She would have been dismayed had she known that Sylvester had discovered a sad fault in Miss Barningham. She was too compliant. He had only to lift his brows, to say: ‘You cannot be serious!’ and she was ready in an instant to allow herself to be converted. She was not going to argue with him, she knew his intellect to be superior. Well! if people (unspecified) supposed him to like that sort of flattery they were mistaken: it was a dead bore. Not that he had not enjoyed the party: he had spent an agreeable evening among friends; and it had been pleasant, after his experience in Somerset, to be welcomed with such cordiality. He wondered how he would be received in Green Street, and smiled wryly as he recollected what cause he had given his godmother to regard him with a hostile eye.
But there was no trace of hostility in Lady Ingham’s face or manner when he was ushered into her drawing room; indeed, she greeted him with more enthusiasm than her granddaughter. He found both ladies at home, but Phoebe was engaged in writing a note for the Dowager, and although she rose to shake hands, and smiled at Sylvester in a friendly way, she asked him to excuse her while she finished her task.
‘Come and sit down, Sylvester!’ commanded Lady Ingham. ‘I have been wishing to thank you for taking care of Phoebe. You may guess how very much obliged to you I am. According to what she tells me she wouldn’t be with me today if it hadn’t been for your kind offices.’
‘Now, how, without disrespect, does one tell one’s godmother that she is talking nonsense?’ countered Sylvester, kissing her fingers. ‘Does Miss Marlow make a long stay, ma’am?’
‘She is going to make her home with me,’ replied the Dowager, smiling blandly at him.
‘But how delightful!’ he said.
‘What a hoaxing thing to say!’ remarked Phoebe, hunting in the writing table for a wafer. ‘You can’t pretend you thought it delightful to endure my company!’
‘I have no need to pretend. Do you think we didn’t miss you abominably? I promise you we did!’
‘To make a fourth at whist?’ she said, pushing back her chair.
He rose as she came to the fire, retorting: ‘No such thing! Whist was never in question. Mr. Orde remained with us only one night.’
‘What, did he take Tom home immediately?’
‘No, he left him with me while he himself went home to allay the anxieties of Mrs. Orde and your father. He came back three days later, and bore Thomas off most regally, in an enormous carriage, furnished by Mrs. Orde with every imaginable comfort, from pillows to smelling salts.’
‘Smelling salts! Oh, no!’
‘I assure you. Ask Thomas if he didn’t try to throw them out of the window! Tell me how you fared! I know from Keighley that you did reach town that night: were you very tired?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t care for that. And as for Alice, I think she would have driven on for hours, and still enjoyed it! Oh, I must tell you that you have been eclipsed in her eyes, Duke!’
‘Ah, have I?’ he said, eyeing her suspiciously. ‘By a freak?’
She laughed. ‘No, no, by Horwich!’
‘Come, that’s most encouraging! What did he do to earn her admiration?’
‘He behaved to her in the most odious way imaginable! As though she had been a cockroach, she told me! I was afraid she must be wretchedly unhappy, but I don’t think anything she saw in London impressed her half as much! She confided to me that he was much more her notion of a duke than you are!’
He burst out laughing, and demanded further news of Alice. But the Dowager said that rustics didn’t amuse her, so, instead, Phoebe told him about her father’s letter, and he incensed the Dowager by enjoying that hugely. Even less than by rustics was she amused by Lord Marlow’s fatuity.
Sylvester did not remain for long, nor was he offered the chance of a tête-à-tête with Phoebe. The only tête-à-tête granted him was a brief one with the Dowager, who found an excuse to send Phoebe out of the room for a few minutes, so that she could say to him: ‘I’m glad you didn’t tell the child she had me to thank for your visit to Austerby. I’m sorry for that, Sylvester, and think the better of you for having sent her to me, when I don’t doubt you were feeling vexed with me. Mind, if I’d known she’d met you already, and not fancied you, I would never have done it! However, there’s no harm done, and no need to think of it again. She won’t, and you may depend on it I shan’t either. Now that I know her better I see you wouldn’t suit at all. I shouldn’t wonder at it if she’s going to prove as hard to please as her mother was.’
He was spared having to answer this speech by Phoebe’s coming back into the room. He rose to take his leave, and, as he shook hands with Phoebe, said: ‘I hope we may meet again soon. You will be attending all the balls, I expect. I hardly dare ask you-if I really did cut you at Almack’s!-if you will stand up with me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she responded. ‘It wouldn’t be very civil in me to refuse, would it?’
‘I might have known it!’ he exclaimed. ‘How could I be such a flat as to offer you the chance to give me one of your set-downs?’
‘I didn’t!’ she protested.
‘Then heaven help me when you do!’ he said. ‘Goodbye! Don’t grow too civil, will you? But I need not ask that: you won’t!’
15
Before Phoebe saw Sylvester again she had encountered another member of his family: accompanying her grandmother on a morning visit she met Lady Henry Rayne.
Several ladies had elected to call on old Mrs. Stour that day, but the younger generation was represented only by Lady Henry and Miss Marlow. Lady Henry, brought by her mama, was so heartily bored that even the entrance of an unknown girl came to her as an alleviation. She seized the first opportunity that offered of changing her seat for one beside Phoebe’s, saying, with her pretty smile: ‘I think we have met before, haven’t we? Only I am so stupid at remembering names!’
‘Well, not precisely,’ replied Phoebe, with her usual candour. ‘I never saw you but twice in my life, and I wasn’t introduced to you. Once was at the Opera House, but the first occasion was at Lady Jersey’s ball last year. I am afraid it was the circumstance of my staring at you so rudely which makes you think we have met! But you looked so beautiful I couldn’t drag my eyes away! I beg your pardon! you must think me very impertinent!’
Not unnaturally Ianthe found nothing impertinent in this speech. Her own words had been a mere conversational gambit; she had no recollection of having seen Phoebe before, but she said: ‘Indeed I didn’t! I am sorry we were never introduced until today. I am not often in London.’ She added, with a wistful smile: ‘I am a widow, you know.’
‘Oh-!’ Phoebe was genuinely shocked. It seemed incredible, for she had supposed Ianthe to be little older than herself.
‘I was hardly more than a child when I was married,’ explained Ianthe. ‘I am not so very old now, though I have been a widow for several years!’
‘I thought you were my own age!’ said Phoebe frankly.
No more was needed to seal the friendship. Ianthe, laughing at this misapprehension, disclosed that her only child was six years of age; Phoebe exclaimed: ‘Oh, no! impossible!’ and stepped, all unknown to herself, into the role of Chief Confidante. She learned within the space of twenty minutes that the life of a recluse had been imposed on Ianthe by her husband’s family, who expected her to wear out the rest of her widowhood in bucolic seclusion.