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  Mr Otley, receiving the manuscript and perusing the accompanying letter from Miss Battery, was unimpressed. At first glance he did not think The Lost Heir the sort of book he wished to handle; and the intelligence that it was the work of a Lady of Quality drew from him only a heavy sigh. However, he took The Lost Heir home with him, and read it at a sitting. It did not take him long to perceive that it was to some extent a roman à clef, for although he was unacquainted with the members of the haut ton he was shrewd enough to realise that the authoress in depicting many of her characters was drawing from the life. The success of Glenarvon, published some eighteen months previously, was still fresh in his mind; and it was this circumstance which led him, rather doubtfully, to hand The Lost Heir to his partner.

  Mr Harvey Newsham was unexpectedly enthusiastic; and when Mr Otley pointed out to him that it was not such a book as they had been used to produce he replied caustically that if it enjoyed better sales than had the last three of these works he for one should not complain.

  ‘But will it?’ said Mr Otley. ‘The story is no great thing, after all – in fact it’s nonsensical!’

  ‘No one will care for that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I should have thought it too fantastical myself. In fact, it still has me in a puzzle. How the devil did that Ugolino-fellow get hold of his nephew in the first place? And why didn’t he smother him, or something, when he had got hold of him, instead of keeping him prisoner in that castle of his? And as for the boy’s sister managing to get into the place, let alone that corkbrained hero, and then the pair of them setting sail with the boy – well, they couldn’t have done it!’

  Mr Newsham dismissed such trivialities with a wave of his hand. ‘It doesn’t signify. This female –’ he jabbed a finger at Phoebe’s manuscript – ‘knows how to do the trick! What’s more, the book’s stuffed with people she’s met, and that’s what will make the nobs buy it.’ He glanced down at the manuscript appraisingly. ‘In three volumes, handsomely bound,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘At the start of next season. Say April – skilfully puffed-off, of course. I think it will do, Otley!’

  ‘It will be pretty expensive,’ objected Mr Otley.

  ‘I mean this book to be in every fashionable drawing-room, and it won’t do to get it up shoddy. Colburn issued Lady Caroline Lamb’s tale in tooled leather. It looked very well.’

  ‘Ay, but you may depend upon it Lady Caroline paid for it,’ retorted Mr Otley.

  ‘No reason to suppose this author won’t do the same,’ said the optimistic Mr Newsham. ‘Offer her profit-sharing terms, she to pay all losses. You know, my boy, if the book were to take, Colburn will be as surly as a butcher’s dog to think it wasn’t offered him!’

  ‘So he will!’ agreed Mr Otley, cheered by this reflection. ‘I’ll write off to my cousin next week: we don’t wish to appear over-anxious to come to terms. I shall tell her it ain’t just in our line, besides having a good many faults.’

  This programme, being approved by the senior partner, was carried out; but from then on the negotiations proceeded on quite different lines from those envisaged by Mr Otley. Miss Battery’s prompt reply afforded him a new insight into that lady’s character. Begging his pardon for having put him to the trouble of reading a work which she now realised to be unsuitable matter for the firm of Newsham & Otley she requested him to return it to her by the mail, care of the receiving office in Bath. Further enquiries had given her to think that the manuscript ought to be offered to Colburn, or perhaps to Egerton. She would be much obliged to him for his advice on this point, and remained his affectionate cousin, Sibylla Battery.

  Recovering from this setback, Mr Otley then entered upon some spirited bargaining, agreement being finally reached at the sum of £150, to be received by Miss Battery on behalf of the author upon receipt by the publisher of the bookseller’s accounts. Left to himself Mr Otley would have done his possible to have reduced this figure by £50, but at this stage of the negotiations Mr Newsham intervened, giving it as his opinion that to behave scaly to a promising new author could result only in her offering her second book to a rival publisher. He would have been gratified could he but have known to what dizzy heights his generosity raised Miss Marlow’s spirits. The sum seemed enormous to her; and then and there was born her determination to leave Austerby as soon as she came of age, and with Miss Battery for chaperon to set up a modest establishment of her own in which she would be able without interference to pursue her lucrative vocation.

  Besides Miss Battery only Mr Orde shared the secret of her authorship, and it was not until he had been permitted to see the proof-sheets that Mr Orde was relieved of his suspicion that the whole affair was an attempt to hoax him. He was much more impressed by the sight of the story in actual print than he thought it proper to admit; but he very handsomely acknowledged to the proud author that he had not believed it could read half as well.

  Five

  Miss Battery, a strong-minded female, did not for many minutes allow her consternation to overpower her. Squaring her shoulders, she said: ‘Unfortunate! That you should have taken him in dislike, I mean. No more to be said, if that’s the case. Though I don’t suppose he can be as villainous as Count Ugolino. No one could be.’

  ‘Oh, no! He isn’t villainous at all – at least, I shouldn’t think he would be, but I’m not even acquainted with him! I only chose him for Ugolino because of the way his eyebrows slant, which makes him look just like a villain. And also, of course, because of his – his crested air, which made me long to give him a set-down!’

  ‘Self-consequence?’ said Miss Battery, a little at sea. ‘Thinks too much of his rank?’

  Phoebe shook her head, frowning. ‘No, it isn’t that. It is – yes, it is worse than that! I think it is so natural to him to have all that consequence that he doesn’t give it a thought. Do you understand, Sibby?’

  ‘No. Oughtn’t to give it a thought.’

  ‘It is very difficult to explain, but I am persuaded you will understand, when you see him. It is as though being a duke is so much a part of him that he takes it perfectly for granted, and quite unconsciously expects to be treated everywhere with distinction. I don’t mean to say that his manners are not what they ought to be, for he has a great deal of well-bred ease – a sort of cool civility, you know, towards persons who don’t interest him. I believe he is very amiable to those whom he likes, but the thing is – or so I fancy – that he doesn’t care a button for what anyone may think of him. To be sure, that isn’t wonderful,’ she added reflectively, ‘for the way he is courted and toad-eaten is quite repulsive! Why, when Lady Sefton brought him up to me – she is the Baroness Josceline in my story, you know: the affected, fidgety one! – she introduced him as though she were conferring the greatest favour on me!’

  ‘That doesn’t signify,’ interrupted Miss Battery. ‘Did he behave as though he thought it so?’

  ‘Oh, no! He is so much accustomed to such flattery that he doesn’t appear even to heed it. Being civil to poor little dabs of females who have neither beauty nor conversation is one of the tiresome duties his exalted situation obliges him to perform.’

  ‘Well, if I were you, my dear, I wouldn’t fly into a pucker yet awhile,’ said Miss Battery with strong commonsense. ‘Seems to me you don’t know anything about him. One thing you can depend on: if he’s coming here to make you an offer he won’t treat you with cool civility!’

  ‘Even if he did not – oh, he must have changed indeed if I were to like him well enough to marry him!’ declared Phoebe. ‘I could not, Sibby!’

  ‘Then you will decline his offer,’ said Miss Battery, with a conviction she was far from feeling.

  Phoebe looked at her rather hopelessly, but said nothing. She knew it to be unnecessary. No one understood more thoroughly the difficulties of her situation than her governess; and no one was better acquainted with the ruthlessness of Lady Marlow’s imperious