‘Yes, it-it is-isn’t it?’ stammered Phoebe.

‘Pray be seated, Duke!’ commanded Lady Marlow. ‘You have been staying with the Beauforts. You are a hunting man, I collect. I am not myself a friend to the sport, but Marlow is greatly addicted to it.’

‘Oh, you must not talk so to Salford!’ said Lord Marlow. ‘He is a clipping rider, you know: showed us all the way!’

Beyond directing an enigmatical look at his host Sylvester made no response to this piece of flattery. Lady Marlow said that she believed the Duke of Beaufort to be a very worthy man, but as she followed up this encomium by deploring the dandyism of his heir the conversation did not prosper. Lord Marlow struck in with a sporting anecdote, and Phoebe, picking up her tambour-frame and setting another crooked stitch, sat listening for the next twenty minutes to a three-cornered dialogue that would have diverted her had it not vexed her too much to seem amusing. Lady Marlow’s part in it took the form of a series of statements, which, according to her custom, she announced in a fashion that admitted of no argument; Lord Marlow, in an effort to check her, broke in whenever he could with a flow of jovial remarks and reminiscences, all of which were extremely trivial; and Sylvester, civil, and cool, and unhelpful, replied to each of his hosts in turn, and encouraged neither.

To hear her father striving with such eager anxiety to engage Sylvester’s interest very soon made Phoebe angry. He was an inveterate talker, and his most fervent admirers could scarcely have called him a sensible man, but he was a much older man than Sylvester, he was doing his best to please, and she thought it detestable of Sylvester to accord him nothing but polite tolerance. Her dislike of him grew to such large proportions that when Lady Marlow announced that they dined at six o’clock she was almost disappointed to see that he bore the announcement with fortitude. Fuel for her rancour would have been supplied by the knowledge, could she but have come by it, that it was just what he had expected.

When she entered her chilly bedchamber to change her dress for dinner Phoebe found a screw of paper stuck into the frame of the looking glass, and realized, as she drew it out and unfolded it, that it must have been put there by Firbank, the butler, whose extraordinary grimaces, as she had passed him in the hall in the wake of Lady Marlow, she had been quite unable to interpret. She saw that it was from Tom, but its message was slightly disappointing. After informing her that he was on his way to dine with friends he added that he should leave betimes, and drop in at Austerby on his way home to learn how she had gone on. ‘I have greased Firbank in the fist, and he will let me in the side-door, and says we shall be safe in the morning room, so come there before you retire to bed. By the bye, the Mail was four hours late reaching Bath today on account of snow as far as Reading. I shouldn’t wonder at it if you had this Duke of yours quartered on you for a se’enight.’

At Austerby Phoebe did not enjoy the luxury of an abigail, so there was no one to compel her to spend more time than was strictly necessary over the changing of her dress. She made haste out of her muslin frock and arrayed herself in a somewhat scrambling way in the evening gown prescribed by Lady Marlow. It was as unbecoming to her as the muslin, but beyond combing out her ringlets and clasping a string of pearls round her throat she made no attempt to render herself more presentable. Her ears were on the prick to catch the sounds of male voices. When she heard these, and knew that her father was escorting the Duke to his bedchamber, her toilet was done. Wrapping a shawl round her shoulders she slipped out of her room, and across the hall to Lord Marlow’s dressing room.

‘Papa, may I speak to you?’

His valet was with him, and he had already put off his coat, but being naturally affable he was about to welcome his daughter, when he saw that she was labouring under barely repressed agitation, and he at once felt uneasy. He said in a bluff voice: ‘Well, unless it is of immediate importance, my dear-’

‘It is of most immediate importance, Papa!’

His uneasiness grew. ‘Oh, well, then-! Well, I can spare you five minutes, I daresay!’

His valet went out of the room. Hardly had he shut the door than Phoebe said breathlessly: ‘Papa, I wish to tell you-I cannot like the Duke of Salford!’

He stood there staring at her, at first aghast, and then, as a sense of ill-usage crept over him, with gathering choler. He said explosively: ‘Well, upon my word, Phoebe! A fine moment you have chosen to break this news to me!’

‘How could I break it to you earlier? If you had but told me before you went to Blandford Park what you intended! Papa, you know Mama would never have permitted me to send a servant there with a letter from me, begging you to go no further in the business! Oh, pray, Papa, don’t be angry! Indeed, it is not my fault you were kept in ignorance of-of my sentiments upon this occasion!’

The colour in his florid cheeks darkened; he really did feel that he had been abominably used. His pride in having contrived to draw the Duke into Lady Ingham’s net had been great; already he was three parts persuaded that the scheme had been all his own, and that he had been put to considerable trouble on his daughter’s behalf. Now it seemed that his care was to be thrown away. That was bad; and still worse would be the awkwardness of his situation, if he were obliged to inform Sylvester that Phoebe would have none of him. In an attempt to turn aside her protests, he said: ‘Pooh, nonsense! The merest irritation of nerves, my dear! You are shy-yes, yes, you are shy, I say, and who should know better than your father? You have a great deal of sensibility-I always thought it had been wiser not to have told you what Salford’s purpose was in visiting us, but your mama-however, that’s nothing to the purpose now the mischief has been done! Your senses are in disorder! I don’t deny that your situation is embarrassing. I declare I am vexed to death that your mama should have- But you will not regard it! I assure you, I have given a great deal of thought to this matter, and am satisfied that Salford will make you an amiable husband. You will allow that I am more fitted to be the judge of a man’s character than you! Well, I am satisfied with Salford: he is as sound as a roast!’ He gave his hearty laugh, and added: ‘I am prepared to wager the day is not far distant when you will wonder how you can have been such a goose! How I shall joke you about it!’

‘Papa, I cannot like him!’ she repeated.

‘For God’s sake, girl, don’t talk such fustian!’ he said irascibly. ‘You are barely acquainted with him! A pretty pass we have come to when a chit of a girl holds up her nose at a man of Salford’s estate! Let me tell you that you should rather be blessing yourself for your good fortune!’

She said imploringly: ‘Papa, you know I would not willingly displease you, but-’

‘Very fine talking!’ he interrupted. ‘You haven’t a pennyworth’s consideration for me! What a fix you would put me in! Good God, it is beyond anything! So I am to inform Salford you cannot like him! Upon my word, it puts me out of all heart, I declare to heaven it does! Here am I, putting myself to all this trouble-ay, and expense! for if Salford should take a fancy to the young chestnut I must let him have the horse at a price that will put me sadly out of pocket, of course. Not to mention the new dress that was purchased for you, and I dare not say how many bottles of the good claret! A hundred pounds I paid for one hogshead, and no more than fifty bottles left, by what Firbank tells me. Carbonnell’s Best!’

‘Papa-’

‘Don’t talk to me!’ he said, lashing himself into a weak man’s rage. ‘I have no patience left to speak to you! And what your mama will say-!’

‘Oh, you won’t tell her! Surely you won’t?’ she cried. ‘You could tell the Duke-that you find you were mistaken in my sentiments, so that he won’t propose to me! Papa-!’

‘If I am to be put into such a position she must know the whole!’ he said, taking instant advantage of her fright. ‘I should be sorry indeed if I were obliged to divulge to her what has passed between us, but if you continue in this obstinacy I must do so. Now, my dear child, consider! Salford has had no opportunity to fix his interest with you: at least grant him that opportunity! If you find you are still unable to like him when he has been staying with us some few days, we will talk of this again. Meanwhile I shall say nothing of this interview to Mama, and you need not either. There, I fancy your senses are in a way to being straight again, are they not?’ He gave her shoulder a pat. ‘Now I must send you away, or Salford will be down before me. I am not vexed with you: you have sometimes an odd kick in your gallop, but you are a good girl at heart, and you know you may trust your father!’

She went away without another word. The optimistic trend of his mind made it easy for him to believe that he had talked her into submission, but the truth was she knew him too well to persevere. His dislike of finding himself in an uncomfortable predicament was stronger than his love for his children; so far from trusting him she felt sure that before he slept that night he would have told his wife the whole. He would not bring pressure to bear upon his daughter, for that would be uncomfortable too; but he would look the other way while his wife did so.

Until the morning Phoebe thought she must be safe from attack. There was not much time left to her to think of some means of escape from a fate that had begun to seem inevitable; and she could look for no help from any inmate of Austerby. To ask it of Miss Battery would be not only to place the governess in a position of great difficulty, but to ensure her being dismissed from her post under such conditions as must make it hard indeed for her to establish herself in another household. Tom could be relied on to do whatever was required of him, but it was hard to see how his support could be of assistance. She could think of no one but her grandmother who might be able to lend her effective aid. She was not intimately acquainted with Lady Ingham, but she knew her to be well-disposed towards her, and she knew too that she held Lady Marlow in contempt and dislike. If Austerby had been within reach of London, Phoebe would have had no hesitation in claiming her protection. But Austerby was ninety miles from London. It would be useless to write a letter, for it was not to be supposed that an invalid would come posting into Somerset to rescue her in the middle of a hard winter, and although Grandmama had several times shown herself to be more than a match for Mama when they had met face to face, at a distance Mama would have everything all her own way.