, and stared resolutely ahead. Sir Nugent, gratified by Sylvester’s praise, drew his attention to the chestnut’s manifold excellences, and confided that he had bought the animal at a devilish long price. A stifled sound from Phoebe, who knew just how long a price he had paid, made Sylvester’s lips quiver, but he said, without a tremor: ‘Did you indeed?’

  It might have been thought odd conduct in a sporting man to use his hunters for hacking at the end of the hunting-season, but his idiosyncrasy was not as inhumane as it seemed to the uninitiated. Sir Nugent was a member of several hunts, and he owned an astonishing number of horses, which he stabled all over the country, and seldom rode. When he did turn out it was rarely that he went beyond the first few fields, for, like Mr Brummell when he led the ton, he wore white tops to his boots, and feared to get them splashed. Lord Marlow’s showy chestnut certainly looked to be more in need of exercise than of rest, and succeeded, by sidlings, plungings, and head-tossing, in giving Sir Nugent an uncomfortable ride.

  As soon as he could contrive to do it without the appearance of incivility, Sylvester suggested to Phoebe that they should shake the fidgets out of the horses. She agreed to it in a strangled voice; the Firefly broke into a canter, lengthened her stride to a gallop; and in a few moments carried Phoebe far beyond earshot of Ianthe and Sir Nugent. Beside her thundered Sylvester’s black, but neither she nor Sylvester spoke until they presently reined in at the end of the stretch of greensward. Then, as Phoebe bent forward to pat the Firefly’s neck, Sylvester said in a voice of mock censure: ‘Miss Marlow, I had occasion once to reprove you for laughing at rustics! Now I find you laughing at the very finest Pink that blooms in the Ton! You are incorrigible!’

  ‘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!’

&
nbsp; ‘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 hôtels, 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.

  Seventeen

  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 à clef might not take! By the by, 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.