Phoebe fled back to the schoolroom. Here she found not only Susan, but her two next sisters as well: thirteen-year-old Mary, and the saintly Eliza. Susan, perceiving that Phoebe was big with news, instantly banished Eliza to the nursery, and, when that affronted damsel showed signs of recalcitrance, forcibly ejected her from the room, recommending her to go and tell Mama, and to be careful how she got into bed later. This sinister warning quelled Eliza, the horrid memory of a slug between her sheets still lively in her mind, and she prepared to join the youngest of the family in the nursery, merely apostrophizing Susan, through the keyhole, as the greatest beast in nature before taking herself off. Unfortunately Miss Battery came along the passage at that moment and very properly consigned her to her bedroom for using language unbecoming to a young lady of quality. Eliza complained in a whining voice that Phoebe and Sukey were very unkind and would not tell her any of their secrets, but this only drew down on her a reprimand for indulging the sin of curiosity. Miss Battery led her inexorably to her bedchamber before repairing to the schoolroom.

She reached the room just as Mary, a humble-minded girl, gathered her books together, asking her sister whether she too must go away.

“Not unless Phoebe wishes,” replied Susan. “You don’t carry tales to Mama!”

“Oh, no!” Phoebe said. “Of course I don’t wish you to go, Mary! Besides, it isn’t a secret.” She looked round quickly as the door opened, and exclaimed: “Oh, Sibby, did you know? Did Mama tell you?”

“No,” said Miss Battery. “I overheard something your papa said to her, though. Couldn’t help but do so. I thought it not right to say anything to you, but when I heard you had been sent for to the dressing-room I guessed what it must be. Your papa has received an offer for your hand.”

“No!” cried Susan. “Phoebe, has he indeed?”

“Yes—at least, I think—Oh, I don’t know, but Mama seems to think he will, if only I will conduct myself conformably!”

“Oh, famous!” Susan declared, clapping her hands. “Who is he? How could you be so sly as never to breathe a word about it? Did you meet him in London? Is he passionately in love with you?”

“No!” replied Phoebe baldly.

This damping monosyllable checked Susan’s raptures. Miss Battery looked rather anxiously at Phoebe; and Mary said diffidently that she rather supposed that persons of quality did not fall in love.

“That’s only what Mama says, and I know it isn’t true!” said Susan scornfully. “Is it, ma’am?”

“Can’t say,” responded Miss Battery briefly. “Nor can you. Shouldn’t be thinking of such things at your age.”

“Pooh, I am nearly sixteen, and I can tell you I mean to get a husband as soon as I can! Phoebe, do stop being missish, and tell us who he is!”

“I’m not being missish!” said Phoebe indignantly. “I am in flat despair, and he is the Duke of Salford!”

“W-what?” gasped Susan. “Phoebe, you wretch, you’re hoaxing us! Only fancy you as a duchess!”

Phoebe was not in the least offended by her burst of hearty laughter, but Mary said stoutly: “I think Phoebe would make a very nice duchess.”

That made Phoebe laugh too, but Miss Battery nodded, and said: “So she would!”

“How can you say so?” expostulated Phoebe. “When I haven’t the smallest turn for fashion, and never know what to say to strangers, or—”

“Is he fashionable?” interrupted Susan eagerly.

“Oh, excessively! That is, I don’t know, but I should think he would be. He is always very well dressed, and he goes to all the ton parties, and drives a splendid pair of dapple-greys in the Park. I shouldn’t wonder at it if he spent as much as a hundred pounds a year on soap in his stables.”

“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 tête-à-tête. 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.