She hoped her countenance did not betray her, and said, with a fair assumption of ease: ‘No, but I daresay I ought not to tell you what that was. You won’t repeat it? It was not his appearance which nearly had me in whoops, but that peacocky chestnut of his, and the things he said of him! He bought him from Papa, and paid three hundred guineas for him! And thinks himself a downy one!’
He burst out laughing, and she hoped the dangerous moment had passed. But although he laughed at Marlow’s successful essay in flat-catching, he said: ‘I am still wondering what it was that you really meant to say, Sparrow.’
She was thankful to see Major and Mrs. Newbury cantering towards them. There was time only to return a light rejoinder before Georgie called out to them, with news of a charming glade to be visited. They waited for Ianthe and Sir Nugent to come up with them, and there was no further opportunity for private talk.
The incident cast a cloud over Phoebe’s pleasure. She could not be comfortable. To uneasiness was added a strong sense of guilt, which was not rendered less by the flattering distinction with which Sylvester was treating her. It was scarcely to be called gallantry, though he showed her wishes to be his first object; he quizzed rather than flirted; but there was a smiling look in his eyes when they met hers, and an informality in his manners that made her feel as if she had known him for a very long time. There had been a moment, before the Newburys had joined them, when she had hovered on the brink of telling him just what she had done. She had been strongly tempted, and the temptation recurred several times, only to be driven back by fear of what the consequences might be. When Sylvester looked at her with warmth in his eyes she felt that she could tell him anything, but she had seen him wear quite another expression; and she knew just how swiftly and with what perfect civility he could retire behind a film of ice.
She was still in a state of wretched indecision when she parted from him at the end of the day; but as she trod up the steps of Lady Ingham’s house she thought suddenly that if anyone could advise her it must be her grandmother; and she determined, if her mood was propitious, to tell her the whole.
She found the Dowager in perfect good-humour, but a trifle preoccupied. She had received a visit from an old friend, just returned from a protracted sojourn in Paris, and Mrs. Irthing’s account of the delightful time she had spent there, the charming nature of the parties given by dear Sir Charles Stuart and Lady Elizabeth at the Embassy-just as it was used to be before that horrid Bonaparte spoilt everything with his vulgar ways!-the exclusiveness of society-so different from London, where one was increasingly at the mercy of mushrooms and tuft-hunters!-the comfort of the hotels, and the amazing quality and style of the goods in all the shops had reawakened her desire to remove to Paris for a few months herself. It was just the right time of year for such a visit; the Ambassador and his wife were old friends of hers; and Mrs. Irthing had been charged with messages for her from quite a number of French acquaintances whom she had not met for years but who all remembered her and wished that they might have the felicity of seeing her again. Well, she wished it too, and was much inclined to think it would do her a great deal of good to go abroad for a spell. She did not regret having assumed the charge of her granddaughter, of course, but it did just cross her mind that Phoebe might very well reside with Ingham and Rosina while she was away. A moment’s reflection, however, caused her to abandon this scheme: Rosina was a fool, in no way to be trusted with the delicate task of promoting a marriage between Phoebe and Sylvester. The Dowager was feeling very hopeful about this affair, but there was no doubt that it needed skilful handling. Rosina would be bound to blunder; moreover, nothing was more likely to cause Sylvester to shy off than to find Phoebe always in company with her good, dull cousins. No, it would not do, the Dowager decided. It would not do to take Phoebe to Paris either: the Dowager was no believer in the power of absence over the heart, particularly when the heart in question belonged to Sylvester, who had so many girls on the catch for him.
The project had to be abandoned, but Mrs. Irthing’s visit had roused many memories. The Dowager fell into a reminiscent vein, and it was not until she and Phoebe removed to the drawing room after dinner that she emerged from it, and bade Phoebe tell her about her own day. Phoebe said that she had enjoyed herself very much, and then, drawing a resolute breath, took the plunge. ‘Grandmama, there is something I must tell you!’
She would not have been surprised if her confession of having commenced author had met with censure; but the Dowager, once assured that a strict anonymity had been preserved, was rather amused. She even said that she had always known Phoebe to be a clever little puss.
Possibly she considered it unlikely that her granddaughter’s book would be read by any member of the ton; possibly she thought it even more unlikely that a portrait drawn by so inexperienced a hand would be recognizable. She only laughed when Phoebe told her the dreadful truth. But when Phoebe asked her if she thought Sylvester ought to be warned of what was hanging over his head she said quickly: ‘On no account in the world! Good God, you must be mad to think of such a thing!’
‘Yes, ma’am. Only-I can’t be comfortable!’ Phoebe said.
‘Nonsense! He will know nothing about it!’ replied the Dowager.
17
Unlike Lord Byron, Phoebe could not say that she awoke one morning to find herself famous, for clever Mr. Newsham had allowed no clue to her identity to escape him. He saw no profit in allowing it to be known that a schoolroom chit had written The Lost Heir: far better, he told his partner, to set the ton wondering. Poor Mr. Otley, protesting in vain that none but sapskulls would sport the blunt to the tune of eighteen shillings for a romance by an unknown author resigned himself to ruin, and watched with a jaundiced eye the efforts of the senior partner to puff off the book to the ton.
But Mr. Newsham had been right all along. The skilful letters he had written to influential persons, the flattery he had expended, the mysterious hints he had dropped, bore abundant fruit. The list of private subscribers presently caused Mr. Otley’s eyes to start in his head. ‘Ay! and that’s only the beginning!’ said Mr. Newsham. ‘These are the nobs who would melt a fortune not to be behindhand in the mode. All females, of course: I knew they wouldn’t risk the chance that a roman a clef might not take! By the bye, I’ve discovered who that fellow with the eyebrows is: none other than his grace of Salford, my boy! If that ain’t enough to make the nobs mad after the book, tell me what is!’
Since Mr. Newsham continued to correspond only with Miss Battery, Phoebe never knew that her book had been launched until she saw the three handsome volumes in Lady Sefton’s drawing room. ‘Dear Lady Ingham, has this audacious book come in your way? But I need not ask! Is it not the wickedest thing imaginable?’ cried her ladyship, with much fluttering of her fan and her eyelids. ‘Odious creature, whoever she is!-and it is not Caro Lamb, or that Irish woman: that I know for a fact! Setting us all in the pillory! I forgive her only for her sketch of poor dear Emily Cowper! I own I laughed myself into stitches! She has not the least notion of it, of course-thinks it meant for the likeness of Mrs. Burrell! But Ugolino-oh, dear, dear, what must be his feelings if ever the book should come in his way? And that it must, you know, because everyone is talking about it!’