Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle by Georgette Heyer

Author:Georgette Heyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781402238802
Published: 2011-08-24T16:00:00+00:00

19

Lady Ingham was indisposed; Sir Henry Halford had said that on no account must her ladyship be agitated; her ladyship was not receiving visitors today. Miss Marlow was indisposed too and was laid down on the sofa in the Small Parlour; Miss Marlow was not receiving visitors today.

These melancholy tidings, delivered by Horwich in a voice of sepulchral gloom, daunted one of the two callers standing on the steps of the house in Green Street, but left the other unmoved. ‘Her ladyship will receive me,’ said Mrs Newbury briskly. ‘Very proper of you to warn me, however, Horwich! I shall take care not to agitate her.’

‘I could not take it on myself to answer for her ladyship, madam. I will inquire.’

‘Quite unnecessary! Is her ladyship in her dressing-room? I will go up, then.’

Emboldened by the success achieved by this bright-eyed lady the second caller said firmly: ‘Miss Marlow will receive me! Be so good as to take my card up to her!’

Mrs Newbury ran up the stairs, and having tapped on the dressing-room door peeped in, saying softly: ‘Dear Lady Ingham, may I come in? I am persuaded you won’t be vexed with me—say you are not!’

The blinds had been drawn halfway across the two windows; a strong aroma of aromatic vinegar pervaded the air; and a gaunt figure advanced, hissing that her ladyship must not be disturbed.

‘Is that you, Georgiana?’ faintly demanded the Dowager from the sofa. ‘I am too unwell to see anyone, but I suppose you mean to come in whatever I say. No one cares how soon I am driven into my grave! Set a chair for Mrs Newbury, Muker, and go away!’

The grim handmaid disapprovingly obeyed this order; and Georgiana, her eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, trod over to the sofa, and sat down by it, saying coaxingly: ‘I have not come to tease you, ma’am—only to help you, if I can!’

‘No one can help me,’ said the sufferer, with awful resignation. ‘I need not ask if it is all over town!’

‘Well, I should think it would be,’ said Georgiana candidly. ‘Charlotte Retford came to see me this morning, and I must own she said that people are talking. She described to me what happened last night, and—oh, I thought I must come to see you, because even if Phoebe did write that book I can’t but like her still, and, whatever Lion may say about not meddling, if I can help her I will!’

‘I imagine no one can now doubt that she wrote it,’ said the Dowager. ‘When I think of all I did for her last night, even convincing Sally Jersey that the whole thing was a hum, set about by that pea-goose, Ianthe Rayne—Where are my salts?’

‘Why did she write it, ma’am?’ asked Georgiana. ‘One would say she must detest Sylvester, but that she doesn’t!’

The Dowager, between sniffs at her vinaigrette, enlightened her. After that she took a sip of hartshorn and water, and lay back with closed eyes. Mrs Newbury

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