“There was no insult,” he said, very pale. “If I phrased it—if it sounded to you as though I meant to insult you, believe that it was not so! What I said to you before, I said because the crazy things you do convinced me you were not the wife that would suit me! I wanted never to see you again after that night at the Castlereaghs’—I thought so, but it wasn’t so, because when I did see you again—I was overjoyed.”
Not a speech worthy of a man who made love charmingly, but Sylvester had never before tried to make love to a lady seething with rage and contempt.
“Were you indeed?” said Phoebe. “But you soon recovered, didn’t you?”
Nettled, he retorted: “No, I only tried to! Stop ripping up at me, you little shrew!”
“Phoebe, don’t you mean to change your dress?” said Tom, entering the room at this most inauspicious moment. “Keighley took your valise up—” He broke off, dismayed, and stammered: “Oh, I b-beg pardon! I didn’t know—I’ll go!”
“Go? Why?” Phoebe said brightly. “Yes, indeed I mean to change my dress, and will do so immediately!”
Tom held the door for her, thinking that if only Sylvester, interrupted in the middle of an obvious scene, would drop his guard, grant him an opening, he could tell him just how to handle her. He shut the door, and turned.
“Good God, Thomas! This sartorial magnificence! Are you trying to put me to the blush?” said Sylvester quizzingly.
27
They left Dover just after eleven o’clock, by which time Miss Marlow had quarrelled with both her escorts. Emerging from her bedchamber in the guise of a haughty young lady of fashion she encountered Tom, and instantly asked him whether he had recovered the money he had left in his portmanteau. Upon being reassured on this point she asked him if he would hire a chaise for their conveyance to London. “No,” said Tom, never one to mince his words. “I’ve got a better use for my blunt!”
“I will repay you, I promise you!” she urged.
“Much obliged! When?” said Tom brutally.
“Grandmama—”
“Mighty poor security! No, I thank you!”
“If she will not do it I’ll sell my pearls!” she declared.
“That would make me cut a fine figure, wouldn’t it?”
“Tom, I don’t wish to travel at Salford’s expense!” she blurted out.
“That’s easily settled. Sell your pearls, and pay him!”
She said stiffly: “If you won’t do what I particularly wish, will you at least request the Duke to tell you how much money he has expended on my behalf since we left Abbeville?”
“When I make a cake of myself it will be on my own account, and not on yours, Miss Woolly-crown!” said Tom.
Two vehicles had been provided for the journey. One was a hired post-chaise, the other Sylvester’s own phaeton, and to each was harnessed a team of four horses. They were job horses, but they had been chosen by Keighley, and therefore, as Master Rayne pointed out to his uncle, prime cattle. When Tom brought his haughty charge out of the inn he found Master Rayne seated already in the phaeton, and Sylvester standing beside it, drawing on his gloves. He went up to him, exclaiming: “Are you driving yourself all the way to London, Salford?”
“I am,” replied Sylvester. “I would offer to take you with me, but I’m afraid Keighley must have that seat.”
“Yes, of course, but you don’t mean to take Edmund too, do you? Had you not better let him come with us in the chaise?”
“My dear Thomas, my only reason for telling Keighley to bring my phaeton to Dover was to save that brat as much travel-sickness as I could! He is invariably sick in closed carriages, and never in open ones. Will you accompany Miss Marlow? I hope she will not find the journey too fatiguing: we are a little late in starting, but we should reach town in time for dinner.”
Tom, though strongly of the opinion that Sylvester, in his present humour, would be happy to part with his nephew on any terms at the end of the first stage, raised no further demur, but went back to hand Phoebe up into the chaise.
For the first five miles not a word was uttered within this vehicle, but at Lydden, Phoebe (recovering a trifle, in her faithful friend’s opinion, from the sullens) asked Tom where he meant to put up in London.
“At Salford’s house. He has invited me to spend a few days there. As long as I choose, in fact.”
“Good gracious!” said Phoebe. “What an honour for you! No wonder you were so unwilling to oblige me! I must be quite beneath your touch!”
“You’ll precious soon wish you were beneath my touch, if you don’t take care, my girl!” said Tom. “If you’ve any more pretty morsels of wit under your tongue, reserve ’em for Salford! He’s far too well-bred to give you your deserts: I ain’t!”
Silence reigned for the next mile. “Tom,” said Phoebe, in a small voice.
“Well?”
“I didn’t mean to say that. It was a horrid thing to say! I beg your pardon.”
He took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Pea-goose! What’s the matter?” He waited for a moment. “I know I walked smash into a turn-up between you and Salford. What are you trying to do? Break your own silly neck?”
She withdrew her hand. “Excuse me, Tom, if you please! It would be quite improper in me to repeat what passed between us. Pray say no more!”
“Very well,” said Tom. “But don’t you choke yourself with pride, Phoebe!”
At Sittingbourne a halt was called, and the travellers partook of refreshment at the Rose. When they came out of the inn again, and Tom was about to hand Phoebe into the chaise, Sylvester said: “Do you care to tool the phaeton for a stage or two, Thomas?”
“By Jove, yes!—if you think I shan’t overturn it!” Tom replied, with a rueful grin. “And if—” he hesitated, glancing at Phoebe.
“Do just as you wish!” she replied at once. “I can very well finish the journey in one of the Accommodation coaches!”
Sylvester turned, and strode towards the phaeton. “Get in!” said Tom curtly. He added, as he took his seat beside Phoebe: “That’s the first time I’ve ever been glad you are not my sister!”
She returned no answer. Scarcely half a dozen sentences were exchanged during the remainder of the journey; but although Phoebe pretended to be asleep for the greater part of the way, sleep was never farther from her, so torn was she by conflicting emotions. Beside her Tom sat gazing out of the window, wondering what Sylvester could have said to have made her so angry; and wishing that there was something he could do for Sylvester, even if it were no more than relieving him of Edmund’s company.
But Keighley was shielding Sylvester from Edmund. “Give over plaguing his grace, Master Edmund!” said Keighley. “Now, that’s quite enough, Master Edmund! There’s no good to be got out of flying into one of your tantrums!” said Keighley, thinking what a pity it was that he could no longer say the same to Sylvester.
It was after six when the carriages drew up in Berkeley Square, before Salford House. “Why do we stop here?” demanded Phoebe.
“To set down my portmanteau, of course,” replied Tom, opening the chaise-door. “Also, I daresay, to allow Salford to take leave of you! Try for a little civility!”
He climbed down from the chaise as he spoke. The doors of the great house were already flung open, and several persons emerged. “Reeth, Reeth, I’ve been to France!” shouted Edmund, dashing up the steps. “Where’s Button? She’ll be ’stonished when she hears the things I’ve done! Oh, Button, I have needed you!Did you miss me, Button? Phoebe doesn’t do things the right way. Do you know, I had to tell her, Button?”