“For the lord’s sake—!” expostulated Tom. “What do you want, you silly little lobcock?”

“My own Button!” wailed Edmund.

Fortunately, the noise of his lamentations reached Phoebe’s ears. She came quickly into the cabin, and upon being assured by Sir Nugent that so far from bullying his son-in-law he had ruined one of his coats to provide him with the button he so insistently demanded said contemptuously: “I should have thought you must have known better! He means his nurse, of course! For heaven’s sake, go away, both of you! There, my dear, come to Phoebe, then! Poor little man!”

“He s-said it was my Button!” sobbed Edmund into her shoulder. “He is bad! I won’t have him, I won’t, I won’t!”

22

The Lion d’Argent was Calais’ most fashionable inn. A parlour and its two best bedchambers had been engaged by Sinderby, the courier hired by Sir Nugent to smooth the furrows from the path of what promised to be a protracted honeymoon. Sinderby had crossed to Calais to be sure of securing accommodation worthy of his wealthy patron, both at the Lion d’Argent and at Abbeville’s best hotel. He had also hired a bonne to wait on Master Edmund; and he returned to Dover to superintend the embarkation of the party, feeling that he had provided for every eventuality.

He could not like the chariot of Sir Nugent’s design but he accepted it; the arrival of my lady without her maid was harder to accept, for he foresaw that he would be expected to produce a first-rate abigail as soon as he landed again in France, which would be impossible. Her ladyship would have to be content with the services of some quite inferior person until she came to Paris, and she did not bear the appearance of a lady easily contented.

With the arrival on board the Betsy Anne of Miss Marlow and Mr. Orde his spirits sank. Not only did the addition of two more people to the party overset his careful plans, but he could not approve of these unexpected travellers. He speedily came to the conclusion that there was something smoky about them. They had no baggage; and when, on arrival at Calais, he had requested Mr. Orde to give into his charge his and Miss Marlow’s passports Mr. Orde, clapping a hand to his pocket, had uttered an exclamation of dismay. “Don’t say you haven’t got the passports!” had cried Miss Marlow. “Oh, no!” had been Mr. Orde’s grim response. “I’ve got ’em all right and tight! All of ’em!” Upon which Miss Marlow had looked ready to faint. Something very havey-cavey about Miss Marlow and Mr. Orde, decided Sinderby.

He had foreseen that a wearing time awaited him in Calais, but he had not bargained for a search among the haberdashers’ shops for a nightshirt to fit a six-year-old child. Furthermore, neither Sir Nugent’s wealth nor his own address could procure two extra bedchambers at the Lion d’Argent, as full as it could hold. He was obliged to accept for Miss Marlow the apartment hired for my lady’s abigail, and to put Mr. Orde in with Sir Nugent, an arrangement which was agreeable to neither of these gentlemen. The Young Person he had found to wait on my lady clearly would not do: she lacked quality. There would be complaints from my lady.

When he returned from scouring the town for a nightshirt it was to discover that another of his arrangements had been overset. Master Rayne had flatly refused to have anything to do with the excellent bonne provided for him.

“Had to send her off,” said Sir Nugent. “Silly wench started gabbling French to him! He wouldn’t stand that, of course. Took it in snuff immediately. I knew he would, the moment she said bong-jaw. “Mark me,” I said to Miss Marlow, “if her tale ain’t told!” Which it was. However, it don’t signify: Miss Marlow means to look after him. Devilish good thing we brought her with us!”

Lady Ianthe having retired to bed as soon as she had arrived at the Lion d’Argent, only three of the party sat down to dinner in the private parlour. Edmund, who had revived the instant he had set foot on land, had providentially dropped asleep in the little bed set up for him in Phoebe’s attic, and Pett was mounting guard over him. He was also washing and ironing his only day-shirt, an office which he promised to perform every evening until the young gentleman’s wardrobe could be replenished.

Phoebe was too tired to talk, and Tom too much preoccupied with the problems besetting them, so the burden of conversation fell on Sir Nugent, who maintained throughout the meal a stream of amiable reminiscences. However, when the covers were removed he excused himself, and went off to enjoy one of his cigars downstairs.

“Thank the lord!” said Tom. “Phoebe, we must discuss what’s to be done. I don’t want to croak, but the fact is we’re in the devil of a fix.”

“I suppose we are,” she agreed, with remarkable calm. “But at least I know what I must do. Should you mind, Tom, if I write two letters before we discuss anything? I have spoken to the courier, and he engages to have them conveyed to England by the next packet, by a private hand. My letter to Grandmama, and the passports, will be taken directly to the Ship, but the courier warns me that if this wind continues the packet may not sail tomorrow.” She sighed, and said resignedly: “I hope it may, but if it doesn’t there’s no other way of reaching poor Grandmama, so it’s no use fretting.”

“Who is the other letter for? Salford?” asked Tom shrewdly.

“Yes, of course. If he is unable to discover in which direction Ianthe fled—”

“I shouldn’t think that likely,” interrupted Tom. “Not if he gets wind of that carriage!”

“No, that’s what I hope,” she agreed. “But he might not, you know. So I shall send him word, and tell him also that I don’t mean to leave Edmund, and will contrive somehow to leave word for him wherever we stop on the road.”

“Oh!” said Tom. “So that’s it, is it? Never mind the letters yet! We’ll discuss this business first. How much money have you?” She shook her head. “None, eh? I thought not. Well, all I have is the ready in my pockets, and it don’t amount to more than a couple of Yellow Boys, fifteen shillings in coach-wheels, and a few ha’pence. The roll of soft Father gave me is locked in my portmanteau. I daresay I could borrow from Fotherby, but I don’t mind telling you it’ll go against the shins with me to do it! I’ve had to borrow one of his shirts already, and a few neckcloths and handkerchiefs, you know. What about you?”

“Oh, isn’t it horrid?” she exclaimed. “I’ve had to borrow from Lady Ianthe, and one would so much prefer not to be beholden to either of them! But perhaps we may be able to set it right again, if things go as I hope they may. Grandmama will receive those passports with my letter, and surely she must set out at once, whatever the weather?”

“I should think so,” he agreed. “And a rare tweak she’ll be in! Phew!”

“Yes, and how could one blame her? And if I were obliged to go beyond Paris—No, I think Salford must have overtaken us before that could happen, even if he doesn’t start until he has read my letter. I know that Sir Nugent means to take four days on the road to Paris, and I fancy he will find he must take more, with Edmund on his hands. If he leaves Calais at all!”

“Leaving tomorrow, aren’t they?”

“Yes, that’s what they mean to do, but I shouldn’t wonder at it if they find themselves fixed here for several days. Tom, I think Lady Ianthe really is ill!”

“Well, I own that would be nuts for us, but what if she ain’t?”

“Then I am going with them,” said Phoebe. “I won’t leave Edmund. Oh, Tom, for all his quaint ways he’s the merest baby! When I kissed him goodnight he put his arms round my neck, and made me promise not to go away! I nearly cried myself, for it was so very affecting. He can’t understand what is happening to him, and he was afraid I might slip away if he let me out of his sight. But when I said I would stay until he has Button again he was quite satisfied. I don’t mean to break faith with him, I assure you.”

“I see,” Tom said.

She looked gratefully at him. “I knew you would. But I have been thinking whether it might not be best, perhaps, if you borrowed enough money from Sir Nugent to buy your passage back to Dover, to escort Grandmama?”

“You needn’t say any more!” he interrupted. “If you think I’ll leave you to career across France with this ramshackle pair you were never more mistaken in your life!”

“Well, to own the truth I didn’t think you would,” she said candidly. “And I must say I am thankful for it! Not but what Sir Nugent is very good-natured.”

“Oh, he’s good-natured enough!” Tom said. “But don’t you get it into your head that he’s a man of character, because he ain’t! He’s a pretty loose fish, if you want the truth! He was talking to me for ever aboard the schooner, and it’s as plain as a pack-saddle he hobnobs with a set of dashed Queer Nabs: all sorts upon the lark! In fact, he’s what my father calls half flash and half foolish. Well, good God, if he had any principles he wouldn’t have kidnapped Edmund!”

She smiled. “A Bad Man!”

“Ah, there’s a deal of sense in young Edmund’s cock-loft!” he said, grinning.

On the following morning Phoebe led Edmund down to breakfast to find that Ianthe was still keeping her bed; but her hopes of delay were dashed when Sir Nugent informed her with an air of grave concern that although her la’ship was feeling devilish poorly she was determined to leave Calais that morning. She had not closed her eyes all night. People had tramped past her door; boots had been flung about in the room above hers; doors had been slammed; and the rumble of vehicles over the pavé had brought on her nervous tic. Though it killed her she would drive to Abbeville that day.