Джорджетт Хейер: Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle

“If he should fail to appear in time for his dinner, I will have the lake dragged,” promised Sylvester, walking to the door, and opening it. “Meanwhile, however careless I may be of my nephew I am not careless of my horses, and I do beg of you, if you have had a pair put to, not to keep them standing in this weather!”

This request incensed Ianthe so much that she flounced out of the room in high dudgeon.

“Edifying!” remarked Sylvester. “Believing her orphaned son to be at the bottom of the lake this devoted parent departs on an expedition of pleasure!”

“My dear, she knows very well he isn’t at the bottom of the lake! Can you never meet without rubbing against one another? You are quite as unjust to her as she is to you, I must tell you!”

He shrugged. “I daresay. If I had ever seen a trace of her vaunted devotion to Edmund I could bear with her patiently, but I never have! If he will be so obliging as to submit to her caresses she is pleased to think she dotes on him, but when he becomes noisy it is quite a comedy to see how quickly she can develop the headache, so that Button must be sent for to remove her darling! She never went near him when he had the measles, and when she made his toothache an excuse to carry him off to London, and then was ready to let the brat’s tooth rot in his head rather than put herself to the trouble of compelling him to submit to its extraction—”

“I knew we should come to it!” interrupted the Duchess, throwing up her hands. “Let me tell you, my son, that it takes a great deal of resolution to drag a reluctant child to the dentist! I never had enough! It fell to Button to perform the dreadful duty—and so it would have done in Edmund’s case, only that she was ill at the time!”

“I shan’t let you tell me, Mama,” he said, laughing. “For I have performed the dreadful duty, remember!”

“So you have! Poor Edmund! Swooped upon in the Park, snatched up into your curricle, and whisked off to the torture-chamber in such a ruthless style! I promise you my heart bled for him!”

“It might well have done so had you seen his face as I saw it! I suppose the witless abigail who had him in charge told you I swooped upon him? All I did was to drive to Tilton’s immediately, and what was needed was not resolution but firmness! No, Mama: don’t ask me to credit Ianthe with devotion to her brat, for it sickens me! I only wish I knew who was the sapskull who told her how lovely she appeared with her child in her arms. Also that I hadn’t been fool enough to allow myself to be persuaded to commission Lawrence to paint her in that affecting pose!”

“You did so to give Harry pleasure,” said the Duchess gently. “I have always been glad to think it was finished in time for him to see it.”

Sylvester strode over to the window, and stood looking out. After a few minutes he said: “I’m sorry, Mama. I should not have said that.”

“No, of course you should not, dearest. I wish you will try not to be so hard on Ianthe, for she is very much to be pitied, you know. You didn’t like it when she began to go into society again with her mama, at the end of that first year of mourning. Well, I didn’t like it either, but how could one expect such a pleasure-loving little creature to stay moping here, after all? It was not improper in her to put off her blacks.” She hesitated, and then added: “It is not improper in her to be wishing to marry again now, Sylvester.”

“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 role 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 a 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.”