Sylvester (44 page)

She took the letter from him quickly, recognizing Lady Ingham’s writing. ‘The smaller one, if you please, Tom. Edmund! where are you off to?’

‘Must speak to Keighley!’ Edmund said importantly, and dashed off in the direction of the stairs.

‘Unfortunate Keighley!’ remarked Sylvester, not looking up from the newspaper.

Tom departed in Edmund’s wake, and Phoebe, her fingers slightly trembling, broke the wafer that sealed her letter, and spread open the single, crossed sheet. Sylvester lowered the newspaper, and watched her. She did not say anything when she had finished reading the letter, but folded it again, and stood holding it, a blind look in her eyes.

‘Well?’

She turned her head towards the window, startled. She had never heard Sylvester speak so roughly, and wondered why he should do so.

‘You may as well tell me. Your face has already informed me that it is not a pleasant missive.’

‘No,’ she said.’ She supposed me—when she wrote this—to have persuaded Tom to take me home. I think Muker must have encouraged her to think it, to be rid of me. She is very jealous of me. She may even have believed me to be running away with Tom. That—that was my fault.’

‘Unnecessary to tell me that! You have a genius for bringing trouble upon yourself.’

She looked at him for a moment, hurt and surprise in her eyes, and then turned away, and walked over to the fire. It seemed so needlessly cruel, and so unlike him, to taunt her when he knew her to be distressed that she felt bewildered. It was certainly a taunt, but there had been no mockery in his voice, only anger. Why he should be angry, what she had done to revive his furious resentment, she could not imagine. She found it a little difficult to speak, but managed to say: ‘I am afraid I have. I seem always to be tumbling into a scrape. Hoydenish, my mother-in-law was used to call me, and did her best to teach me prudence and propriety. I wish she had succeeded.’

‘You are not alone in that wish!’ he said savagely.

The harsh, angry voice was having its inevitable effect on her: she began to feel sick, inwardly shivering, and was obliged to sit down, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

‘You tumbled into a scrape, as you are pleased to call it, when I first made your acquaintance!’ he continued. ‘It would be more correct to say that you flung yourself into it, just as you flung yourself aboard that ship! If you choose to behave like a hoyden it is your own affair, but that is never enough for you! You don’t scruple to embroil others in your
scrapes
!
Thomas has been a victim,
I
have been one—my God, have I not!—and now it is your grandmother! Does she cast you off? Do you think yourself hardly used? You have no one but yourself to thank for the ills you’ve brought on your own head!’

She listened to this tirade, rigid with shock, scarcely able to believe that it was Sylvester and not a stranger who hurled these bitter accusations at her. The thought flitted across her brain that he was deliberately feeding his wrath, but it was overborne by her own anger, which leaped from a tiny spark to a blaze.

He said suddenly, before she could speak: ‘No—no! It’s of no use! Sparrow, Sparrow!’

She hardly heard him. She said in a voice husky with passion: ‘I have one other person to thank! It is yourself, my lord Duke! It was your arrogance that caused me to make you the model for my villain! But for you I should never have run away from my home! But for you no one need have known I was the author of that book! But for you I should not have
flung
myself aboard that schooner!
You
are the cause of every ill that has befallen me! You say I ill-used you: if I did you are wonderfully revenged, for you have ruined
me
!’

To her astonishment, and, indeed, indignation, he gave the oddest laugh. As she glared at him he said in the strangest voice she had yet heard: ‘Have I? Well—if that’s so, I will make reparation! Will you do me the honour, Miss Marlow, of accepting my hand in marriage?’

Thus Sylvester, an accomplished flirt, making his first proposal.

It never occurred to Phoebe that he had shaken himself off his balance, and was as self-conscious as a callow youth just out of school. Still less did it occur to her that the laugh and the exaggerated formality of his offer sprang from embarrassment. He was famed for his polished address; she had never, until this day, seen him lose his mastery over himself. She believed him to be mocking her, and started up from her chair, exclaiming: ‘How
dare
you?’

Sylvester, burningly aware of his own clumsiness, lost no time in making bad worse. ‘I beg your pardon! you mistake! I had no intention—Phoebe, it was out before I well knew what I was saying! I never meant to ask you to marry me—I was determined I would not! But—’ He broke off, realizing into what quagmires his attempts to explain himself were leading him.

‘That I
do
believe!’ she said hotly. ‘You have been so obliging as to tell me what you think of me, and I believe that too! You came to Austerby to look me over, as though I had been a filly, and decided I was not up to your weight!
Didn’t
you?’

‘What
next
will you say?’ he demanded, an involuntary laugh shaking him.

‘
Didn’t
you?’

‘Yes. But have you forgotten how you behaved? How could I know what you were when you tried only to disgust me? It wasn’t until later—’

‘To be sure!’ she said scathingly. ‘
Later
,
when I first made you a victim, embroiling you in my improper flight from Austerby, and next wounded your pride as I daresay it was never wounded before,
then
you began to think I was just the wife that would suit you! The fervent offer which you have been so flattering as to make me springs, naturally, from the folly that led me to thrust myself into your affairs, and so make it necessary for you to undertake a journey under circumstances so much beneath your dignity as to be positively degrading! How green of me not to have known immediately how it would be! You must forgive me! Had I dreamt that my lack of conduct would attach you to me I would have assumed the manners of a pattern of propriety whenever you came within sight of me! You would then have been spared the mortification of having your suit rejected, and I should have been spared an intolerable insult!’

‘There was no insult,’ he said, very pale. ‘If I phrased it—if it sounded to you as though I meant to insult you, believe that it was not so! What I said to you before, I said because the crazy things you do convinced me you were
not
the wife that would suit me! I wanted never to see you again after that night at the Castlereaghs’—I
thought
so, but it wasn’t so, because when I did see you again—I was overjoyed.’

Not a speech worthy of a man who made love charmingly, but Sylvester had never before tried to make love to a lady seething with rage and contempt.

‘Were you indeed?’ said Phoebe. ‘But you soon recovered, didn’t you?’

Nettled, he retorted: ‘No, I only
tried
to! Stop ripping up at me, you little shrew!’

‘Phoebe, don’t you mean to change your dress?’ said Tom, entering the room at this most inauspicious moment. ‘Keighley took your valise up—’ He broke off, dismayed, and stammered: ‘Oh, I b-beg pardon! I didn’t know—I’ll go!’

‘Go? Why?’ Phoebe said brightly. ‘Yes, indeed I mean to change my dress, and will do so immediately!’

Tom held the door for her, thinking that if only Sylvester, interrupted in the middle of an obvious scene, would drop his guard, grant him an opening, he could tell him just how to handle her. He shut the door, and turned.

‘Good God, Thomas! This sartorial magnificence! Are you trying to put me to the blush?’ said Sylvester quizzingly.

27

They left Dover just after eleven o’clock, by which time Miss Marlow had quarrelled with both her escorts. Emerging from her bedchamber in the guise of a haughty young lady of fashion she encountered Tom, and instantly asked him whether he had recovered the money he had left in his portmanteau. Upon being reassured on this point she asked him if he would hire a chaise for their conveyance to London. ‘No,’ said Tom, never one to mince his words. ‘I’ve got a better use for my blunt!’

‘I will repay you, I promise you!’ she urged.

‘Much obliged! When?’ said Tom brutally.

‘Grandmama—’

‘Mighty poor security! No, I thank you!’

‘If she will not do it I’ll sell my pearls!’ she declared.

‘That
would
make
me cut a fine figure, wouldn’t it?’

‘Tom, I don’t wish to travel at Salford’s expense!’ she blurted out.

‘That’s easily settled. Sell your pearls, and pay him!’

She said stiffly: ‘If you won’t do what I particularly wish, will you at least request the Duke to tell you how much money he has expended on my behalf since we left Abbeville?’

‘When I make a cake of myself it will be on my own account, and not on yours, Miss Woolly-crown!’ said Tom.

Two vehicles had been provided for the journey. One was a hired post-chaise, the other Sylvester’s own phaeton, and to each was harnessed a team of four horses. They were job horses, but they had been chosen by Keighley, and therefore, as Master Rayne pointed out to his uncle, prime cattle. When Tom brought his haughty charge out of the inn he found Master Rayne seated already in the phaeton, and Sylvester standing beside it, drawing on his gloves. He went up to him, exclaiming: ‘Are you driving yourself all the way to London, Salford?’

‘I am,’ replied Sylvester. ‘I would offer to take you with me, but I’m afraid Keighley must have that seat.’

‘Yes, of course, but you don’t mean to take Edmund too, do you? Had you not better let him come with us in the chaise?’

‘My dear Thomas, my only reason for telling Keighley to bring my phaeton to Dover was to save that brat as much travel-sickness as I could! He is invariably sick in closed carriages, and never in open ones. Will you accompany Miss Marlow? I hope she will not find the journey too fatiguing: we are a little late in starting, but we should reach town in time for dinner.’

Tom, though strongly of the opinion that Sylvester, in his present humour, would be happy to part with his nephew on any terms at the end of the first stage, raised no further demur, but went back to hand Phoebe up into the chaise.

For the first five miles not a word was uttered within this vehicle, but at Lydden, Phoebe (recovering a trifle, in her faithful friend’s opinion, from the sullens) asked Tom where he meant to put up in London.

‘At Salford’s house. He has invited me to spend a few days there. As long as I choose, in fact.’

‘Good gracious!’ said Phoebe. ‘What an honour for you! No wonder you were so unwilling to oblige me! I must be
quite
beneath your touch!’

‘You’ll precious soon wish you were beneath my
touch
,
if you don’t take care, my girl!’ said Tom. ‘If you’ve any more pretty morsels of wit under your tongue, reserve
’em for Salford! He’s far too well-bred to give you your deserts:
I
ain’t!’

Silence reigned for the next mile. ‘Tom,’ said Phoebe, in a small voice.

‘Well?’

‘I didn’t mean to say that. It was a
horrid
thing to say! I beg your pardon.’

He took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. ‘Pea-goose! What’s the matter?’ He waited for a moment. ‘I know I walked smash into a turn-up between you and Salford. What are you trying to do? Break your own silly neck?’

She withdrew her hand. ‘Excuse me, Tom, if you please! It would be quite improper in me to repeat what passed between us. Pray say no more!’

‘Very well,’ said Tom. ‘But don’t
you
choke yourself with pride, Phoebe!’

At Sittingbourne a halt was called, and the travellers partook of refreshment at the Rose. When they came out of the inn again, and Tom was about to hand Phoebe into the chaise, Sylvester said: ‘Do you care to tool the phaeton for a stage or two, Thomas?’

‘By Jove, yes!—if you think I shan’t overturn it!’ Tom replied, with a rueful grin. ‘And if—’ he hesitated, glancing at Phoebe.

‘Do just as you wish!’ she replied at once. ‘I can very well finish the journey in one of the Accommodation coaches!’

Sylvester turned, and strode towards the phaeton. ‘Get in!’ said Tom curtly. He added, as he took his seat beside Phoebe: ‘That’s the first time I’ve ever been glad you are
not
my sister!’

She returned no answer. Scarcely half a dozen sentences were exchanged during the remainder of the journey; but although Phoebe pretended to be asleep for the greater part of the way, sleep was never farther from her, so torn was she by conflicting emotions. Beside her Tom sat gazing out of the window, wondering what Sylvester could have said to have made her so angry; and wishing that there was something he could do for Sylvester, even if it were no more than relieving him of Edmund’s company.

But Keighley was shielding Sylvester from Edmund. ‘Give over plaguing his grace, Master Edmund!’ said Keighley. ‘Now, that’s quite enough, Master Edmund! There’s no good to be got out of flying into one of your tantrums!’ said Keighley, thinking what a pity it was that he could no longer say the same to Sylvester.

It was after six when the carriages drew up in Berkeley Square, before Salford House. ‘Why do we stop here?’ demanded Phoebe.