‘Yes, he did, but how he came to make such a mistake-unless, of course, Salford did mean to offer for me, but changed his mind as soon as he saw me again, which, I must say, no one could wonder at. I don’t know precisely how it may have been, but Papa was sure he meant to make me an offer, and when I told him what my sentiments were, and begged him to tell the Duke-he would not,’ said Phoebe, her voice petering out unhappily. ‘So I knew then that there wasn’t anybody, except you, Grandmama, who could help me. And I ran away.’
‘Alone?’ demanded the Dowager, horrified. ‘Never tell me you’ve come all that distance on the common stage and by yourself!’
‘No, indeed I haven’t!’ Phoebe hastened to reassure her. ‘I came in Salford’s chaise, and he made me bring a-a maid with me, besides sending his groom to look after everything for me!’
‘What?’ said the Dowager incredulously. ‘Came in Salford’s chaise?’
‘I-I must explain it to you, ma’am,’ said Phoebe, looking guilty.
‘You must indeed!’ said the Dowager, staring at her in the liveliest astonishment.
‘Yes. Only it-it is rather a long story!’
‘In that case, my love, be good enough to pull the bell!’ said the Dowager. ‘You will like a glass of hot milk after your journey. And I think,’ she added, in fainter accents, ‘that I will take some myself, to sustain me.’
She then (to Phoebe’s alarm) sank back against her disordered pillows, and closed her eyes. However, upon the entrance of Miss Muker presently, she opened them again, and said with surprising vigour: ‘You may take that sour look off your face, Muker, and fetch up two glasses of hot milk directly! My granddaughter, who has come to pay me a visit, has endured a most fatiguing journey. And when you have done that, you will see that a warming pan is slipped between the sheets of her bed, and a fire lit, and everything made ready for her. In the best spare bedchamber!’
When my lady spoke in that voice it was unwise to argue with her. Muker, who had responded to Phoebe’s greeting in a repressive voice, and with the slightest of curtsies, received her orders without comment, but said with horrid restraint: ‘And would Miss wish to have the Female which I understand to be her maid attend her here, my lady?’
‘No, pray send her to bed!’ said Phoebe quickly. ‘She-she is not precisely my maid!’
‘So, if I may say so, miss, I apprehend!’ said Muker glacially.
‘Disagreeable creature!’ said the Dowager, as the door closed behind her devoted abigail. ‘Who is this Female, if she is not your maid?’
‘Well, she’s the landlady’s daughter,’ Phoebe answered. ‘Salford would have me bring her!’
‘Landlady’s daughter? No, don’t explain it to me yet, child! Muker will come back with the hot milk directly, and something seems to tell me that if we suffer an interruption I shall become perfectly bewildered. Take that ugly pelisse off, my love-good gracious, where did you have that dreadful gown made? Has That Woman no taste? Well, never mind! Whatever happens I’ll set that to rights! Draw that chair to the fire, and then we can be comfortable. And perhaps if you were to give me my smelling salts-yes, on that table, child!-it would be a good thing!’
But although the story presently unfolded to her might have been thought by some to have been expressly designed to cast into palpitations any elderly lady in failing health, the Dowager had no recourse to her vinaigrette. The tale was so ravelled as to make it necessary for her to interpolate a number of questions, and there was nothing in her incisive delivery of these to suggest frailty either of body or intellect. The most searching of her inquiries were drawn from her by the intrusion into the recital of Mr. Thomas Orde. She appeared to be much interested in him; and while Phoebe readily told her all about her oldest friend she kept her eyes fixed piercingly upon her face. But when she learned of Tom’s nobility in offering a clandestine marriage to her granddaughter (‘which threw me into whoops, because he isn’t nearly old enough to be married, besides being just like my brother!’) she lost interest in him, merely requesting Phoebe, in a much milder tone, to continue her story. There was nothing to be feared, decided her ladyship, from young Mr. Orde.
The last of her questions was posed almost casually. ‘And did Salford chance to mention me?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes!’ replied Phoebe blithely. ‘He told me that he was particularly acquainted with you, because you were his godmother. So I ventured to ask him if he thought you might-might like to let me reside with you, and he seemed to think you would, Grandmama!’
‘Did he indeed?’ said the Dowager, her countenance inscrutable. ‘Well, my love-’ with sudden energy-‘he was perfectly right! I shall like it excessively!’
It was long before her ladyship fell asleep that night. She had been provided by her innocent granddaughter with food for much thought, and still more conjecture. Lord and Lady Marlow were soon dismissed from her mind (but a large part of the following morning was going to be pleasurably spent in the composition of a letter calculated to bring about a dangerous relapse in his lordship’s state of health); and so too was young Mr. Orde. What intrigued Lady Ingham was the position occupied by Sylvester in the stirring drama disclosed to her. The role of deus ex machina, which he appeared to have undertaken, sounded most unlike him; nor could she picture him living in what she judged to be the depths of squalor, and spending his time between the stables and a sickroom. In fact, the only recognizable thing he seemed to have done was to encourage Phoebe to seek refuge in Green Street. That, thought the Dowager indignantly, rang very true! She had no doubt, either, that he had done it out of pure malice. Well! he would shortly discover that he had shot wide of the mark. She was delighted to welcome Phoebe. She wondered that it should not have occurred to her that the very thing needed to relieve the intolerable boredom she had been suffering during the past few months, when the better part of her acquaintances had retired into the country, was the presence in her house of a lively granddaughter. She now perceived that to keep Phoebe with her would be in every way preferable to the fatigue of a journey to Paris, a project which she had had in doubtful contemplation ever since one of her chief cronies had written thence to urge her to join the throng of well-born English who were disporting themselves so agreeably in that most delightful of capitals. She had been tempted, but there were grave drawbacks to the scheme. It would mean putting oneself beyond the reach of dear Sir Henry; Muker would be certain to dislike it; and whatever poor Mary Berry might allege to the contrary it was the Dowager’s unalterable conviction that the escort of a gentleman was indispensable to any lady bent on foreign travel. One could admittedly engage a courier, but to do so merely added to one’s expenditure, since the gentleman was still necessary, to keep a watchful eye on the activities of this hireling. No: on every count it would be better to adopt Phoebe, and try what she could achieve for the child. Once she had rigged her out becomingly she would positively enjoy taking her, whenever her health permitted, into society.
Here her ladyship’s thoughts suffered a check. She had no intention of allowing Phoebe to abjure the world (as Phoebe had suggested), but although her health might benefit by chaperoning the child to one or two private balls, nothing could be more prejudicial to it than interminable evenings spent at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, or at parties given by hostesses with whom she was barely acquainted. But the check was only momentary: the Dowager remembered the existence of her meek daughter-in-law. Rosina, with two girls of her own to chaperon, could very well take her niece under her wing: such an arrangement could make no possible difference to her.