“But she must have known more!” objected Ianthe, staring rather hard at Phoebe. “She knew he was Edmund’s guardian!”
“She did not. It was—she told me—nothing but the unhappiest of coincidences!”
“I don’t believe it! It could not have been so!”
“But it was, it was!” Phoebe said vehemently. “I know it for a fact!”
There was a momentary silence. As she stared, a look of comprehension stole into Ianthe’s eyes. “Miss Marlow! You are the author!”
“No!”
“You are! I know you are! Oh, you sly thing!” cried Ianthe.
“I tell you, no!”
“Oh, you won’t take me in, I promise you! I see it all now! What a rage Sylvester would be in if he knew—when he has been so condescending as to make you the latest object of his gallantry, too! I only wish he may discover it.” She saw the widening look of horror in Phoebe’s eyes, and said: “I shan’t tell him, of course: you may be easy on that head!”
“Indeed, I hope you won’t tell anyone, for it is untrue, and absurd as well!” replied Phoebe, trying to speak as though she were amused. “And pray don’t mention either that I am acquainted with the real author! I need not ask you: you must perceive how very disagreeable it would be for me—bound not to divulge the secret, and—and besieged with questions, as I should be!”
“Oh, no, of course I shall not! Only fancy being able to write books! I am sure I could never do so. How clever you must be! But were you really ignorant of the circumstances? It is the oddest thing! How in the world do you contrive to think of such exciting adventures? I hadn’t the least guess how Matilda and Florian would contrive to rescue poor Maximilian, you know. I could not put the last volume down until they ran the boat ashore, and Florian cried: “Safe! Safe, Matilda! At last we stand where Ugolino holds no sway!” I almost shed tears, it was so affecting!”
She rattled on in this way for some minutes. Phoebe was powerless to stop her. She could only repeat that she was not the book’s author, which made Ianthe laugh; and derive a little doubtful comfort from Ianthe’s assurance that she would not breathe a syllable to a soul.
18
The first repercussions of this interlude began to be felt by Phoebe almost at once. She saw one or two covert glances directed at her, and guessed several times that she was the subject of a whispered confidence. She was rendered acutely uncomfortable; and when, in a few days, she received the coldest and most infinitesimal of bows from two of the Patronesses of Almack’s, and the cut direct from Lady Ribbleton, only and formidable sister of the Duchess of Salford, she could no longer attempt to persuade herself that she was imagining the whole. She did her best to maintain an air of cheerful unconcern, but she quaked inwardly. Only one person ventured to ask her if it were true that she had written The Lost Heir, and that an ingenuous young lady embarking on her first season, who was at once frowned down by her mama. Phoebe exclaimed with a tolerable assumption of amazement: “I?” and at least had the satisfaction of knowing that she had lulled one person’s suspicions. Mrs. Newbury, the only other who might, perhaps, have openly taxed her with what she was fast coming to consider her crime, had been confined to the house by some indisposition, and might be presumed to know nothing about the gathering rumours.
The Dowager learned of the turn affairs had taken from her daughter-in-law, to whom had been entrusted the task of chaperoning Phoebe. It was with great diffidence that Rosina approached her, for it seemed very shocking to her that such a suspicion should attach to Phoebe, and she sometimes wondered if she had misunderstood certain remarks that had been made to her. No one had asked her any questions, or said anything to which exception could have been taken. Only there had been hints.
The Dowager, demanding the truth from Phoebe, heard what had passed between her and Ianthe, and was pardonably angry. If she understood the feelings which had compelled Phoebe to come so close to disclosing her secret she did not betray this, saying impatiently that no one whose opinion was worth a groat would be likely to set any store by the silly things Ianthe said of Sylvester. As for placing the smallest reliance on Ianthe’s ability to keep such a tit-bit of news to herself, she wondered that Phoebe could be such a greenhead. She forgave her only because she had had at least enough sense to remain constant in denial.
“She cannot say that you told her you were the author, and as for the rest, the only thing to be done is to say that you think you know who the author is. That may readily be believed! I am sure there must be a score of persons who are saying the same. If people can be made to believe that Ianthe, after her usual fashion, added straws of her own providing to a single one dropped by you, until she had furnished herself with a nest, so much the better! If they don’t think that, they may well think that it was you who exaggerated, pretending to know more than others, to be interesting. Yes, my love, I’ve no doubt you had rather not appear in such a light, but that you should have thought of before. Don’t fall into flat despair! The case is not desperate, if only you will do as I bid you.” She tapped her fan on her knee with a gesture of exasperation. “I might have known what would come of it if I let Rosina take care of you! Idiotish woman! I could have scotched the business days ago! Well, never mind that now! When is the Castlereaghs’ ball? Tomorrow? Good! It will be the first crush of the season, and nothing could be better! I shall take you to it myself, child, and see what I can achieve!”
“Grandmama—must I go to it?” Phoebe faltered. “I had so much rather not!”
“Not go to it? Good God, do you want to confirm suspicion? You will wear your new dress—the pretty green one, with the pearl embroidery!—and you will—you must! appear perfectly unconscious. I, on the other hand, am going to be very conscious—and never so much diverted in my life! That ought to take the trick! And it will be well if it does,” she added, a trifle grimly. “I don’t scruple to tell you, my love, that if this scandal is not put an end to I have grave fears that even my influence may not avail to procure you vouchers for Almack’s. I imagine you must know what that would mean!” She saw that Phoebe was looking crushed, and relented, leaning forward to pat her hand, and saying: “There! No more scolding! Dear me, what a pity Tom cannot dance, with that leg of his! I declare, I would invite him to go with us to the Castlereaghs’, just to put some heart into you, silly child!”
The Dowager had taken a great fancy to young Mr. Orde, but she would have found it difficult under any circumstances to have persuaded him to attend a dress-party at which he would have been obliged, as he phrased it, to do the pretty to a lot of fashionable strangers. Such affairs, he told Phoebe firmly, were not in his line: he was never more glad of a lame leg.
So Tom went off on the fateful night to be choked by the new gas-lighting at Drury Lane; and Phoebe was escorted by the Dowager, shortly after ten o’clock, to the Castlereagh mansion.
The Dowager saw immediately how close to the brink of social disaster Phoebe had approached, and her keen eyes snapped dangerously as they marked the various dames who dared to look coldly at her granddaughter. These ladies should shortly be made to regret their insolence: one might have chosen to retire a little from the world of fashion, but one was not yet quite without power in that world! She saw, with satisfaction, that Phoebe’s chin was up; and, with relief, that her hand was soon solicited for the country-dance that was then forming.