Her ladyship, in fact, had forgotten, in an orgy of expensive shopping, to provide for her son’s needs.

Removed to the smaller cabin, tucked up in its berth, with a champagne bottle full of hot water produced by Tom, Edmund seemed to grow easier. Phoebe had the satisfaction presently of seeing him drop asleep, and was about to snatch a little rest herself when Sir Nugent came to beg the favour of her attendance on Ianthe. Her la’ship, he whispered, was in devilish queer stirrups, and wished for assistance in an affair of too much delicacy to be mentioned.

Mystified, Phoebe went back to the larger cabin, leaving Sir Nugent to maintain a watch over his stepson. The affair of delicacy proved merely to be a matter of untying Ianthe’s stay-laces, but one glance at her was enough to inform Phoebe that Sir Nugent had not exaggerated her condition. She looked to be in extremely queer stirrups, and when Phoebe felt her pulse she discovered it to be tumultuous.

Phoebe was absent from Edmund’s side for a considerable period. Unfortunately he woke up while she was away, and no sooner saw Sir Nugent than he repudiated him. Sir Nugent remonstrated with him, pointing out that for Edmund to order him out of his own cabin was coming it a trifle too strong. However, when he heard himself apostrophised as a Bad Man he realized that Edmund was light-headed, and strove to reassure him. His efforts failed. During his late agony Edmund had had no leisure to consider anything but his body’s ills. It was otherwise now. No longer racked by paroxysms, but only a very small boy pitch-forked into nightmare, a pressing need presented itself to him. His face puckered. ‘I want my Button!’ he sobbed.

‘Eh?’ said Sir Nugent.

Edmund, turning his face into the pillow, repeated his desire in muffled but passionate accents.

‘Want a button, do you?’ said Sir Nugent. ‘Now, don’t cry, dear boy! Seems a devilish queer thing to want, but-which button?’

‘My Button!’ said Edmund, in a perfect storm of sobs.

‘Yes, yes, precisely so!’ said Sir Nugent hastily. ‘Be calm, dear boy! I assure you there’s no need to put yourself in a taking! If you would but tell me-’

‘Button, Button, Button!’ wept Edmund.

Tom, looking into the cabin five minutes later to ask Phoebe if all was well, found a distressing scene in progress, bitter sounds of grief issuing from the blankets under which Edmund had wholly retired, and his harassed stepfather feverishly turning out the pockets of a small pair of nankeen pantaloons.

‘Good God, what’s the matter?’ Tom demanded, coming into the cabin, and shutting the door. ‘Where’s Miss Marlow?’

‘With her la’ship. Don’t care to fetch her away!’ said Sir Nugent distractedly. ‘Left me to mind Edmund! Extraordinary boy! Took me for a bad man: doesn’t seem to know me at all! Now he wants a button.’

‘Well, give him a button!’ said Tom, limping to the berth, and trying to draw the blanket back. ‘Hi, Edmund, what’s all this?’

‘I-want-my-Button!’ wailed Edmund, diving deeper into the blankets.

‘Never knew such a cork-brained boy!’ fumed Sir Nugent. ‘Can’t get another word out of him. It’s my belief he hasn’t brought it with him. What’s more, I don’t see that it would be a bit of use to him if I could find it. Well, I put it to you, Orde, would you want a button in such a case?’

‘Oh, children often have a liking for odd toys!’ said Tom. ‘I did myself. Give him one of your own buttons!’

‘Dash it, I haven’t got any!’ A dreadful possibility reared its head. ‘You don’t mean cut one off?’

‘Lord, why not?’ said Tom impatiently.

Sir Nugent reeled under the shock, but rallied. ‘You cut one off!’ he countered.

‘Not me!’ replied Tom crudely. ‘This is the only suit of clothes I have, thanks to you! Besides, I’m not the boy’s papa-in-law!’

‘Well, he won’t have it I am either, so that doesn’t signify. To own the truth, I’d as lief I wasn’t. Dashed embarrassing, you must agree, to have a son-in-law telling everyone I’m a bad man.’

Tom, not thinking it worthwhile to reply to this, merely adjured him to find a suitable button. Sighing heavily, Sir Nugent unstrapped one of his numerous portmanteaux. It took him a little time to decide which of his coats he would be least likely to need in the immediate future, and when he made up his mind to the sacrifice of an elegant riding coat, and started to saw off one of its buttons with his pocket knife it was easy to see that the operation cost him considerable pain. He was slightly cheered by the reflection that the presentation of so large and handsome a button must raise him in Edmund’s esteem. Advancing to the berth, he said winningly: ‘No need to cry any more, dear boy! Here’s your button!’

The sobs ceased abruptly; Edmund emerged from the blankets, tearstained but joyful. ‘Button, Button!’ he cried, stretching out his arms. Sir Nugent put the button into his hand.

There was a moment’s silence, while Edmund, staring at this trophy, realized to the full Sir Nugent’s perfidy. To blinding disappointment was added just rage. His eyes blazing through his tears he hurled the button from him, and casting himself face downward gave way to his emotions.

‘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.