He burst out laughing, and demanded further news of Alice. But the Dowager said that rustics didn’t amuse her, so, instead, Phoebe told him about her father’s letter, and he incensed the Dowager by enjoying that hugely. Even less than by rustics was she amused by Lord Marlow’s fatuity.

Sylvester did not remain for long, nor was he offered the chance of a tête-à-tête with Phoebe. The only tête-à-tête granted him was a brief one with the Dowager, who found an excuse to send Phoebe out of the room for a few minutes, so that she could say to him: ‘I’m glad you didn’t tell the child she had me to thank for your visit to Austerby. I’m sorry for that, Sylvester, and think the better of you for having sent her to me, when I don’t doubt you were feeling vexed with me. Mind, if I’d known she’d met you already, and not fancied you, I would never have done it! However, there’s no harm done, and no need to think of it again. She won’t, and you may depend on it I shan’t either. Now that I know her better I see you wouldn’t suit at all. I shouldn’t wonder at it if she’s going to prove as hard to please as her mother was.’

He was spared having to answer this speech by Phoebe’s coming back into the room. He rose to take his leave, and, as he shook hands with Phoebe, said: ‘I hope we may meet again soon. You will be attending all the balls, I expect. I hardly dare ask you-if I really did cut you at Almack’s!-if you will stand up with me?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she responded. ‘It wouldn’t be very civil in me to refuse, would it?’

‘I might have known it!’ he exclaimed. ‘How could I be such a flat as to offer you the chance to give me one of your set-downs?’

‘I didn’t!’ she protested.

‘Then heaven help me when you do!’ he said. ‘Goodbye! Don’t grow too civil, will you? But I need not ask that: you won’t!’

15

Before Phoebe saw Sylvester again she had encountered another member of his family: accompanying her grandmother on a morning visit she met Lady Henry Rayne.

Several ladies had elected to call on old Mrs. Stour that day, but the younger generation was represented only by Lady Henry and Miss Marlow. Lady Henry, brought by her mama, was so heartily bored that even the entrance of an unknown girl came to her as an alleviation. She seized the first opportunity that offered of changing her seat for one beside Phoebe’s, saying, with her pretty smile: ‘I think we have met before, haven’t we? Only I am so stupid at remembering names!’

‘Well, not precisely,’ replied Phoebe, with her usual candour. ‘I never saw you but twice in my life, and I wasn’t introduced to you. Once was at the Opera House, but the first occasion was at Lady Jersey’s ball last year. I am afraid it was the circumstance of my staring at you so rudely which makes you think we have met! But you looked so beautiful I couldn’t drag my eyes away! I beg your pardon! you must think me very impertinent!’

Not unnaturally Ianthe found nothing impertinent in this speech. Her own words had been a mere conversational gambit; she had no recollection of having seen Phoebe before, but she said: ‘Indeed I didn’t! I am sorry we were never introduced until today. I am not often in London.’ She added, with a wistful smile: ‘I am a widow, you know.’

‘Oh-!’ Phoebe was genuinely shocked. It seemed incredible, for she had supposed Ianthe to be little older than herself.

‘I was hardly more than a child when I was married,’ explained Ianthe. ‘I am not so very old now, though I have been a widow for several years!’

‘I thought you were my own age!’ said Phoebe frankly.

No more was needed to seal the friendship. Ianthe, laughing at this misapprehension, disclosed that her only child was six years of age; Phoebe exclaimed: ‘Oh, no! impossible!’ and stepped, all unknown to herself, into the role of Chief Confidante. She learned within the space of twenty minutes that the life of a recluse had been imposed on Ianthe by her husband’s family, who expected her to wear out the rest of her widowhood in bucolic seclusion.

‘I wonder you should yield to such barbarous notions!’ said Phoebe, quite appalled.

‘Alas, there is one person who holds a weapon I am powerless to withstand!’ said Ianthe in a melancholy tone. ‘He is the sole arbiter of my poor child’s destiny. Things were so left that I found myself bereft at one stroke of both husband and son!’ She perceived a startled look on Phoebe’s face, and added: ‘Edmund was not left to my guardianship. I must not say more, and should not have said as much, only that I knew, as soon as we met, that you would understand! I am persuaded I can trust you! You cannot conceive the relief of being able to speak openly: in general I am obliged to be reserved. But I mustn’t talk any more about my troubles!’

She was certainly unable to do so, for at that moment her attention was drawn to Lady Elvaston, who had risen to take leave of her hostess. She too got up, and put out her hand to Phoebe, saying in her soft voice: ‘I see Mama is ready to go, and so I must say goodbye. Do you make a long stay in town? It would be so agreeable to meet again! Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of coming to see me one day? I should like you to see my little boy.’

‘Oh, is he with you?’ exclaimed Phoebe, a good deal surprised. ‘I had collected-I mean, I should like very much to visit you, ma’am!’

‘My bringing him to town was not at all approved of, I can assure you,’ responded Ianthe plaintively. ‘But even his guardian can scarcely forbid me to take him to stay with my parents! Mama quite dotes on him, and would have been so grieved if I hadn’t brought him with me!’

She pressed Phoebe’s hand, and floated away, leaving Phoebe a prey to doubt and curiosity.

From the outset Phoebe had been fascinated by her beauty; within a minute of making her acquaintance she had been captivated by her appealing manners, and the charm of a smile that hinted at troubles bravely borne. But Phoebe was a shrewd observer; she was also possessed of strong common sense; and while the romantic side of her nature responded to the air of tragic mystery which clung about Ianthe the matter-of-fact streak which ran through it relentlessly pointed out to her certain anomalies in what had been disclosed, and compelled her to acknowledge that confidences uttered upon so short an acquaintance were not, perhaps, to be wholly credited.

She was anxious to discover Ianthe’s identity. She now knew her to be a member of the Rayne family, but the family was a large one, and in what degree of relationship to Sylvester Ianthe stood she had no idea. Her grandmother would no doubt be able to enlighten her.

Lady Ingham was well able to enlighten her. ‘Ianthe Rayne?’ she said, as they drove away from Mrs. Stour’s house. ‘A pretty creature, isn’t she? Gooseish, of course, but one can’t but pity her. She’s Elvaston’s daughter, and married poor Harry Rayne the year she was brought out. He died before their son was out of short coats. A dreadful business! I fancy they never discovered what ailed him: you would have said there was not a healthier young man alive! Something internal: that’s all I ever heard. Ah, if they had but called in dear Sir Henry Halford!’

‘I knew she had been married to a member of that family, ma’am, but-who was her husband?’

‘Who was he?’ repeated the Dowager. ‘Why, Sylvester’s younger brother, to be sure! His twin brother, too, which made it worse.’

‘Then the child-Lady Henry’s little boy-?’ Phoebe faltered.

‘Oh, there’s nothing amiss with him that ever I heard!’ replied the Dowager, leaning forward to obtain a clearer view of a milliner’s shop window as she spoke. ‘My love, I wonder if that chip-straw-no, those pink flowers wouldn’t become you! What were you saying? Oh, Harry’s son! A splendid little fellow, I’m told. I’ve never seen him myself: he lives at Chance.’

‘And he is-I understood Lady Henry to say-the Duke’s ward?’

‘Yes, and his heir as well-not that that is likely to signify! Was Ianthe complaining to you about that business?’ she glanced at Phoebe, and said bluntly: ‘You would be ill-advised to refine too much on what she may have said to you, my love. The truth is that she and Sylvester can never deal together. She fell into a pelter as soon as she found how things were left-well, I must own I think she should have been joined with Sylvester in the guardianship!-and he don’t take the trouble to handle her tactfully.’

‘I can readily believe that!’ Phoebe interjected. ‘Is he fond of the little boy, ma’am?’

‘I daresay he may be, for Harry’s sake-though they say the boy is the image of his mother-but the fact is, my dear, young men don’t commonly dote on nursery brats! He will certainly do his duty by the boy.’

‘Mama did her duty by me,’ said Phoebe. ‘I think I understand what Lady Henry’s feelings must be.’

‘Fiddle!’ said the Dowager. ‘I don’t scruple to tell you, my love-for you are bound to hear it-that they are at odds now because the little ninny has got a second marriage in her eye, and knows Sylvester won’t let her take the boy away from Chance.’

‘Oh!’ Phoebe exclaimed, her eyes flashing. ‘How could he be so inhuman? Does he expect her to remain a widow all her life? Ah, I suppose it should be enough for her to have been married to a Rayne! I don’t believe there was ever anyone more arrogant!’

‘Before you put yourself in a taking,’ said the Dowager dryly, ‘let me tell you that if it is arrogance which prompts Sylvester to say he won’t have his heir brought up by Nugent Fotherby it is a fortunate circumstance for the boy that he is arrogant!’

‘Nugent Fotherby?’ gasped Phoebe, her righteous wrath suddenly and ludicrously arrested. ‘Grandmama, you can’t mean it? That absurd creature who can’t turn his head because his shirt points are too high, and who let Papa chouse him out of three hundred guineas for a showy chestnut anyone but a flat must have seen was short of bone?’