The Transformation of Philip Jettan

by Georgette Heyer

  In spite of himself, Philip laughed.

  “Sir, you are incorrigible!”

  “Faute de mieux. And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this—sordid information, oh my righteous son?”

  “From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else.”

  “Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me.” He looked up and met his son’s amused glance. “Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine.”

  Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were twinkling.

  “I’ll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire,” he said. “I’ve heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct.”

  “It’s a piquante situation,” agreed Sir Maurice. “But I shan’t disinherit you.”

  “No?”

  “Where’s the use? With no money you could not hope to—ah—follow in my footsteps. I’ve a mind to turn you out of the house, though.”

  “Half a mind,” corrected Philip. “The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation.”

  “Does it?” Sir Maurice was mildly interested. “Faith, I did not know that.”

  “Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one would be more aghast than yourself.”

  “You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps, but in—let us say, Bancroft’s. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust me.”

  “Ah!” Philip leaned forward eagerly. “You admit that?”

  Sir Maurice sipped his wine.

  “Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an affaire.” He watched Philip draw back. “An affaire of the heart should be daintily conducted. A Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love; the others,” he waved his hand, “should be treated with the delicacy that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the exhilaration of your sword against another’s; I would have you take pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase; above all, I would have you know yourself, your fellow-men, and the world.” He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. “Well? What have you to say to my peroration?”

  Philip answered simply, and in admiration.

  “Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you have a remarkably beautiful voice.”

  “Bah!” snapped Sir Maurice.

  THREE

  MR. BANCROFT BRINGS TROUBLE INTO LITTLE FITTLEDEAN

  ON A particularly sunny morning, some five or six days after Mr. Jettan’s return from London town, the main street of Little Fittledean was made brighter still by the passage of an Apparition.

  The Apparition wore a coat of palest apricot cloth, with a flowered vest of fine brocade, and startling white small-clothes. Red-heeled shoes were on his feet, and his stockings were adorned by sprawling golden clocks. He carried an amber-clouded cane and a jewelled snuff-box, while ever and anon he raised a cobwebby handkerchief to his aristocratic nose. He minced down the street towards the market-place, followed by the awe-stricken glances of an amazed population. The inhabitants of the village had never seen anything so wonderful or so remarkable as this gorgeous gentleman. They watched the high red heels click along the road, and admired the beautiful set of the Apparition’s coat. A group of children stopped playing to stare, open-mouthed. The Apparition heeded them not. It may have been that he was oblivious of their existence. Not even when a piping treble requested “John” to “look’ee now at them shoes!” did he show that he realised the presence of anyone but himself in the village. He minced on, very languid, and suitably bored.

  Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition.

  I would not have you think that the Apparition noticed him. On he went, swinging his cane and yawning.

  Sir Maurice turned in his saddle the better to see those pearly small-clothes. His horse cocked both ears inquiringly and blew down his nostrils.

  “Well, I’m damned!” said Sir Maurice beneath his breath. “Puppy!”

  Mr. Bancroft proceeded leisurely towards the market-place. He was very, very bored, and he had walked over from Great Fittledean in search of possible amusement. He almost despaired of finding it, but Fate favoured him.

  Crossing the market-place, a basket on her arm and a very becoming hat tied over her curls, was Mistress Cleone. She was tripping along quite unconcernedly, her cheeks just tinged with colour, and her big eyes bluer than ever. Mr. Bancroft lost a little of his languor. It might almost be said that his eye brightened.

  Cleone was coming towards him, and it was markedly evident that Mr. Bancroft made no attempt to step aside. On the contrary, he appeared to be engrossed in the contemplation of a cat right away on his left. Cleone was peeping inside her basket; she did not perceive Mr. Bancroft until she had walked into him. Then she gave a startled cry, fell back, and stared.

  Mr. Bancroft was profuse in his apologies. He swept off his hat and made her a low bow, sinking back and back on his bent left leg.

  “Oh!” gasped Cleone, becomingly flustered. “Gracious! Is it you, Mr. Bancroft?”

  Mr. Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clodhopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone.

  Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr. Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support.

  Cleone looked up at him provocatively.

  “Sir, I fear I am a stranger to you!”

  “A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?” cried Mr. Bancroft. “Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint on my soul; those soft lips—”

  “But,” interrupted Cleone, blushing, “my name escaped your memory. Confess, Mr. Bancroft, it is indeed so?”

  Mr. Bancroft waved his handkerchief with a superb gesture.

  “A name—bah! What is it? ’Tis the face that remains with me. Names do, indeed, escape me. How could a mere name conjure up this fair image?” He bowed slightly. “Your name should be Venus, madam.”

  “Sir!” Cleone was shocked. “I am Cleone Charteris, Mr. Bancroft,” she said primly.

  Mr. Bancroft was quite equal to the occasion.

  “My dear,” he said fondly, “do you think I did not know it?”

  Cleone shook her head.

  “You did not know it. And, indeed, I am prodigiously hurt and offended that you should have forgot me.”

  “Forgot you?” Mr. Bancroft was derisive. “Forget the little nymph who so tormented me in my youth? Fie on you, madam!”

  “Oh, I did not! How can you say so, sir? ’Twas you who were always so provoking! Do you remember how we played? You and Jennifer and I and Philip—oh, and James.”

  “The games I remember,” he answered. “But Jennifer, no. And who are Philip and James?”

  “You’ve a monstrous short memory,” reproved Cleone. “Of course you remember Philip Jettan?”

  “How could I hope to remember anyone but your fair self?” he protested. “Could I be sensible of another’s presence when you were there?”

  Cleone giggled. She found Mr. Bancroft’s compliments very entertaining and novel.

  “You are quite ridiculous, sir. And this is my home.”

  “Alas!” sighed Mr. Bancroft. “I would it were a mile away.” He opened the gate and held it for
her, bowing. “May I pay my respects to Madam Charteris?” he begged.

  “If you please, sir,” said Cleone, eyes cast down.

  They found madam in the hall, speaking to one of the servants. When she saw the resplendent Mr. Bancroft she gasped, and fell back a pace.

  Bancroft stepped forward, hat in hand.

  “I dare not hope for recognition, madam,” he bowed. “Henry Bancroft begs you will allow him to kiss your hand.”

  Madam Charteris extended it weakly.

  “Henry Bancroft? Gracious heaven, is it indeed you?”

  Bancroft kissed the tips of her fingers, holding them lightly to his mouth with two fingers and a thumb.

  “I met Mistress Cleone in the market-place,” he told her. “Conceive my surprise, madam, my joyful ecstasy!”

  “Indeed!” stammered madam. “In the market-place—to be sure.”

  “Mr. Bancroft was so kind as to relieve me of my basket,” explained her daughter. “He pretends that he had not forgot me, Mamma! But he cannot deceive me.”

  “He never sought to deceive you, Mistress Cleone. He spoke sooth when he said your image had remained with him throughout.”

  “Take him into the garden, Cleone,” begged madam. “He will wish to see your papa.”

  It had not occurred to Mr. Bancroft, but he swallowed it with a good grace.

  “Will you conduct me thither, Mistress Cleone?” He bowed, one arm extended.

  Cleone laid the tips of her fingers on the arm.

  “Certainly, sir. We shall find Papa among the roses.” They walked to the door.

  “The roses!” sighed Mr. Bancroft. “A fit setting for your beauty, dear Cleone.”

  Cleone gave a little gurgle of laughter.

  “’Tis Papa’s beauty they frame, sir, not mine,” she replied.

  Twenty minutes later Sir Maurice walked into the rose-garden to find Bancroft and Cleone seated in an arbour engaged in close converse, while Mr. Charteris nipped off the dead flowers nearby.

  Mr. Charteris welcomed his visitor with a wave of his large scissors.

  “Good day, Sir Maurice! What a very pleasant, warm day it is, to be sure! Did you ride over to see us?”

  Sir Maurice drew him apart.

  “I met that—that rainbow in the village. What a plague is it? What does he do here?”

  Mr. Charteris’ chubby countenance was wreathed in a great, sly smile, suspiciously like a grin.

  “Have you ever seen aught to equal it?” he chuckled. “’Tis young Bancroft—in seclusion.”

  “I guessed as much. In seclusion, is he? Puppy!”

  Mr. Charteris held up his hands.

  “Oh, but Sir Maurice! A mighty soft-spoken youth—a polished gentleman, I assure you.”

  “Polished coxcomb!” snapped Sir Maurice. “Confound his impudence!” He turned and walked towards the arbour.

  Cleone rose and came forward.

  “Why, Sir Maurice! I did not see you!”

  Sir Maurice raised both her hands to his lips.

  “You were otherwise engaged, my dear. Will you present your cavalier?”

  Cleone frowned upon him.

  “Sir Maurice—! This is Mr. Bancroft, sir. Mr. Bancroft, Sir Maurice Jettan.”

  Mr. Bancroft’s hat swept the ground. His powdered head was bent.

  “I am delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, sir.”

  Sir Maurice inclined his head.

  “I hear you intend to honour Fittledean for some few weeks?” he said. An inward laugh seemed to shake him. “You must meet my son, Philip.”

  “Nothing could give me more pleasure,” Bancroft assured him. “I shall hope to do so at once. I am transported to meet such old friends, and to find that one”—he bowed to Cleone—“had not forgot me.”

  “H’m!” said Sir Maurice cryptically. Suddenly he smiled upon the younger man. “I have ridden over to beg Mr. Charteris to honour me at dinner on Wednesday—”

  “Delighted, delighted!” nodded Charteris, who had joined them.

  “—with madam and Cleone. You’ll come, my dear? I have already spoken to your mamma.”

  Cleone slipped her hand in his arm.

  “Why, it’s very kind of you, Sir Maurice. Thank you very much.”

  He patted the little hand. Then he again transferred his attention to Mr. Bancroft.

  “I trust you too will honour us, sir?”

  “It is prodigious amiable of you, sir. I hasten to accept. On Wednesday, I think you said? With all the pleasure on earth!”

  “Cleone, my dear, give me your arm as far as that rose-bush. You shall choose me a button-hole, if you will. No, no, Charteris, with her own fair fingers!” He bore Cleone away to the other end of the garden, leaving Mr. Bancroft disconsolate. When they were out of hearing Sir Maurice looked down into the roguish blue eyes. “My dear, you are a minx.”

  Cleone dimpled charmingly.

  “I don’t know why you should say so, sir.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Sir Maurice. “Now what is the game? It’s to make Philip jealous, eh?”

  “Sir! How can you?”

  “My love, I know all about you, for I am an old man. Make Philip jealous by all means.”

  “I’m sure I never—”

  “Of course not. But I think, with you, that it would be a very good plan. The boy is too stolid and cock-sure.”

  “Cock—Oh, indeed!”

  “So if you shake Philip up from his toes to his head—you’ll earn a father’s blessing.”

  Cleone controlled a trembling lip.

  “Sir—you are—a very naughty—conspirator.”

  “We’ll leave it at that,” said Sir Maurice. “Now choose me a rose, little witch. Gad, if I were ten years younger I’d make Philip jealous myself!”

  Cleone tip-toed, her hands on his shoulders.

  “You are very, very wicked,” she told him gravely.

  Sir Maurice kissed her.

  “So are you, minx, and I want you for my daughter. We are so well suited.”

  Cleone blushed fiery red and hid her face in his coat.

  *

  Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever.

  Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair.

  “Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week.” He glanced anxiously out of the window. “I hope the rain holds off.”

  “Oh, it will,” replied his father placidly.

  “I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you—er—did you ride into the village?”

  “I did.”

  “And—and did you go to—Sharley House?”

  “Ay.”

  “Are they—did they accept?” Philip played with his whip, feigning unconcern.

  “They did. I met that fellow Bancroft.”

  “Oh!” said Philip. “Where?”

  “In the rose-garden,” yawned Sir Maurice.

  The whip fell to the ground.

  “What? In the rose-garden? Whose rose-garden?”

  “At Sharley House, of course.”

  “Where—was—What was he doing there?”

  “He was sitting in the arbour, talking to Cleone.”

  “Confound him!” growled Philip, as if his worst fears were realised. “What’s he like?”

  Sir Maurice glanced across at him.

  “He is about your height—perhaps a little taller. He—ah—seems to have a soft tongue and an engaging manner.”

  “Oh, has he?” Philip’s voice was startlingly grim.

  “He and Cleone were renewing their old friendship.”

  “Oh, were they? What old friendship? He was never our friend!”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Sir Maurice innocently. “He is some six or seven years older than you, is he not?”
/>
  “Five!” said Philip emphatically.

  “Only five? Of course, he looks and seems older, but he has seen more of the world, which accounts for it.”

  To this Philip vouchsafed no answer at all, but he looked at his father with some suspicion. Sir Maurice allowed two or three minutes to elapse before he spoke again.

  “By the way, Philip, Bancroft dines with us on Wednesday.”

  Up sprang Philip in great annoyance.

  “What’s that, sir? Dines here, and on Wednesday? Surely you did not invite the fellow?”

  “But I did,” answered Sir Maurice blandly. “Why not?”

  “Why not? What do we want with him?”

  “It remains to be seen.” Sir Maurice hid a smile. “Bancroft is most desirous of meeting you.”

  Philip made a sound betwixt a grunt and a snort.

  “More like he wishes to pursue his acquaintance with Cl—Mistress Cleone,” he retorted.

  “Well, she’s a pretty piece,” said his father.

  Philip glared at him.

  “If I find him annoying Cleone with his damned officious attentions, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “Oh, I do not think she is annoyed,” replied Sir Maurice.

  At that Philip stalked out of the room, leaving his father a prey to indecent mirth.

  FOUR

  THE TROUBLE COMES TO A HEAD

  AT HALF-past five on Wednesday Mr. Henry Bancroft was ushered into the withdrawing-room at the Pride. He was, as he had intended he should be, the last to arrive.

  Sir Maurice stood in front of the empty grate, talking to Mr. Charteris; madam sat on a couch, her daughter beside her, and Philip nearby. They all looked up as Mr. Bancroft was announced, and Philip rose, for the first time in his life acutely conscious of an ill-fitting coat and unpowdered hair.

  Mr. Bancroft was a dream of lilac and rose. He might have been dressed for a ball, thought Cleone. Diamonds and rubies flashed from his buckles, and from his cravat; a diamond clasp was above the riband that tied his wig. He minced forward daintily and bowed, one be-ringed hand over his heart.

  Sir Maurice came forward, very stately in black with touches of purple.