Sylvester Page 3

  ‘I haven’t accused her of impropriety.’

  ‘No, but you are making it dreadfully hard for her, my love! She may not be devoted to Edmund, but to take him from her entirely –’

  ‘If that should happen, it will be her doing, not mine! She may make her home here for as long as she chooses, or she may take Edmund to live with her at the Dower House. All I have ever said is that Harry’s son will be reared at Chance, and under my eye! If Ianthe marries again she is welcome to visit Edmund whenever she pleases. I have even told her she may have him to stay with her at reasonable intervals. But one thing I will never do, and that is to permit him to grow up under Nugent Fotherby’s aegis! Good God, Mama, how can you think it possible I would so abuse my twin’s trust?’

  ‘Ah, no, no! But is Sir Nugent so very bad? I was a little acquainted with his father – he was so amiable that he said yes and amen to everything! – but I think I never met the son.’

  ‘You needn’t repine! A wealthy fribble, three parts idiot, and the fourth – never mind! A pretty guardian I should be to abandon Edmund to his and Ianthe’s upbringing! Do you know what Harry said to me, Mama? They were almost the last words he spoke to me. He said: “You’ll look after the boy, Dook.”’ He stopped, his voice cracking on that last word. After a moment he said, not very easily: ‘You know how he used to call me that – with that twinkle in his eye. It wasn’t a question, or a request. He knew I should, and he said it, not to remind me, but because it was a comfortable thought that came into his head, and he always told me what he was thinking.’ He saw that his mother had shaded her eyes with one hand, and crossed the room to her side, taking her other hand, and holding it closely. ‘Forgive me! I must make you understand, Mama!’

  ‘I do understand, Sylvester, but how can I think it right to keep the child here with no one but old Button to look after him, or some tutor for whom he’s far too young? If I were not useless –’ She clipped the words off short.

  Knowing her as he did, he made no attempt to answer what had been left unspoken, but said calmly: ‘Yes, I too have considered that, and it forms a strong reason for my marriage. I fancy Ianthe would soon grow reconciled to the thought of parting with Edmund, could she but leave him in his aunt’s charge. She wouldn’t then incur the stigma of heartlessness, would she? She cares a great deal for what people may say of her – and I must own that after presenting a portrait of herself to the world in the rôle of devoted parent, I don’t perceive how she can abandon Edmund to the mercy of his wicked uncle. My wife, you know, could very well be held to have softened my disposition!’

  ‘Now, Sylvester – ! She can never have said you were wicked!’

  He smiled. ‘She may not have used that precise term, but she has regaled everyone with the tale of my disregard for Edmund’s welfare, and frequent brutality to him. They may not believe the whole, but I’ve reason to suppose that even a man of such good sense as Elvaston thinks I treat the boy with unmerited severity.’

  ‘Well, if Lord Elvaston doesn’t know his daughter better than to believe the farradiddles she utters I have a poor opinion of his sense!’ said the Duchess, quite tartly. ‘Do let us stop talking about Ianthe, my love!’

  ‘Willingly! I had rather talk of my own affairs. Mama, what sort of female would you wish me to marry?’

  ‘In your present state, I don’t wish you to marry any sort of a female. When you come out of it, the sort you wish to marry, of course!’

  ‘You are not being in the least helpful!’ he complained. ‘I thought mothers always made marriage plans for their sons!’

  ‘And consequently suffered some severe disappointments! I am afraid the only marriage I ever planned for you was with a three-day infant, when you were eight years old!’

  ‘Come! This is better!’ he said encouragingly. ‘Who was she? Do I know her?’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned her, but I should think you must at least have seen her, for she was presented this year, and had her first season. Her grandmother wrote to tell me of it, and I almost asked you –’ She broke off, vexed with herself, and altered the sentence she had been about to utter. ‘– to give her a kind message from me, only did not, for she could hardly be expected to remember me. She’s Lady Ingham’s granddaughter.’

  ‘What, my respected godmama? One of the Ingham girls? Oh, no, my dear! I regret infinitely, but – no!’

  ‘No, no, Lord Marlow’s daughter!’ she replied, laughing. ‘He married Verena Ingham, who was my dearest friend, and the most captivating creature!’

  ‘Better and better!’ he approved. ‘Why have I never encountered the captivating Lady Marlow?’ He stopped, frowning. ‘But I have! I’m not acquainted with her – in fact, I don’t remember that I’ve ever so much as spoken to her, but I must tell you, Mama, that whatever she may have been in her youth –’

  ‘Good heavens, that odious woman is Marlow’s second! Verena died when her baby was not a fortnight old.’

  ‘Very sad. Tell me about her!’

  ‘I don’t think you would be much the wiser if I did,’ she answered, wondering if he was trying to divert her mind from the memories he had himself evoked. ‘She wasn’t beautiful, or accomplished, or even modish, I fear! She defeated every effort to turn her into a fashionable young lady, and never appeared elegant except in her riding-dress. She did the most outrageous things, and nobody cared a bit – not even Lady Cork! We came out in the same season, and were the greatest of friends; but while I was so fortunate as to meet Papa – and to fall in love with him at sight, let me tell you! – she refused every offer that was made her – scores of them, for she never lacked for suitors! – and declared she preferred her horses to any man she had met. Poor Lady Ingham was in despair! And in the end she married Marlow, of all people! I believe she must have liked him for his horsemanship, for I am sure there was nothing else to like in him. Not a very exciting story, I’m afraid! Why did you wish to hear it?’

  ‘Oh, I wished to know what sort of a woman she was! Marlow I do know, and I should suppose that any daughter of his must be an intolerable bore. But your Verena’s child might be the very wife for me, don’t you think? You would be disposed to like her, which must be an object with me; and although I don’t mean to burden myself with a wife who wants conduct, I should imagine that there must be enough of Marlow’s blood in this girl to leaven whatever wildness she may have inherited from her mother. Eccentricity may be diverting, Mama, but it is out of place in a wife: certainly in my wife!’

  ‘My dear, what nonsense you are talking! If I believed you meant it I should be most seriously disturbed!’

  ‘But I do mean it! I thought you would have been pleased, too! What could be more romantic than to marry the girl who was betrothed to me in her cradle?’

  She smiled, but she did not look to be much amused. His eyes searched her face; he said in the caressing tone he used only to her: ‘What is it, my dear? Tell me!’

  She said: ‘Sylvester, you have talked of five girls who might perhaps suit you; and now you are talking of a girl of whose existence you were unaware not ten minutes ago – and as though you had only to decide between them! My dear, has it not occurred to you that you might find yourself rebuffed?’

  His brow cleared. ‘Is that all? No, no, Mama, I shan’t be rebuffed!’

  ‘So sure, Sylvester?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure, Mama! Oh, not of Miss Marlow! For anything I know, her affections may be engaged already.’

  ‘Or she might take you in dislike,’ suggested the Duchess.

  ‘Take me in dislike? Why should she?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘How can I tell? These things do happen, you know.’

  ‘If you mean she might not fall in love with me, I daresay she might not, though I know of no reason, if she doesn’t love another man, why she shouldn’t come to do so – or, at any rate, to like me very tolerably! Do you su
ppose me to be so lacking in address that I can’t make myself agreeable when I wish to? Fie on you, Mama!’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know you had so much address that you could beguile no fewer than five girls of rank and fashion to be ready to accept an offer from you.’

  He could not resist. ‘Well, Mama, you said yourself that I make love charmingly!’ he murmured.

  It drew a smile from her, because she could never withstand that gleaming look, but she shook her head as well, and said: ‘For shame, Sylvester! Do you mean to sound like a coxcomb?’

  He laughed. ‘Of course I don’t! To be frank with you, there are not five but a dozen young women of rank and fashion who are perfectly ready to receive an offer from me. I’m not hard to swallow, you know, though I don’t doubt I have as many faults as a Mr Smith or a Mr Jones. Mine are more palatable, however: scarcely noticeable for the rich marchpane that covers them!’

  ‘Do you wish for a wife who marries you for the sake of your possessions?’ the Duchess asked, arching her brows.

  ‘I don’t think I mind very much, provided we were mutually agreeable. Such a wife would be unlikely to enact me any tragedies, and anything of that nature, Mama, would lead to our being regularly parted within a twelvemonth. I couldn’t endure it!’

  ‘The enacting of tragedies, my son, is not an invariable concomitant of love-matches,’ she said dryly.

  ‘Who should know that better than I?’ he retorted, his smile embracing her. ‘But where am I to look for your counterpart, my dear? Show her to me, and I will engage to fall desperately in love with her, and marry her, fearing no after-ills!’

  ‘Sylvester, you are too absurd!’

  ‘Not as absurd as you think! Seriously, Mama, although I have seen some love-matches that have prospered, I have seen a great many that most certainly have not! Oh! No doubt some husbands and wives of my acquaintance would stare to hear me say I thought them anything but happy! Perhaps they enjoy jealousies, tantrums, quarrels, and stupid misunderstandings: I should not! The well-bred woman who marries me because she has a fancy to be a duchess will suit me very well, and will probably fill her position admirably.’ His eyes quizzed her. ‘Or would you like me to turn my coat inside out, and sally forth in humble disguise, like the prince in a fairy-tale? I never thought much of that prince, you know! A chuckle-headed fellow, for how could he hope, masquerading as a mean person, to come near any but quite ineligible females whom it would have been impossible for him to marry?’

  ‘Very true!’ she replied.

  He was always watchful where she was concerned. It struck him now that she was suddenly looking tired; and he said with quick compunction: ‘I’ve fagged you to death with my nonsense! Now, why did you let me talk you into a head-ache? Shall I send Anna to you?’

  ‘No, indeed! My head doesn’t ache, I promise you,’ she said, smiling tenderly up at him.

  ‘I wish I might believe you!’ he said, bending over her to kiss her cheek. ‘I’ll leave you to rest before you are assailed by Augusta again: don’t let her plague you!’

  He went away, and she remained lost in her reflections until roused from them by her cousin’s return.

  ‘All alone, dear Elizabeth?’ Miss Penistone exclaimed. ‘Now, if I had but known – but in general I do believe Sylvester would stay with you for ever, if I were not obliged at last to come in! I am sure I have said a hundred times that I never knew such an attentive son. So considerate, too! There was never anything like it!’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ the Duchess said. ‘To me so considerate, so endlessly kind!’

  She sounded a little mournful, which was unusual in her. Miss Penistone, speaking much in the heartening tone Button used to divert Edmund when he was cross, said: ‘He was looking particularly handsome today, wasn’t he? Such an excellent figure, and his air so distinguished! What heart-burnings there will be when at last he throws the handkerchief!’

  She laughed amiably at this thought, but the Duchess did not seem to be amused. She said nothing, but Miss Penistone saw her hands clasp and unclasp on the arm of the chair, and at once realised that no doubt she must be afraid that so rich a prize as Sylvester might be caught by some wretchedly designing creature quite unworthy of his attention. ‘And no fear of his marrying to disoblige you, as the saying goes,’ said Miss Penistone brightly, but with an anxious eye on the Duchess. ‘With so many girls on the catch for him I daresay you would be quite in a worry if he were not so sensible. That thought came into my head once – so absurd! – and I mentioned it to Louisa, when she was staying here in the summer. “Not he!” she said – you know her abrupt way! “He knows his worth too well!” Which set my mind quite at rest, as you may suppose.’

  It did not seem to have exercised the same beneficial effect on the Duchess’s mind, for she put up a hand to shade her eyes. Miss Penistone knew then what was amiss: she had had one of her bad nights, poor Elizabeth!

  Three

  Sylvester made no further mention of his matrimonial plans; nor, since she could not fail to be cheerful whenever he came to visit her, did he suspect that his mother was troubled for him. Had he known it he would have supposed her merely to dislike the thought of his marriage, and would not have found it difficult to put any such scheme aside; if she had told him that she was more disturbed by the fear, which was taking uncomfortably strong possession of her mind, that he had become arrogant, he would have been distressed to think that he could have said anything to put such a notion into her head, and would have done his best to joke her out of it. He knew it to be false: he was acquainted with several persons to whom the epithet might well apply, and he thought them intolerable. Few men were more petted and courted than he; there were not many hostesses who would not have forgiven him such slights as were not uncommonly dealt them by spoiled men of rank and fashion. But no hostess would ever be given cause to complain of Sylvester’s courtesy; and no insignificant person who perhaps rendered him a trifling service, or even did no more than touch his hat to him, would have reason to think himself despised. To reserve one’s civility for people of consequence was a piece of ill-breeding, dishonourable to oneself, as disgusting as to make a parade of greatness, or to curse a servant for clumsiness. Sylvester, who did not arrive at parties very late, refuse to stand up for country-dances, take his bored leave within half an hour of his arrival, leave invitations unanswered, stare unrecognisingly at one of his tenants, or fail to exchange a few words with every one of his guests on Public Days at Chance, was not very likely to believe that a charge of arrogance levelled against him was anything but a calumny, emanating probably from a tuft-hunter whom he had snubbed, or some pert mushroom of society whose pretensions he had been obliged to depress.

  The Duchess knew this, and felt herself to be at a loss. She would have liked to have been able to consult with someone who had his interests as much to heart as herself, and must know better than she (since she never saw Sylvester but in her own apartments) how he conducted himself in society. There was only one such person; but although she felt both respect and affection for Lord William Rayne, Sylvester’s uncle, and for two years his guardian, very little reflection was needed to convince her that any attempt to get him to enter into her rather vague apprehensions would only make him think her the victim of such crotchets as might be expected to attack an invalid. Lord William was old-fashioned, very bluff and kind, but very full of starch as well. He had some influence over Sylvester, of whom he was as fond as he was proud: a word from him would carry weight, but unfortunately one of his terse reproofs would be more easily drawn from him by what he thought a failure on his nephew’s part to remember his exalted station, than by his placing himself on too high a form.

  He stayed at Chance at Christmas, and so far from affording the Duchess reassurance considerably depressed her, though this was far from being his intention. He had nothing but praise to bestow on Sylvester. He told the Duchess tha
t the boy did just as he ought, his manners being particularly correct. ‘Very affable and civil, you know, but knows how to keep a proper distance,’ said Lord William. ‘No need to fear he’ll forget what he owes to his position, my dear sister! He tells me he’s thinking of getting married. Very proper. High time he was setting up his nursery! He seems to be going about the business exactly as he should, but I dropped him a hint. Don’t think it was necessary, mind, but I shouldn’t like to see him make a fool of himself for want of a word of advice. But thank the lord he’s got no rubbishing romantical notions in his head!’

  It was the immutable custom of the House of Rayne for as many members of it as could possibly do so to gather together at Christmas under the roof of the head of the family. As the family was enormous, and most of those who congregated at Chance remained for a month, Sylvester had little leisure, and saw less of his mother than he liked. He was an excellent host, and he had an excellent supporter in his sister-in-law, who, besides having a turn for entertaining, very much enjoyed acting as deputy for the Duchess, and consequently became more cheerful as soon as the first of the visitors crossed the threshold. Her pleasure was only marred by Sylvester’s refusal to invite Sir Nugent Fotherby to join the party. She argued that if he could invite her father and mother he could with equal propriety invite her affianced husband, but any intention she might have had of developing this grievance was checked by the intervention of both parents. Lord Elvaston, to whom Sir Nugent was objectionable, informed her that if he had found the fellow at Chance he would have gone home instantly, and Lady Elvaston, though willing to tolerate Sir Nugent for the sake of his vast wealth, told her that if she thought to win Sylvester round by affording him the opportunity of studying that amiable dandy at close quarters she was no better than a ninnyhammer.