Sylvester (17 page)

‘But you aren’t, Phoebe,’ Tom pointed out. ‘You are under age, and he is your father, you know. Your grandmother has no power to keep you against his will.’

‘Oh, no! And perhaps, if he truly wished for my return, I should go back willingly. But he won’t. If I can prevail upon Grandmama to keep me with her I think Papa will be as glad as Mama to be rid of me. At any rate, he won’t care whether I am at Austerby or not, except that he will miss me a little when he discovers how unreliable Swale is when there is no one to watch over the stables.’

Tom did not know what to say to this. He had thought it reasonable enough that she should have fled from her home when faced (as she had believed) with a distasteful marriage; but that she should do so for no other reason than that she was not happy there shocked him a little. He could not approve; on the other hand he was well aware of the misery she would be made to suffer if she were forced to return to Austerby after such an exploit, and he was much too fond of her to withhold whatever help he could render. So he said presently: ‘What can I do, Phoebe? I’ve made a mull of it, but if there
is
anything I can do I promise you I will.’

She smiled warmly at him. ‘You didn’t make a mull of it: it was all that wretched donkey! Perhaps, if we are not discovered before you are able to help yourself, I might still go to London on the stage-coach, and you will buy my ticket for me. But there is no question of that yet.’

‘No, not while the snow lasts. And in any event—’

‘In any event I hope you don’t think I would leave you in this case! I’m not so shabby! No, don’t tease yourself, Tom! I shall come about, see if I don’t! Perhaps, when the Duke goes away—I should think he would do so as soon as it may be possible, wouldn’t you?—he will carry a letter to Grand-mama for me.’

‘Phoebe, has he said anything? About your having run away, I mean?’ Tom asked abruptly.

‘No, not a word! Isn’t it fortunate?’ she replied. ‘I don’t know that. Seems to me—Well, he must think it excessively odd! What happened at Austerby, when it was discovered that you had gone away? Hasn’t he even told you that?’

‘No, but I didn’t ask him.’

‘Good God! I hope he does not think—Phoebe, did he say if he meant to come up to visit me presently?’

‘No, do you wish him to?’ she asked. ‘Shall I send him to you? That is, if he has not already gone to look at Trusty for me. He promised he would do so, and put on a fresh poultice if it should be needed.’

‘Phoebe!’ uttered Tom explosively. ‘If you made him do so it was perfectly outrageous! You are treating him as though he were a lackey!’

She gave an involuntary chuckle. ‘No, am I? I daresay it would do him a great deal of good, but I didn’t make him go out to attend to the horses. He offered to do so, and I own I was surprised. Why do you wish him to visit you?’

‘That’s my concern. Keighley will be coming in before he goes to bed, and I’ll ask him to convey a civil message to the Duke. You are not to go downstairs again, Phoebe. Understand?’

‘No, I am going to bed,’ she replied. ‘I am so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. But what do you think? That odious man has had Alice Scaling give up her bedchamber to Keighley and set up a trestle for herself in mine! Without so much as asking my leave, and all because he is too proud to let Keighley have a trestle-bed in
his
room! He said it was because he feared to catch his cold, but I know better!’

‘So do I—much better!’ said Tom. ‘Lord, what a goose you are! You go to bed! And mind, Phoebe! be civil to the Duke when you meet him again!’

She was granted the opportunity to obey this order sooner than he had expected, for at that moment Sylvester walked in, saying: ‘May I come in? How do you go on, Orde? You look a degree better, I think.’

‘Yes, pray do come in!’ said Phoebe, before Tom could speak. ‘He was wishing you would come to visit him. Have you been out to the stable yet?’

‘I have, ma’am, and you may go to bed with a quiet mind. Trusty shows no disposition to rid himself of his poultice. There is some heat still in his companion’s hock, but nothing to cause uneasiness.’

‘Thank you! I am truly obliged to you!’ she said.

‘So am I, sir—
most
truly obliged to you!’ said Tom. ‘It is devilish kind of you to put yourself to all this trouble! I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘Well, I
have
thanked him,’ said Phoebe, apparently feeling that any further display of gratitude would be excessive.

‘Yes, well, it’s time you went to bed!’ said Tom, directing a speaking look at her. ‘His grace will excuse you, so you may say goodnight, and be off!’

‘Yes, Grandpapa!’ said Phoebe incorrigibly. ‘Goodnight, my lord Duke!’

‘Sleep well, Sparrow!’ retorted Sylvester, holding the door for her.

To Tom’s relief she went away without committing any more solecisms. He drew a long breath, as Sylvester shut the door, and said: ‘I am very conscious, my lord Duke, that an explanation—’

‘Call me Salford,’ interrupted Sylvester. ‘Did the sawbones subject you to further tortures? I trust not: he told me that Keighley had done all he should.’

‘No, no, he only bound it up again when he had put some lotion on it!’ Tom assured him. ‘And that puts me in mind of something else! I wish you had not gone out in such weather to fetch him, sir! I was excessively shocked when I heard of it! Oh, and you must have paid him his fee, for I did not! If you will tell me what it was—’

‘I will render a strict account to you,’ promised Sylvester, pulling up a chair to the bedside, and sitting down. ‘That hock, by the bye, will have to be fomented for a day or two, but there should be no lasting injury. A tidy pair, so far as I could judge by lantern-light.’

‘My father bought them last year—proper high-bred ’uns!’ Tom said. ‘I wouldn’t have had this happen to them for a thousand pounds!’

‘I’ll go bail you wouldn’t! A harsh parent?’

‘No, no, he’s a prime gun, but—!’

‘I know,’ said Sylvester sympathetically. ‘So was mine,
but—
!’

Tom grinned at him. ‘You must think me a cowhanded whipster! But if only that curst donkey hadn’t brayed—However, it’s no use saying that: my father will say I made wretched work of it, and the worst of it is I think I did! And what sort of a case I should have been in if you hadn’t come to the rescue, sir, I don’t know!’

‘If you must thank anybody, thank Keighley!’ recommended Sylvester. ‘I couldn’t have set the broken bone, you know.’

‘No, but it was you who fetched Upsall, which was a great deal too kind of you. There’s another thing, too.’ He hesitated, looking rather shyly at Sylvester, and colouring a little. ‘Phoebe didn’t understand—she isn’t by any means fly to the time of day, you know!—but I did, and—and I’m very much obliged to you for what you’ve done for her. Sending that girl to sleep with her, I mean. I don’t know if it will answer, or if—Well, the thing is, sir—now that we are in such a rare mess do you think I ought to marry her?’

Sylvester had been regarding him with friendly amusement, but this naive question brought a startled frown to his face. ‘But isn’t that your intention?’ he asked.

‘No—oh, lord, no! I mean, it
wasn’t
my intention (though I did offer to!) until we were grassed by that overturn. But now that we’re cooped up here perhaps I ought, as a man of honour—Only ten to one she’ll refuse to marry me, and then where shall we be?’

‘If you are not eloping, what
are
you doing?’ demanded Sylvester.

‘I guessed that was what you must be thinking, sir,’ said Tom.

‘I imagine you might. Nor am I the only one who thinks it!’ said Sylvester. ‘When I left Austerby I did so because Marlow had already set out for the Border in pursuit of you!’

‘No!’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Well, what a gudgeon! If he thought Phoebe had run off with me why the deuce hadn’t he the wit to inquire for me at the Manor? My mother could have told him all was well!’

‘I can only say that she did not appear to me to have perfectly understood that,’ responded Sylvester dryly. ‘As it chanced it was she who came to Austerby, bringing with her the letter you had written to her. You young idiot, I don’t know precisely what you told her, but it certainly didn’t persuade her that all was well! It threw her into a state of great affliction—and what she said to Lady Marlow I shall always be happy to think I was privileged to hear!’

‘Did she give her snuff?’ asked Tom appreciatively. ‘But she
can’t
have thought I had eloped with Phoebe! Why, I particularly told her there was no need for her to be in a fidget! Lord Marlow might, I daresay, but not Mama!’

‘On the contrary! Lord Marlow pooh-poohed the suggestion. He was only brought to believe it on the testimony of one of his younger daughters. I forget what her name is: a sanctimonious schoolgirl whose piety I found nauseating.’

‘Eliza,’ said Tom instantly. ‘But she knew nothing about it! Unless she was listening at the keyhole, and if that was the case she must have known we hadn’t gone to the Border.’

‘She was, but she insisted that she had heard you say you were going to Gretna Green.’

Tom frowned in an effort of memory. ‘I suppose I might have said so: I know I couldn’t see any other way out of the fix. But Phoebe had a much better scheme, as it happened, which I own I was devilish glad to hear! I’m as fond of her as • I could be—well, I’ve run tame at Austerby ever since I was breeched, you know, and she’s like my sister!—but I’m damned if I want to marry her! The thing was I promised I’d help her, and the only way I could think of to do it was by doing so.’

‘Help her to do what?’ interrupted Sylvester, considerably mystified.

‘To escape from Austerby. So—’

‘Well, I blame no one for wishing to do that, but what the devil made you choose such a moment? Didn’t you know there was snow in the air?’

‘Yes, of course I did, sir, but I
had
no
choice! The need was urgent—or, at least, Phoebe thought it was. If I hadn’t taken her she meant to go to London by herself, on the common stage!’

‘Why?’

Tom hesitated, glancing speculatively at Sylvester. Sylvester said encouragingly: ‘I won’t cry rope on you!’

The smile won Tom; he said in a burst of confidence:

‘Well, the truth is the whole thing was a fudge, but Lady Marlow told Phoebe you were going to Austerby to make her an offer! I must say it sounded like a hum to me, but it seems Lord Marlow thought so too, so one can’t blame Phoebe for being taken in, and cast into flat despair because of it.’

‘In fact,’ said Sylvester, ‘an offer from me would not have been welcome to her?’

‘Oh, lord, no!’ said Tom. ‘She said nothing would induce her to marry you! But I daresay you may have seen how it is in that house: if you had meant to offer for her Lady Marlow would have bullied her into submitting. The only thing was for her to run away.’ He stopped, uneasily aware of having said more than was discreet. There was an odd expression in Sylvester’s eyes, hard to interpret but rather disquieting. ‘You know what females are, sir!’ he added, trying to mend matters. ‘It was all nonsense, of course, for she scarcely knew you. I hope—I mean—perhaps I shouldn’t have told you!’

‘Oh, why not?’ Sylvester said lightly, smiling again.

10

Tom was relieved to see the smile, but he was not wholly reassured. ‘I beg pardon!’ he said. ‘I thought it wouldn’t signify, telling you how it was, if you
didn’t
wish to offer for her—and you don’t, do you?’

‘No, certainly not! What did I do to inspire Miss Marlow with this violent dislike of me?’

‘Oh, I don’t know! Nothing, I daresay,’ said Tom uncomfortably. ‘I expect you are not just her style, that’s all.’

‘Not timbered up to her weight, in fact. Where, by the way, are you meaning to take her?’

‘To her grandmother. She lives in London, and Phoebe is persuaded she will take her part—or that she
would have
done so, if it had been necessary.’

Sylvester’s eyes lifted suddenly to Tom’s. ‘Do you mean Lady Ingham?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Tom nodded. ‘The other one died years ago. Are you acquainted with Lady Ingham, sir?’

‘Oh, yes!’ replied Sylvester, a laugh in his voice. ‘She is my godmother.’

‘Is she, though? Then you must know her pretty well. Do you think she will let Phoebe stay with her? Phoebe seems to think there can be no doubt, but I can’t help wondering whether she won’t think it pretty shocking of her to have run off from home, and perhaps send her back again. What do
you
think, sir?’

‘How can I say?’ countered Sylvester. ‘Miss Marlow, I collect, still holds by her scheme, even though the menace of an offer from me doesn’t exist?’

‘Oh yes! I did suggest to her that she need not go to London after all, but she says she will do so, and I must say I think she should—if only the old lady will receive her kindly! You know, sir, Lady Marlow is a regular brute, and it’s not a particle of use thinking Marlow will protect Phoebe, because he won’t! Phoebe knows there’s no help to be got from him—well, he told her so, when she begged him to stand by her!—and now she says she shan’t go back on any account. Only what’s to be done? Even if the snow melted tomorrow I can’t escort her, and I
know
I ought not to let her go alone. But if that detestable woman catches her here the trap will be down!’