Sylvester (7 page)

‘Well, that ought to make him acceptable to you!’ observed Susan. ‘But what is he like? Is he young? Handsome?’

‘I don’t know what his age may be. He is not
old
,
I suppose. As for handsome, people say he is, but
I
do not think so. In fact—’ She stopped suddenly, aware of Mary’s innocently inquiring gaze, and ended her description of Sylvester by saying only that she judged him to ride about twelve stone.

Mary, who had a retentive memory, said hopefully: ‘Papa used to ride twelve stone when he was a young man. He said so once, and also that it is the best weight for hunting over strong country. Does the Duke hunt over strong country, Phoebe?’

Susan broke in on this with pardonable impatience. ‘Who cares a fig for that? I wish you won’t be so provoking, Phoebe! Why don’t you want him to offer for you? Is he disagreeable? For my part, if he were rich and reasonably civil I shouldn’t care for anything else. Only fancy! You would have a house of your own, and as many new dresses as you wished, and very likely splendid jewels as well, besides being able to do just as you chose!’

Miss Battery eyed her with disfavour. ‘If you can’t refrain from expressing yourself with what I can’t call anything but vulgarity, Susan, I must impose silence upon you. In any event, it is past the hour, and you should be practising that sonatina.’

Having in this masterly fashion disposed of Susan, Miss Battery recommended Mary to occupy herself for half an hour with the sampler she was embroidering for her Mama’s birthday, and left the room, taking Phoebe with her. Firmly shutting the schoolroom door she said in a lowered voice:

‘Thought it best you should say no more to Susan. Good girl, but wants discretion. You’re all of a twitter: why?’

‘It is the most shocking thing!’ Phoebe declared, looking quite distracted. ‘If it were anyone but Mama I should think it a take-in! But
Mama
—! Oh dear, I am utterly confounded! I feel as though my senses won’t be straight again for a twelvemonth!’

‘Not so loud!’ said Miss Battery. ‘Tell me in your bedchamber! Try to recover your composure, my dear.’

Thus adjured, Phoebe followed her meekly along the corridor to her bedchamber. Since one of Lady Marlow’s favourite economies was to allow no fires to be kindled in any bedchamber but her own, her lord’s, and those occupied by such guests as were hardy enough to visit Austerby during the winter months, this apartment might have been considered singularly unsuitable for a
tete-a-tete
.
Phoebe, however, was inured to its rigours. Miss Battery, stalking over to the wardrobe, and unearthing from it a large shawl, wrapped this round her pupil’s thin shoulders, saying as she did so: ‘I collect you don’t wish for this match. Can’t deny that it’s a flattering one, or that I should like to see you so well-established. Now, tell me this, child: have you got some silly notion in your head about that scheme of yours to set up for yourself with me to bear you company? Because if so don’t give it a thought!
I
shan’t. Never supposed it would come to pass—or wished for it, if you received an agreeable offer.’

‘No, no, it’s not that!’ Phoebe said. ‘For if I were to be married who but you should I want to instruct my children? Sibby, do you know who Salford is?’

Miss Battery frowned at her in a puzzled way. ‘Who he is?’ she repeated. ‘You said he was a duke.’

Phoebe began to laugh a little hysterically. ‘He is Count Ugolino!’ she said.

It might have been expected that this extraordinary announcement would have still further bewildered .Miss Battery, but although she was certainly startled by it, she found it perfectly intelligible. Ejaculating: ‘Merciful heavens!’ she sat down limply, and stared at Phoebe in great perturbation. She was well-acquainted with the Count: indeed, she might have been said to have been present at his birth, an event for which she was, in some measure, responsible, since she had for several years shared with Phoebe the romantic novels which were the solace of her own leisure hours. Her only extravagance was a subscription to a Bath lending library; her only conscious sin was that she encouraged Lady Marlow to suppose that the package delivered weekly by the carrier contained only works of an erudite or an elevating character. So strong was Lady Marlow’s disapproval of fiction that even Miss Edgeworth’s moral tales were forbidden to her daughters. Her rule was so absolute that it never occurred to her to doubt that she was obeyed to the letter; and as she was as imperceptive as she was despotic no suspicion had ever crossed her mind that Miss Battery was by no means the rigid disciplinarian she appeared.

In none of Lady Marlow’s own daughters did Miss Battery discover the imaginative turn of mind so much deprecated by, her ladyship; in Phoebe it was pronounced, and Miss Battery, loving her and deeply pitying her, fostered it, knowing how much her own joyless existence was lightened by excursions into a world of pure make-believe. From the little girl who scribbled fairy stories for the rapt delectation of Susan and Mary, Phoebe had developed into a real authoress, and one, moreover, who had written a stirring romance worthy of being published.

She had written it after her London season. It had come white-hot from her ready pen, and Miss Battery had been quick to see that it was far in advance of her earlier attempts at novel-writing. Its plot was as extravagant as anything that came from the Minerva Press; the behaviour of its characters was for the most part wildly improbable; the scene was laid in an unidentifiable country; and the entire story was rich in absurdity. But Phoebe’s pen had always been persuasive, and so enthralling did she contrive to make the adventures of her heroine that it was not until he had reached the end of the book that even so stern a critic as young Mr Orde bethought him of the various incidents which he saw, in retrospect, to be impossible. Miss Battery, a more discerning critic, recognized not only the popular nature of the tale, but also the flowering in it of a latent talent. Phoebe had discovered in herself a gift for humorous portraiture, and she had not wasted her time in London. Tom Orde might complain that a score of minor characters were irrelevant, but Miss Battery knew that it was these swift, unerring sketches that raised
The Lost Heir
above the commonplace. She would not allow Phoebe to expunge one of them, or a line of their wickedly diverting dialogues, but persuaded her instead to write it all out in fairest copperplate. Phoebe groaned at this tedious labour, but since neither she nor Miss Battery knew of a professional copyist, and would have been hard put to it to have paid for such a person’s services, she submitted to the drudgery. After that the book was packed up, and dispatched by the mail to Miss Battery’s cousin, Mr Gilbert Otley, junior partner in the small but aspiring firm of Newsham & Otley, Publishers.

Mr Otley, receiving the manuscript and perusing the accompanying letter from Miss Battery, was unimpressed. At first glance he did not think
The Lost Heir
the sort of book he wished to handle; and the intelligence that it was the work of a Lady of Quality drew from him only a heavy sigh. However, he took
The Lost Heir
home with him, and read it at a sitting. It did not take him long to perceive that it was to some extent a
roman a clef
,
for although he was unacquainted with the members of the
haut ton
he was shrewd enough to realize that the authoress in depicting many of her characters was drawing from the life. The success of
Glenarvon
,
published some eighteen months previously, was still fresh in his mind; and it was this circumstance which led him, rather doubtfully, to hand
The Lost Heir
to his partner.

Mr Harvey Newsham was unexpectedly enthusiastic; and when Mr Otley pointed out to him that it was not such a book as they had been used to produce he replied caustically that if it enjoyed better sales than had the last three of these works he for one should not complain.

‘But will it?’ said Mr Otley. ‘The story is no great thing, after all—in fact it’s nonsensical!’

‘No one will care for that.’

‘Well, I don’t know. I should have thought it too fantastical myself. In fact, it still has me in a puzzle. How the devil did that Ugolino-fellow get hold of his nephew in the first place? And why didn’t he smother him, or something, when he
had
got hold of him, instead of keeping him prisoner in that castle of his? And as for the boy’s sister managing to get into the place, let alone that corkbrained hero, and then the pair of them setting sail with the boy—well, they couldn’t have done it’.’

Mr Newsham dismissed such trivialities with a wave of his hand. ‘It doesn’t signify. This female—’ he jabbed a finger at Phoebe’s manuscript—’knows how to do the trick! What’s more, the book’s stuffed with people she’s met, and
that’s
what will make the nobs buy it.’ He glanced down at the manuscript appraisingly. ‘In three volumes, handsomely bound,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘At the start of next season. Say April—skilfully puffed-off, of course. I think it will do, Otley!’

‘It will be pretty expensive,’ objected Mr Otley. ‘I mean this book to be in every fashionable drawing-room, and it won’t do to get it up shoddy. Colburn issued Lady Caroline Lamb’s tale in tooled leather. It looked very well.’

‘Ay, but you may depend upon it Lady Caroline paid for it,’ retorted Mr Otley.

‘No reason to suppose this author won’t do the same,’ said the optimistic Mr Newsham. ‘Offer her profit-sharing terms, she to pay all losses. You know, my boy, if the book were to take, Colburn will be as surly as a butcher’s dog to think it wasn’t offered him!’

‘So he will!’ agreed Mr Otley, cheered by this reflection. ‘I’ll write off to my cousin next week: we don’t wish to appear over-anxious to come to terms. I shall tell her it ain’t just in our line, besides having a good many faults.’

This programme, being approved by the senior partner, was carried out; but from then on the negotiations proceeded on quite different lines from those envisaged by Mr Otley. Miss Battery’s prompt reply afforded him a new insight into that lady’s character. Begging his pardon for having put him to the trouble of reading a work which she now realized to be unsuitable matter for the firm of Newsham & Otley she requested him to return it to her by the mail, care of the receiving office in Bath. Further inquiries had given her to think that the manuscript ought to be offered to Colburn, or perhaps to Egerton. She would be much obliged to him for his advice on this point, and remained his affectionate cousin, Sibylla Battery.

Recovering from this setback, Mr Otley then entered upon some spirited bargaining, agreement being finally reached at the sum of £150, to be received by Miss Battery on behalf of the author upon receipt by the publisher of the booksellers’ accounts. Left to himself Mr Otley would have done his possible to have reduced this figure by £50, but at this stage of the negotiations Mr Newsham intervened, giving it as his opinion that to behave scaly to a promising new author could result only in her offering her second book to a rival publisher. He would have been gratified could he but have known to what dizzy heights his generosity raised Miss Marlow’s spirits. The sum seemed enormous to her; and then and there was born her determination to leave Austerby as soon as she came of age, and with Miss Battery for chaperon to set up a modest establishment of her own in which she would be able without interference to pursue her lucrative vocation.

Besides Miss Battery only Mr Orde shared the secret of her authorship, and it was not until he had been permitted to see the proof-sheets that Mr Orde was relieved of his suspicion that the whole affair was an attempt to hoax him. He was much more impressed by the sight of the story in actual print than he thought it proper to admit; but he very handsomely acknowledged to the proud author that he had not believed it could read half as well.

5

Miss Battery, a strong-minded female, did not for many minutes allow her consternation to overpower her. Squaring her shoulders, she said: ‘Unfortunate! That you should have taken him in dislike, I mean. No more to be said, if that’s the case. Though I don’t suppose he can be as villainous as Count Ugolino. No one could be.’

‘Oh, no! He isn’t villainous at all—at least, I shouldn’t think he would be, but I’m not even acquainted with him! I only chose him for Ugolino because of the way his eyebrows slant, which makes him look just like a villain. And also, of course, because of his—his
crested air
,
which made me long to give him a set-down!’

‘Self-consequence?’ said Miss Battery, a little at sea. ‘Thinks too much of his rank?’

Phoebe shook her head, frowning. ‘No, it isn’t that. It is—yes, it is worse than that! I think it is so natural to him to have all that consequence that he doesn’t give it a thought. Do you understand, Sibby?’

‘No. Oughtn’t to give it a thought.’

‘It is very difficult to explain, but I am persuaded you
will
understand, when you see him. It is as though being a duke is so much a part of him that he takes it perfectly for granted, and quite unconsciously expects to be treated everywhere with distinction. I don’t mean to say that his manners are not what they ought to be, for he has a great deal of well-bred ease—a sort of cool civility, you know, towards persons who don’t interest him. I believe he is very amiable to those whom he likes, but the thing is—or so I fancy—that he doesn’t care a button for what anyone may think of him. To be sure,
that
isn’t wonderful,’ she added reflectively, ‘for the way he is courted and toad-eaten is quite repulsive! Why, when Lady Sefton brought him up to me—she is the Baroness Josceline in my story, you know: the affected, fidgety one!—she introduced him as though she were conferring the greatest favour on me!’