Джорджетт Хейер: The Talisman Ring

Sir Tristram said in his deep voice: “I’m sorry, sir: I believe my visit has too much exhausted you.”

“Thank you, I am the best judge of what exhausts me,” replied Sylvester. “I shan’t last much longer, I admit, but by God, I’ll last long enough to settle my affairs! Are you going to marry that chit?”

“Yes, I’ll marry her,” said Shield. “Will that content you?”

“I’ve a fancy to see the knot well tied,” said Sylvester. “Fortunately, she’s not a Papist. What do you make of her?”

Sir Tristram hesitated. “I hardly know. She’s very young.”

“All the better, as long as her husband has the moulding of her.”

“You may be right, but I wish you had broached this matter earlier.”

“I’m always right. What did you want to do? Come a-courting her?” jibed Sylvester. “Poor girl!”

“You are forcing her to a marriage she may easily regret. She is romantic.”

“Fiddledeedee!” said Sylvester. “Most women are, but they get the better of it in time. Is that damned mincing puppy-dog downstairs?”

“Yes,” said Shield.

“He’ll put you in the shade if he can,” said Sylvester warningly.

Sir Tristram looked contemptuous. “Well, if you expect me co vie with his graces you’ll be disappointed, sir.”

“I expect nothing but folly from any of my family!” snapped Sylvester.

Sir Tristram picked up a vinaigrette from the table by the bed and held it under his great-uncle’s nose. “You’re tiring yourself, sir.”

“Damn you!” said Sylvester faintly. He lifted his hand with a perceptible effort and took the bottle, and lay in silence for a time, breathing its aromatic fumes. After a minute or two his lips twitched in a wry smile, and he murmured: “I would give much to have been able to see the three of you together. What did you talk of?”

“Ludovic,” replied Shield with a certain cool deliberation.

Sylvester’s hand clenched suddenly; the smile left his face. He said scarcely above a whisper: “I thought you knew his name is never to be mentioned in this house! Do you count me dead already that you should dare?”

“You’re not a greater object of awe to me on your deathbed, Sylvester, than you have ever been,” said Shield.

Sylvester’s eyes flashed momentarily, but his sudden wrath vanished in a chuckle. “You’re an impudent dog, Tristram. Did you ever care for what I said?”

“Very rarely,” said Shield.

“Quite right,” approved Sylvester. “Damme, I always liked you for it! What have you been saying about the boy?”

“Eustacie wanted to hear the story. Apparently you told her he was dead.”

“He is dead to me,” said Sylvester harshly. “Of what use to let her make a hero of him? You may depend upon it she would. Did you tell her?”

“Basil told her.”

“You should have stopped him.” Sylvester lay frowning, his fingers plucking a little at the gorgeous coverlet. “Basil believed the boy’s story,” he said abruptly.

“I have never known why, sir.”

Sylvester flashed a glance at him. “You didn’t believe it, did you?”

“Did any of us, save only Basil?”

“He said we should have let him stand his trial. I wonder. I wonder.”

“He was wrong. We did what we could for Ludovic when we shipped him to France. Why tease yourself now?”

“You never liked him, did you?”

“You have only to add that I am something of a collector of antique jewellery, Sylvester, and you will have said very much what Basil has been saying, far more delicately, below stairs.”

“Don’t be a fool!” said Sylvester irritably. “I told you he’d do what he could to spoil your chances. Send him about his business!”

“You will have to excuse me, sir. This is not my house.”

“No, by God, and nor is it his! “ said Sylvester, shaken by a gust of anger. “The estate will be in ward when I die, and I have not made him a trustee!”

“Then you are doing him an injustice, sir. Who are your trustees?”

“My lawyer, Pickering, and yourself,” answered Sylvester.

“Good God, what induced you to name me?” said Shield. “I have not the smallest desire to manage your affairs!”

“I trust you, and I don’t trust him,” said Sylvester. “Moreover,” he added with a spark of malice, “I’ve a fancy to make you run in my harness even if I can only do it by dying. Pour me out a little of that cordial.”

Sir Tristram obeyed his behest, and held the glass to Sylvester’s lips. Perversely, Sylvester chose to hold it himself, but it was apparent that even this slight effort was almost too great a tax on his strength.

“Weak as a cat!” he complained, letting Shield take the glass again. “You’d better go downstairs before that fellow has time to poison Eustacie’s mind. I’ll have you married in this very room just as soon as I can get the parson here. Send Jarvis to me; I’m tired.”

When Sir Tristram reached the drawing-room again the tea table had been brought in. Beau Lavenham inquired after his great-uncle, and upon Sir Tristram’s saying that he found him very much weaker, shrugged slightly, and said: “I shall believe Sylvester is dead when I see him in his coffin. I hope you did not forget to tell him that I am dutifully in attendance?”

“He knows you are here,” said Shield, taking a cup and saucer from Eustacie, “but I doubt whether he has strength enough to see any more visitors tonight.”

“My dear Tristram, are you trying to be tactful?” inquired the Beau, amused. “I am quite sure Sylvester said that he would be damned if he would see that frippery fellow Basil.”

Shield smiled. “Something of the sort. You should not wear a sugarloaf hat.”

“No, no; it cannot be my taste in dress which makes him dislike me so much, for that is almost impeccable,” said the Beau, lovingly smoothing a wrinkle from his satin sleeve. “I can only think that it is because I stand next in the succession to poor Ludovic, and that is really no fault of mine.”

“For all we know you may be further removed than that,” said Tristram. “Ludovic may be married by now.”

“Very true,” agreed the Beau, sipping his tea. “And in some ways a son of Ludovic’s might best solve the vexed question of who is to reign in Sylvester’s stead.”

“The estate is left in trust.”

“From your gloomy expression, Tristram, I infer that you are one of the trustees,” remarked the Beau. “Am I right?”

“Oh yes, you’re right. Pickering is joined with me. I told Sylvester he should have named you.”

“You are too modest, my dear fellow. He could not have made a better choice.”

“I am not modest,” replied Shield. “I don’t want the charge of another man’s estate; that is all.”

The Beau laughed, and setting down his tea cup turned to Eustacie. “It has occurred to me that I am here merely in the role of chaperon to a betrothed couple,” he said. “I do not feel that I am cut out for such a role, so I shall go away now. Dear cousin!—” He raised her hand to his lips. “Tristram, my felicitations. If we do not meet before we shall certainly meet at Sylvester’s funeral.”

There was a short silence after he had gone. Sir Tristram snuffed a candle which was guttering, and glanced down at Eustacie, sitting still and apparently pensive by the fire. As though aware of his look, she raised her eyes and gazed at him in the intent, considering way which was so peculiarly her own.

“Sylvester wants to see us married before he dies,” Shield said.

“Basil does not think he will die.”

“I believe he is nearer to it than we know. What did the doctor say?”

“He said he was very irreligious, and altogether insupportable,” replied Eustacie literally.