The Transformation of Philip Jettan

by Georgette Heyer

  “Ay, we’re all like that in our youth,” nodded her aunt. “When you grow older you’ll appreciate the milder sort. I nearly married Jerry Fletcher. Luckily I changed my mind and had Malmerstoke. God rest his soul, poor fellow! Now I shall have Tom, I suppose.”

  Cleone broke into a hysterical laugh.

  “Aunt, you are incorrigible! How can you talk so?”

  “Dreadful, isn’t it? But I was always like that. Very attractive, you know. I never was beautiful, but I made a great success. I quite shocked my poor mother. But it was all a pose, of course. It made me noticed. I was so amusing and novel—like you, my love, but in a different way. All a pose.”

  “Why, is it still a pose, Aunt?”

  “Oh, now it’s a habit. So much less fatiguing, my dear. But to return to what I was saying, you—”

  “Don’t—don’t let’s talk—about me,” begged Cleone unsteadily. “I—hardly know what possesses me, but—Oh, there’s the bell!”

  Lady Malmerstoke dragged herself up.

  “Already? Clo, is my wig on straight? Drat the men, I’ve not had a wink of sleep the whole afternoon. A nice hag I shall look to-night. Which of them is it, my dear?”

  Cleone was peering out of the window.

  “’Tis James and Jennifer, Aunt.” She came back into the room. “It seems an age since I saw Jenny.”

  Lady Malmerstoke studied herself in her little mirror.

  “Is she the child who lives down in the country?”

  “Yes—Jenny Winton, such a sweet little thing. She has come up with Mr. Winton for a few weeks. I am so glad she managed to induce him to bring her!” Cleone ran forward as the two Wintons were ushered in. “Jenny, dear!”

  Jennifer was half a head shorter than Cleone, a shy child with soft grey eyes and mouse-coloured hair. She flung her arms round Cleone’s neck.

  “Oh, Clo, how prodigious elegant you look!” she whispered.

  “And oh, Jenny, how pretty you look!” retorted Cleone. “Aunt Sally, this is my dear Jennifer!”

  Jennifer curtseyed.

  “How do you do, ma’am?” she said in a voice fluttering with nervousness.

  “I am very well, child. Come and sit down beside me.” She patted the couch invitingly. “Is this your first visit to town, my dear?”

  Jennifer sat down on the edge of the couch. She stole an awed glance at Lady Malmerstoke’s powdered wig.

  “Yes, ma’am. It is so exciting.”

  “I’ll warrant it is! And have you been to many balls, yet?”

  “N-no.” The little face clouded over. “Papa does not go out very much,” she explained.

  Cleone sank on to a stool beside them, her silks swirling about her.

  “Oh, Auntie, please take Jenny to the Dering ball next week!” she said impulsively. “You will come, won’t you, sweet?”

  Jennifer blushed and stammered.

  “To be sure,” nodded her ladyship. “Of course she will come! James, sit down! You should know by now how the sight of anyone on their feet fatigues me, silly boy! Dear me, child, how like you are to your brother! Are you looking at my wig? Monstrous, isn’t it?”

  Jennifer was covered with confusion.

  “Oh, no, ma’am, I—”

  Her ladyship chuckled.

  “Of course you were. How could you help it? Cleone tells me it is a ridiculous creation, don’t you, my love?”

  “I do, and I truly think it!” answered Cleone, her eyes dancing. “’Tis just a little more impossible than the last.”

  “There!” Lady Malmerstoke turned back to Jennifer. “She is an impertinent hussy, is she not?”

  “Could she be impertinent?” asked James fondly.

  “Very easily she could, and is,” nodded her ladyship. “A minx.”

  “Oh!” Jennifer was shocked.

  “Don’t attend to her!” besought Cleone. “Sometimes she is very ill-natured, as you see.”

  Jennifer ventured a very small laugh. She had resolutely dragged her eyes from the prodigious wig, and was now gazing at Cleone.

  “You—you seem quite different,” she told her.

  Cleone shook her golden head.

  “’Tis only that Aunt Sally has tricked me out in fine clothes,” she replied. “I’m—oh, I am the same!” she laughed, but not very steadily. “Am I not, James?”

  “Always the same,” he said ardently. “Always beautiful.”

  “I will not have it,” said Lady Malmerstoke severely. “You’ll turn the child’s head, if ’tis not turned already.”

  “Oh, it is, it is!” cried Cleone. “I am quite too dreadfully vain! And there is the bell again! James, who is it? It’s vastly bad-mannered to peep, but you may do it. Quick!”

  James went to the window.

  “Too late,” he said. “They are in, whoever they are.”

  “’Twill be Thomas,” decided Lady Malmerstoke. “I wonder if he is any fatter?”

  Jennifer giggled. She had never met anything quite like this queer, voluminous old lady before.

  “Is—is Sir Maurice coming?” she inquired.

  “I told him to be sure to come,” answered her ladyship. “You know him, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes!” breathed Jennifer.

  “Sah Maurice and Mr. Jettan,” announced the little black page.

  “Drat!” said her ladyship. She rose. “Where’s your son?” she demanded, shaking her finger at Sir Maurice.

  Sir Maurice kissed her hand.

  “Sally, you grow ruder and ruder,” he reproved her.

  “Maurice,” she retorted, “you were ever a punctilious ramrod. Philip’s the only one of you I want to see. He says such audacious things,” she explained. “So gratifying to an old woman. Well, Tom?”

  Thomas bowed very low.

  “Well, Sally?”

  “That’s not polite,” she said. “You can see I am very well. I declare you are growing thinner!”

  Thomas drew himself up sheepishly.

  “Am I, my dear?”

  Her ladyship gave a little crow of delight.

  “You’ve been taking exercise!” she exclaimed. “If you continue at this rate—I vow I’ll marry you in a month!”

  “I wish you would, my dear,” said Tom seriously.

  “Oh, I shall one day, never fear!” She caught sight of Jennifer’s astonished expression and chuckled. “Now, Tom, behave yourself! You are shocking the child!” she whispered.

  “I? What have I done? She’s shocked at your forwardness!”

  Sir Maurice had walked over to Cleone. She held out her hands, and he made as if to kiss them. She snatched them back.

  “Oh, no, no!” she cried. “Sir Maurice!”

  He smiled down at her upturned face.

  “In truth, my dear, you’ve so changed from the little Cleone I know that I dare take no liberties.”

  Her mouth quivered suddenly; she caught at the lapels of his coat.

  “No, no, don’t say it, sir! I am the same! Oh, I am, I am!”

  “What’s Cleone doing?” inquired Lady Malmerstoke. “Kissing Maurice? Now who’s forward?”

  Cleone smiled through her tears.

  “You are, Aunt Sally. And you are in a very teasing humour!”

  Sir Maurice pressed her hands gently. He turned to the curtseying Jennifer.

  “Why, Jenny? This is a surprise! How are you, child?”

  “Very well, I thank you, sir,” she answered. “Very happy to be in London.”

  “The first visit! Where are you staying?”

  “With Grandmamma, out at Kensington,” she said.

  Lady Malmerstoke clutched Tom’s arm.

  “Kensington, poor child!” she murmured. “For heaven’s sake everyone sit down! No, Maurice, that chair is too low for me. I’ll take the couch.” She proceeded to do so. As a matter of course, Tom sat down beside her. The others arranged themselves in two pairs, Sir Maurice leading Jennifer to a chair near the fire, and Cleone going to the window-seat wi
th the admiring James.

  Five minutes later the bell rang for the third time, and Jennifer received the worst shock of the afternoon. The page announced Mr. Philip Jettan, and Philip came into the room.

  Sir Maurice felt Jennifer’s start of surprise, and saw her stare past him as though she saw at least three ghosts.

  Philip went to his hostess and dropped on one knee to kiss her hand. He was dressed in puce and old gold. Jennifer thought she had never seen anything so gorgeous, or so astonishing. She did not believe for a moment that it was her old playfellow, Philip.

  “Madame, I am late!” said Philip. “I ask a thousand pardons.”

  “And you are sure you’ll receive them!” chuckled her ladyship. “I’d give them, but that it would fatigue me so. Where’s that ode? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it!”

  “Forgotten it! Never! It is a very beautiful ode, too, in my best style. Le voici! ” He handed her a rolled parchment sheet, tied with mauve ribbons, and with violets cunningly inserted.

  “You delightful boy!” cried her ladyship, inspecting it. “Violets! How did you know they were my favourite flowers?”

  “I knew instinctively,” answered Philip solemnly.

  “Of course you did! But how charming of you! I declare I daren’t untie it till the violets are dead. Look, Tom, is it not pretty? And isn’t Philip sweet to write me an ode?”

  “I am looking,” said Tom gloomily. “Ye rascal, how dare you try to steal my lady’s heart away from me?”

  “I should be more than human an I did not!” replied Philip promptly.

  Lady Malmerstoke was showing the dainty roll to Sir Maurice.

  “An ode to my wig,” she told him. “Written in French.”

  “An ode to your what?” asked Thomas.

  “My wig, Tom, my wig! You were not here when we discussed it. Cleone thought it a prodigious ugly wig, but Philip would have none of it. He said such pretty things about it, and promised me an ode for it! Philip, did I thank you?”

  Philip was bowing over Cleone’s hand. He turned.

  “With your eyes, madame, eloquently! But I need no thanks; it was an honour and a joy.”

  “Think of that!” nodded my lady, looking from Tom to Sir Maurice. “Philip, come and be presented to Mistress Jennifer. Or do you know her?”

  Philip released Cleone’s hand, and swung round.

  “Jennifer! Of course I know her!” He went across the room. “Why, Jenny, where do you spring from? How are you?”

  Jennifer gazed up at him with wide eyes.

  “Philip? Is—is it really—you?” she whispered.

  “You didn’t know me? Jenny, how unkind! Surely I haven’t changed as much as that?”

  “Y-you have,” she averred. “More!”

  “I have not, I swear I have not! Father, go away! Let me sit here and talk to Jennifer!”

  Only too glad to obey, Sir Maurice rose.

  “He is very peremptory and autocratic, isn’t he, my dear?” he smiled.

  Philip sank into the vacated chair.

  “I—I feel I ought to call you Mr. Jettan!” said Jennifer.

  “Jenny! If you dare to do such a thing I shall—I shall—”

  “What will you do?”

  “Write a canzonet to your big eyes!” he laughed.

  Jennifer blushed, and her lips trembled into a smile.

  “Will you really? I should like that, I think, Mr. Jettan.”

  “It shall be ready by noon to-morrow,” said Philip at once, “if you will promise not to misname me!”

  “But—”

  “Jenny, I vow I have not changed so much! ’Tis only my silly clothes!”

  “That’s—what Clo said when I told her she had changed.”

  “Oh!” Philip shot a glance towards the unconscious Cleone. “Did she say that?”

  “Yes. But I think she has changed, don’t you?”

  “De tête en pieds,” said Philip slowly.

  “What is that?” Jennifer looked rather alarmed.

  Philip turned back to her.

  “That is a foolish habit, Jenny. They say I chatter French all day. Which is very affected.”

  “French? Do you talk French now? How wonderful!” breathed Jennifer. “Say something else! Please!”

  “La lumière de tes beaux yeux me pénètre jusqu’au coeur.” He bowed, smiling.

  “Oh! What does that mean?”

  “It wouldn’t be good for you to know,” answered Philip gravely.

  “Oh! but I would like to know, I think,” she said naïvely.

  “I said that—you have very beautiful eyes.”

  “Did you? How—how dreadful of you! And you won’t forget the—the can—can—what you were going to write for me, will you?”

  “The canzonet. No, I think it must be a sonnet. And the flower—alas, your flower is out of season!”

  “Is it? What is my flower?”

  “A daisy.”

  She considered this.

  “I do not like daisies very much. Haven’t I another flower?”

  “Yes, a snowdrop.”

  “Oh, that is pretty!” She clapped her hands. “Is it too late for snowdrops?”

  “I defy it to be too late!” said Philip. “You shall have them if I have to fly to the ends of the earth for them!”

  Jennifer giggled.

  “But you couldn’t, could you? Cleone! Cleone!”

  Cleone came across the room.

  “Yes, Jenny? Has Mr. Jettan been saying dreadfully flattering things to you?”

  “N—yes, I think he has! And he says I must still call him Philip. And oh! he is going to write a—a sonnet to my eyes, tied with snowdrops! Mr. J—Philip, what is Cleone’s flower?”

  Philip had risen. He put a chair forward for Cleone.

  “Can you ask, Jenny? What but a rose?”

  Cleone sat down. Her lips smiled steadily.

  “A rose? Surely it’s a flaunting flower, sir?”

  “Ah, mademoiselle, it must be that you have never seen a rose just bursting from the bud!”

  “Oh, la! I am overcome, sir! And I have not yet thanked you for the bouquet you sent me this morning!”

  Philip’s eyes travelled to the violets at her breast.

  “I did not send violets,” he said mournfully.

  Cleone’s eyes flashed.

  “No. These”—she touched the flowers caressingly—“I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby.”

  “He is very fortunate, mademoiselle. Would that I were also!”

  “I think you are, sir. Mistress Ann Nutley wore your carnations yesterday the whole evening.” Cleone found that she was looking straight into his eyes. Hurriedly she looked away, but a pulse was beating in her throat. For one fleeting instant she had seen the old Philip, grave, honest, a little appealing. If only—if only—

  “Mr. Jett—I mean Philip! Will you teach me to say something in French?”

  “Why, of course, chérie. What would you say?”

  The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow.

  FIFTEEN

  LADY MALMERSTOKE ON HUSBANDS

  AND HE brought it himself, yesterday morning, tied with snowdrops. I don’t know how he got them, for they are over, are they not, Clo? But there they were, with the prettiest verse you can imagine. It said my eyes were twin pools of grey! Isn’t that beautiful?”

  Cleone jerked one shoulder.

  “It is not very original,” she said.

  “Don’t you like it?” asked Jennifer reproachfully.

  Cleone was ashamed of her flash of ill-humour.

  “Yes, dear, of course I do. So Mr. Jettan brought it to you himself, did he?”

  “Indeed, yes! And stayed a full hour, talking to Papa and to me. What do you think? He has begged me to be sure and dance with him on Wednesday! Is it not kind of him?”

  “Very,” said Cleone dully.

  “I cannot
imagine why he should want them,” Jennifer prattled on. “Jamie says he is at Mistress Nutley’s feet. Is she very lovely, Clo?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, I suppose she is.”

  “Philip is teaching me to speak French. It is so droll, and he laughs at my accent. Can you speak French, Clo?”

  “A little. No doubt he would laugh at my accent if he ever heard it.”

  “Oh, I do not think so! He could not, could he? Clo, I asked if he did not think you were very beautiful, and he said—”

  “Jenny, you must not ask things like that!”

  “He did not mind! Truly, he did not! He just laughed—he is always laughing, Clo!—and said that there was no one who did not think so. Was not that neat?”

  “Very,” said Cleone.

  Jennifer drew nearer.

  “Cleone, may I tell you a secret?”

  A fierce pain shot through Cleone.

  “A secret? What is it?” she asked quickly.

  “Why, Clo, how strange you look! ’Tis only that I know James to be in love with—you!”

  Cleone sank back. She started to laugh from sheer relief.

  “I do not see that it is funny,” said Jennifer, hurt.

  “No, no, dear! It—it is not that—I mean, of course, of course, I knew that James was—was—fond of me.”

  “Did you? Oh—oh, are you going to marry him?” Jennifer’s voice squeaked with excitement.

  “Jenny, you ask such dreadful questions! No, I am not.”

  “But—but he loves you, Clo! Don’t you love him?”

  “Not like that. James only thinks he loves me. He’s too young. I—Tell me about your dress, dear!”

  “For the ball?” Jennifer sat up, nothing loth. “’Tis of white silk—”

  “Sir Deryk Brenderby!”

  Jennifer started.

  “Oh, dear!” she said regretfully.

  A tall, loose-limbed man came in.

  “Fair Mistress Cleone! I am happy, indeed, to have found you in! I kiss your hands, dear lady!”

  Cleone drew them away, smiling.

  “Mistress Jennifer Winton, Sir Deryk.”

  Brenderby seemed to become suddenly aware of Jenny’s presence. He bowed. Jennifer curtseyed demurely, and took refuge behind her friend.

  Sir Deryk lowered himself into a chair.

  “Mistress Cleone, can you guess why I have come?”