‘I’m not angry,’ Sylvester said, tickling his cheek with one careless finger. ‘Word of a Rayne! Good-night, you imp! Don’t keep Miss Marlow waiting!’
‘You’re not angry!’ exploded Sir Nugent. ‘I wonder you don’t reward the young viper!’
‘I may yet,’ replied Sylvester coolly. ‘He has done what I could not: given you your own again! When you kidnapped that boy, Fotherby, you knew yourself safe from me, because I would not publish my affairs to the world! I doubt if anything I could have done would have caused you such anguish as Edmund has made you suffer! Bless him, he’s full of pluck! How his father would have laughed!’
‘I have a good mind to call you out! Upon my soul I have!’ Sir Nugent threatened.
‘I don’t think you have!’ Sylvester tossed at him. ‘I am accounted a fair shot, my hero!’
‘I fancy,’ said Sir Nugent, fulminating, ‘that Nugent Fotherby is as game a man as ever lived! I fancy, if you were to ask anyone, that would be the answer. The thing is her la’ship wouldn’t like it. Must cherish her! But if she thinks I’m going to take that changeling of hers along with us –’
The very thought of Edmund seemed to choke him, for he broke off, his choler mounting again, snatched up the tassels, which Sylvester had dropped disdainfully on the table, and stormed out of the room.
Tom could not but feel that Edmund’s confession had still further complicated matters; for the Poisson Rouge now seemed hardly big enough to hold both Sylvester and Sir Nugent. But Edmund’s villainy was soon found to have exercised a good effect. Ianthe, when the story was poured into her ears, said that Edmund must be punished. Sir Nugent told her bitterly that Sylvester would not allow it. So the secret of Sylvester’s arrival was out. Ianthe fell back on her pillows with a shriek; but Sir Nugent, forgetting his marriage vows, informed her (smiting her dressing-table with his clenched fist so that all the gold-topped bottles on it jumped) that she might there and then choose between him and her hell-born brat. This show of violence quite overawed her. She was also a good deal impressed, for it was clearly a proof of masculine superiority, to which she instinctively responded. Her protests, though maintained tearfully, began to lack conviction; and when Sylvester, taking the law into his own hands, knocked on her door, and entered the room hard upon his knock, his reception was less daunting than might have been expected. He was certainly greeted with reproaches, but these were largely directed against his having encouraged Edmund to behave badly. As she blamed him for not having punished Edmund her subsequent declaration that nothing would induce her to abandon her child to his unkindness sounded lame even in her own ears. She then burst into tears, and said that no one had any consideration for her nerves.
This outbreak of lamentation brought Phoebe into the room, to beg her to restrain herself for Edmund’s sake. ‘I am persuaded you cannot wish to distress him!’ she said. ‘Only think how disturbing for such a little boy to hear his mama crying!’
‘You are as heartless as Sylvester!’ wept Ianthe. ‘None of you cares for my sufferings!’
‘Not I, certainly,’ said Sylvester.
‘Oh!’ gasped Ianthe, bouncing up in her bed. Indignation brought her sobs to an abrupt end; an angry flush reddened her cheeks; and her lovely eyes darted fire at Sylvester.
‘Not the snap of my fingers!’ said Sylvester. ‘You see, I am quite honest with you, Ianthe. And before you resume this affecting display of sensibility listen to what I have to say to you! It has pleased you to remember for four years a foolish thing I once said to you. You have cast it in my teeth so often that you have come to believe I meant it. No, don’t turn away your head! Look me in the face, and answer me! Do you think that I could treat with unkindness all that I have left to me of Harry?’
She said sulkily, picking at her handkerchief: ‘I am sure I never thought you cared so very much for Harry! You didn’t shed a tear when he died!’ She stopped, frightened by the expression on his face.
It was a moment before he spoke. Watching him, Phoebe saw that he was very pale, his satyr-look pronounced, his lips tightly compressed. When he unclosed them it was to say in a curt voice: ‘When Harry died – I lost a part of myself. We will not discuss that. I have only this to add: you are Edmund’s mother, and you may visit him whenever you choose to do so. I have told you so many times already, but I’ll repeat it. Come to Chance when you please – with or without your husband!’
Sir Nugent, who had been listening intently, exclaimed as the door shut behind Sylvester: ‘Well, upon my soul, that’s devilish handsome of him! Now, you must own, my love, it is devilish handsome! Damme if I ever thought he’d invite me to Chance! The fact is I had a notion he didn’t like me above half. I shall go, I think. I don’t say it won’t be a dead bore: no fun and gig, and the company pretty stiff-rumped, I daresay. But visiting at Chance, you know! I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll invite him to drink a glass of wine with me! No, by Jove, I’ll invite him to dine with me! Do you think I should change my dress, my love? No! Might put him out of countenance. I shall put on a fresh neckcloth: that will exactly answer the purpose!’
Full of these amiable plans he hurried from the room. Ianthe dissolved again into tears, but showed signs of recovering her spirits when Phoebe assured her she would take every care of Edmund upon the journey back to London.
‘Oh, dear Miss Marlow, were it not for your going I could not consent to his being taken from me!’ Ianthe said, clasping Phoebe’s hand. ‘I am sure you will care for him as well as I could myself! And if anyone is so unjust as to say that I deserted my child you know it is untrue!’
‘If anyone should say such a thing to me I shall reply that he was torn from your arms,’ promised Phoebe. ‘Excuse me! I must go back to him, and blow out his candle.’
But when she reached the bedchamber she shared with Edmund she checked on the threshold, for Sylvester was sitting on the edge of Edmund’s crib. He got up at once, saying with some constraint: ‘I beg your pardon! I should not be here, but Edmund called to me.’
‘Of course! It’s of no consequence!’ she said, in a more friendly tone than she had yet used to him.
‘Phoebe, Uncle Vester says my papa would have cut off one tassel, and he would have cut off the other!’ Edmund told her, his eyes sparkling.
She could not help laughing. ‘I wonder how he would like it if you cut the tassels from his boots!’
‘Ah, I have explained to him that it is a thing which must on no account be done to uncles!’ Sylvester said. He ruffled Edmund’s curls. ‘Good-night, vile brat!’
‘You won’t go away?’ Edmund said, assailed by a sudden fear.
‘Not without you.’
‘And Phoebe? And Tom?’
‘Yes, they will both come with us.’
‘Good!’ said Edmund, releasing his clutch on Sylvester’s coat. ‘I daresay we shall be as merry as grigs!’
Twenty-five
The party reached Calais two days later, having broken the journey at Etaples, where they stayed in what Sylvester unequivocally described as the worst hostelry ever to have enjoyed his patronage. Only Tom might have been said to have fulfilled Edmund’s expectations.
Sylvester’s temper had been ruffled at the outset, for not even the pledging of Phoebe’s little pearl brooch as well as his own watch and chain provided him with enough money to enable him to travel in the style to which he was accustomed. He was extremely vexed with Tom for suddenly producing the brooch in the pawnbroker’s shop, which piece of folly, he said, would now make it necessary for him to send one of his people over to France to redeem it. He disliked haggling over the worth of his watch; he disliked still more to be in any way beholden to Phoebe; and he emerged from this degrading experience in anything but a sunny humour. He then discovered that the hire of two post-chaises and four would result in the whole party’s being stranded half-way between Abbeville and Calais, and w
as obliged to make up his mind which of two evils was likely to prove the lesser: to cram four persons, one of whom was a small boy subject to travel-sickness, into one chaise and four; or to hire two chaises, and drive for well over a hundred and twenty kilometres behind a single pair of horses. The reflection that Edmund, before he succumbed to his malaise, would fidget and ask incessant questions decided the matter: he hired two chaises, and in so doing made the discovery that Mr Rayne, a man of modest means, did not meet with the deference accorded to his grace of Salford. The post-master was not uncivil: he was uninterested. Sylvester, accustomed his whole life long to dealing with persons who were all anxiety to please him, suffered a slight shock. Until he had landed at Calais he had never made a journey in a hired vehicle. He had thought poorly of the chaise supplied by the Lion d’Argent; the two allotted to him in Abbeville filled his fastidious soul with disgust. They were certainly rather dirty.
‘Why hasn’t this carriage got four horses?’ demanded Edmund.
‘Because it only has two,’ replied Sylvester.
‘Couple o’ bone-setters!’ said Edmund disparagingly.
They were found to be plodders; nor, when the first change was made, was there much improvement in the pace at which the ground was covered. There was a world of difference between a team and a pair, as Phoebe soon discovered. The journey seemed interminable; and although the more sober pace seemed to affect Edmund less than the swaying of a well-sprung chaise drawn by four fast horses, he soon grew bored, a state of mind which made him an even more wearing companion than when he was sick. She could only be thankful when, at Etaples, Sylvester, after one look at her, said they would go no farther that day. She desired nothing so much as her bed; but to her suggestion that some soup might be sent up to her room Sylvester returned a decided: ‘Certainly not! Neither you nor Edmund ate any luncheon, and if you are not hungry now you should be.’ He gave her one of his searching looks, and added: ‘I daresay you will like to rest before you dine, Miss Marlow. Edmund may stay with me.’
She was led upstairs by the boots to a room overlooking a courtyard; and having taken off her dress and hung it up, in the hope that the worst of its creases might disappear, she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. The suspicion of a headache nagged at her, but she soon discovered that there was little chance of being able to rid herself of it. To judge by the noises that came from beneath her window the kitchens had access on to the yard, and were inhabited by a set of persons who seemed all to be quarrelling, and hurling pots and pans about.
Just as she was about to leave her room again Tom came to see how she did. He was carrying a glass of wine, which he handed to her, saying that Salford had sent it. ‘He says you are done-up. And I must say,’ added Tom critically, ‘you do look hagged!’
Having studied her reflection in the spotted looking-glass she was well aware of this, and it did nothing to improve her spirits. She sipped the wine, hoping that it might lessen the depression that had been creeping on her all day.
‘What a racket these Frenchies make!’ observed Tom, looking out of the window. ‘Salford cut up stiff when he found this room gave on to the yard, but ours is directly above the salle des buveurs, and that wouldn’t have done for you at all. There seems to a fair going on: the town’s packed, and no room to be had anywhere.’
‘Have you to share a room with Salford? He won’t like that!’
‘Oh, that ain’t what’s making him ride grub!’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘He don’t care for the company, and he ain’t accustomed to being told by waiters that he shall be served bientôt! I left him coming the duke in the coffee-room, to get us one of the small tables to ourselves. He’ll do it too: the waiter was beginning to bow and wash his hands – and all for no more than his grace’s high-bred air and winning smile!’
They found, on descending to the coffee-room, that Sylvester had indeed procured a small table near the door, and was awaiting them there, with Edmund, who was seated on an eminence composed of two large books placed on his chair. Edmund was looking particularly angelic and was exciting a good deal of admiration.
‘A little more of this sort of thing,’ said Sylvester in an undervoice, as he pushed Phoebe’s chair in for her, ‘and his character would be ruined!’
‘Except that he doesn’t care for it,’ she agreed.
‘No, thank God! I have ordered what I hope you will like, Miss Marlow, but there is very little choice. What we should call an ordinary, at home.’
He turned to speak to a harried waiter, and Edmund, apparently reconciled to the French language by his uncle’s fluency, suddenly announced that he too could talk French.
‘Oh, what a bouncer!’ said Tom. ‘What can you say?’
‘I can say words,’ replied Edmund. ‘I can say bonjour and petit chou and –’ But at this point he lost interest, the waiter having dumped in front of him the plat of his careful choice.
The dinner was good, and, although the service was slow, the meal might have passed without untoward incident had Edmund not been inspired to favour the assembled company with a further example of his proficiency in the French tongue. An enormously fat woman, seated at the end of the table that ran down the centre of the room, after incurring his displeasure by nodding and smiling at him every time he looked up from his plate, was so much ravished by his beauty that when she passed his chair on her way out of the coffee-room she not only complimented Phoebe on his seraphic countenance but was unable to resist the temptation of swooping down upon him and planting a smacking kiss on his cheek. ‘Petit chou!’ she said, beaming at him.
‘Salaude!’ returned Edmund indignantly.
For this he was instantly condemned to silence, but when Sylvester, after explaining to the shocked lady that Edmund had picked the word up without an idea of its meaning, offering her his apologies, and enduring the hearty amusement of all those within earshot, sat down again and directed a look at his erring nephew that boded no good to him, Phoebe took up the cudgels in Edmund’s defence, saying: ‘It is unjust to scold him! He doesn’t know what it means! He must have heard someone say it at the Poisson Rouge, when he was in the kitchen!’
‘Madame says it to Elise,’ said Edmund enigmatically.
‘Well, it isn’t a very civil thing to say, my dear,’ Phoebe told him, in gentle reproof.
‘I didn’t think it was,’ said Edmund, in a satisfied voice.
‘It seems to me an extraordinary thing that he should have been allowed to keep kitchen company,’ said Sylvester. ‘I should have supposed that amongst the four of you –’
‘Yes, and it has often seemed extraordinary to me that amongst I know not how many people he should have been allowed to keep stable company!’ flashed Phoebe.
This was so entirely unanswerable that silence reigned until Tom, to relieve the tension, asked Sylvester some question about the next day’s journey. As soon as they left the coffee-room Phoebe took Edmund up to bed, bidding Sylvester a chilly goodnight, and Tom a very warm one.
At breakfast on the following morning punctilious civility reigned, Sylvester addressing suave remarks to Phoebe, and Phoebe replying to them with formal courtesy.
But formality deserted Phoebe abruptly when she discovered that instead of Edmund she was to have Tom for her travelling companion. She said at once: ‘No, no! Please leave Edmund with me! It was to take care of him that I came with you, Duke, and I assure you I am very happy to do so!’
‘You are very good, ma’am, but I will take him today,’ he replied.
‘But why?’ she demanded.
He hesitated, and then said: ‘I wish it.’
It was spoken in his indifferent voice. She read in it a reflection on her management of Edmund, arising possibly from his overnight solecism, and turned away that Sylvester might not have the satisfaction of seeing how mortified she was. When she next glanced at him she found that he was watching her, s
he thought with a shade of anxiety in his rather hard eyes. He moved towards her, and said: ‘What did I say to distress you? I had no such intention!’
She put up her brows. ‘Distress me? Oh, no!’
‘I am taking Edmund with me because I am persuaded you have the head-ache,’ he said bluntly.
It was true, but she disclaimed, begging him to let Edmund go with her. His thought for her disarmed her utterly; her constraint vanished; and when she raised her eyes to his face they were shyly smiling. He looked down at her for a moment, and then said almost brusquely, as he turned away: ‘No, don’t argue! My mind is made up.’
By the time Calais was reached her head-ache had become severe, a circumstance to which she attributed her increasingly low spirits. Edmund, when he heard of it, disclosed that Uncle Vester had the head-ache too.
‘I?’ exclaimed Sylvester. ‘I’ve never had the head-ache in my life, brat!’
‘Oh!’ said Edmund, adding with a confiding smile: ‘Just a bit cagged-like!’
Since Tom had had the forethought to consult Sinderby, the inn which housed them that night, though a modest establishment in the unfashionable quarter of the town, was both quiet and comfortable. A tisane, followed by a night’s undisturbed sleep, cured Phoebe’s head-ache. Her spirits, however, remained low, but as she opened her eyes to see wet windowpanes and a sky of a uniform gray this was perhaps not to be wondered at.
‘We are in for an intolerably tedious crossing,’ Sylvester said, when he joined the rest of the party at breakfast. ‘There is very little wind – which has this advantage, I suppose, that it will be better for one of our number. I have been able to procure a cabin for you, Miss Marlow, but I fear you will be heartily sick of the crossing – particularly if it continues to rain, as it shows every sign of doing.’
‘Why,’ demanded Edmund, ‘am I not let have an egg? I do not want this bread-and-milk. Keighley says it is cat-lap.’