‘No, no, it’s not that!’ Phoebe said. ‘For if I were to be married who but you should I want to instruct my children? Sibby, do you know who Salford is?’
Miss Battery frowned at her in a puzzled way. ‘Who he is?’ she repeated. ‘You said he was a duke.’
Phoebe began to laugh a little hysterically. ‘He is Count Ugolino!’ she said.
It might have been expected that this extraordinary announcement would have still further bewildered Miss Battery, but although she was certainly startled by it, she found it perfectly intelligible. Ejaculating: ‘Merciful heavens!’ she sat down limply, and stared at Phoebe in great perturbation. She was well-acquainted with the Count: indeed, she might have been said to have been present at his birth, an event for which she was, in some measure, responsible, since she had for several years shared with Phoebe the romantic novels which were the solace of her own leisure hours. Her only extravagance was a subscription to a Bath lending library; her only conscious sin was that she encouraged Lady Marlow to suppose that the package delivered weekly by the carrier contained only works of an erudite or an elevating character. So strong was Lady Marlow’s disapproval of fiction that even Miss Edgeworth’s moral tales were forbidden to her daughters. Her rule was so absolute that it never occurred to her to doubt that she was obeyed to the letter; and as she was as imperceptive as she was despotic no suspicion had ever crossed her mind that Miss Battery was by no means the rigid disciplinarian she appeared.
In none of Lady Marlow’s own daughters did Miss Battery discover the imaginative turn of mind so much deprecated by, her ladyship; in Phoebe it was pronounced, and Miss Battery, loving her and deeply pitying her, fostered it, knowing how much her own joyless existence was lightened by excursions into a world of pure make-believe. From the little girl who scribbled fairy stories for the rapt delectation of Susan and Mary, Phoebe had developed into a real authoress, and one, moreover, who had written a stirring romance worthy of being published.
She had written it after her London season. It had come white-hot from her ready pen, and Miss Battery had been quick to see that it was far in advance of her earlier attempts at novel-writing. Its plot was as extravagant as anything that came from the Minerva Press; the behaviour of its characters was for the most part wildly improbable; the scene was laid in an unidentifiable country; and the entire story was rich in absurdity. But Phoebe’s pen had always been persuasive, and so enthralling did she contrive to make the adventures of her heroine that it was not until he had reached the end of the book that even so stern a critic as young Mr. Orde bethought him of the various incidents which he saw, in retrospect, to be impossible. Miss Battery, a more discerning critic, recognized not only the popular nature of the tale, but also the flowering in it of a latent talent. Phoebe had discovered in herself a gift for humorous portraiture, and she had not wasted her time in London. Tom Orde might complain that a score of minor characters were irrelevant, but Miss Battery knew that it was these swift, unerring sketches that raised The Lost Heir above the commonplace. She would not allow Phoebe to expunge one of them, or a line of their wickedly diverting dialogues, but persuaded her instead to write it all out in fairest copperplate. Phoebe groaned at this tedious labour, but since neither she nor Miss Battery knew of a professional copyist, and would have been hard put to it to have paid for such a person’s services, she submitted to the drudgery. After that the book was packed up, and dispatched by the mail to Miss Battery’s cousin, Mr. Gilbert Otley, junior partner in the small but aspiring firm of Newsham amp; Otley, Publishers.
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 a clef, for although he was unacquainted with the members of the haut ton he was shrewd enough to realize 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 cork-brained 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 realized to be unsuitable matter for the firm of Newsham amp; Otley she requested him to return it to her by the mail, care of the receiving office in Bath. Further inquiries 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 booksellers’ 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.