A Civil Contract (10 page)

‘Exactly so!’ said Lambert. ‘A very agreeable girl, and with a good understanding, I daresay. As for her father – well, ma’am, there’s no need to think about him, after all! I heard him tell you that he didn’t mean to force himself on you.’

‘If I could believe he meant it!’ sighed the widow.

‘You may at least believe, Mama, that I mean it when I tell you that he will at all times be made welcome in my house!’ said Adam, rather sternly.

‘Oh, Adam, not at Fontley!’ Charlotte cried involuntarily.

‘Certainly at Fontley! You seem to forget that but for him Fontley must have been sold! Do you imagine that I shan’t invite him to visit us there? Handsome of me!’

She turned her face away, saying in a low voice: ‘I had forgotten, or perhaps haven’t allowed myself to reflect upon a circumstance so mortifying – so impossible to bring oneself to accept! I will say no more.’

‘I think enough has been said,’ he returned wearily.

This sentiment was not shared by his mother, who declared herself compelled to say that no one had considered
her
feelings. Her sole consolation was that Adam’s poor father was not alive to be similarly lacerated.

Charlotte burst into tears, uttering a choked protest; but a rueful smile crept into Adam’s eyes. All he said, however, was: ‘Very well, Mama. Shall I cry off? Is that what you wish?’

If he expected the Dowager to be confounded by this question he underrated her. She told him that she had no wishes that were not bound up in the happiness of her dear ones. ‘Far be it from me to try to influence you!’ she said. ‘Alas, our natures are so widely opposed, dearest, that I cannot tell what will make you happy! Wealth means nothing to me. It is otherwise with you, and you must judge for yourself. One thing you may be sure of: no word of blame will ever pass your mother’s lips!’

On this splendid line she withdrew to her bedchamber, leaning on Charlotte’s arm, and denying any expectation of closing her eyes all night.

Happily for her dear ones, her thoughts were given another direction on the following day by the news that Wimmering had received a very handsome offer for Lynton House. Indeed, the prospective purchaser was prepared to pay the high price set on it if he could have immediate possession. Adam closed with this offer; and the pangs which instantly assailed his parent were almost as quickly cured by his telling her that the sale would make it possible for him to provide for Lydia. So Lady Lynton was able to mourn the loss of a house she neither liked nor wanted, and was supplied with a self-sacrificing reason for acquiescing in its sale. She had now only to decide which pieces of furniture she wished to keep for her own use. Adam gave her carte blanche to take what she chose, and left her to Charlotte’s management. Since everything the house contained appeared to hold precious, if hitherto unsuspected, memories, it seemed unlikely that much would remain to be put in store.

The wedding took place on April 20th, a date that coincided with Louis XVIIIth’s entry into London, where he was met in state by the Prince Regent. He had been living privately at Hartwell, and this was the first time in his twenty years of exile that he had been publicly acknowledged as King of France. This circumstance did much to reconcile Mr Chawleigh to the quiet function forced on him by Adam’s bereavement. ‘For it stands to reason,’ he said, ‘that with all this fuss and to-do over that Frenchy no one would have paid any heed if I’d done the thing twice as handsomely as I’d have wished to!’

Public events were certainly occupying everyone’s attention. Adam had returned from a brief visit to Fontley to hear the Tower guns firing in honour of the Allied entry to Paris; a week later came the news of Bonaparte’s abdication, to be closely followed by the publication of a dispatch from Lord Wellington, sent from Toulouse on April 12th. It seemed as if his lordship had won his last victory in the war. It had dragged on for so many years that people felt as much incredulity as excitement; there were even those who darkly prophesied that the Allies would yet be taken at fault; and many who thought it madness to allow Bonaparte to retire to Elba.

‘Mark me if he don’t start up again!’ said Mr Chawleigh. ‘There’s only one thing to be done with him, and that’s to make an end of him, for it stands to reason that a fellow that’s been rampaging all over won’t stay quiet on a bit of an island, which is what I’m told this Elba is. We’ll have him breaking out again, sure as a gun!’ He added, after chewing the cud of disgruntled reflection, that it seemed as if the only thing that would make people take notice of his Jenny’s marriage was for the Grandduchess of Oldenburg to attend the ceremony.

This lately widowed lady, sister of the Emperor of Russia, had arrived in London some weeks previously, and was staying at the Pulteney, on Piccadilly, having arranged to hire the whole hotel for the accommodation of herself, one of her daughters, two very ugly ladies-in-waiting, and a number of servants. It was generally believed that a match was being planned between her and the Prince Regent; or, if he failed to obtain a divorce from the Princess of Wales, that she might take his brother, the Duke of Clarence, in his stead. She herself said that her visit was one of mere pleasure and sight-seeing; and it hardly seemed that she was taking trouble to make herself agreeable to the Regent. Well-informed persons said that her only matrimonial schemes were vicarious, and that she was meddling in the affairs of the Princess Charlotte of Wales, whose engagement to the Prince of Orange did not seem to be prospering.

‘And why anyone should want to gape at her every time she drives out I’m damned if I know!’ said Mr Chawleigh. ‘To my way of thinking she’s an antidote, in spite of the white skin we hear so much about. It’s as well for her she
has
got a white skin, because otherwise you’d take her for a negress, with those thick lips of hers!’

It was evident, in spite of these strictures, that if only some member of the Deveril family had been acquainted with the Grandduchess nothing would have deterred him from inviting her to the wedding: not, as he explained to Adam, from any desire to rub shoulders with such exalted persons, but because he had always promised to turn his daughter off in prime style. ‘Which it would be,’ he pointed out. ‘It would have made as big a hit as if I’d got the Lord Mayor to come in his coach.’

Adam replied sympathetically, but was firm in denying the slightest acquaintance with the Grandduchess. He wondered for an unnerving moment if Mr Chawleigh knew of the late Viscount’s friendship with the Prince Regent. Mr Chawleigh did, but he said he hoped he knew better than to aim as high as that. ‘A foreigner’s one thing, but the Prince Regent’s quite another. She may be the Emperor of Russia’s sister, but who’s
he
, when all’s said?’

‘Who indeed?’ agreed Adam. ‘Let us not trouble our heads over any Royals! We shall do much better without them!’

He spoke cheerfully, with nothing in his voice or manner to betray the sense of unreality which possessed him. He seemed to himself to be living in a dream. Dreams were without future, and he did not try to discover what his might be, being too tired to force his brain to look forward. He had, indeed, little time for contemplation: he was kept endlessly busy; and, as the wedding-day approached, was harassed by such a multitude of things forgotten and things left undone that he only managed to snatch one brief meeting with Lord William Russell, who had brought home the dispatch from Toulouse. The meeting did him good; and in learning all that had happened since he had left the Army, getting news of his friends, rejoicing in Lord March’s miraculous recovery from the wound he had received at Orthes, and laughing at the latest Headquarters’ jokes, he found reality again for a short space, and was heartened by it.

He bore himself at his wedding in a manner which Lady Oversley declared to be beyond praise. She was a good deal affected, and told her lord later that she could have wept to see dear Adam concealing what must be his true feelings, only his pallor showing how much the effort cost him.

In fact, there was no effort. Adam, back in his unquiet dream, only obeyed the dictates of his breeding. Good manners demanded a certain line of conduct, and since it was second nature to him to respond to that demand it was with no effort but mechanically that he talked and smiled at the wedding-breakfast.

There were only a dozen persons present, but nothing could have exceeded the display of plate, or the splendour of the refreshments. The regalia on the sideboard of jellies, creams, and pies made Lydia open her eyes; and she afterwards insisted that she had counted eight dishes a side on the table.

Lydia had come to London in subdued spirits, chastened by a homily from Charlotte. When she first saw Jenny, all white satin and lace and diamonds, she thought she looked dreadfully commonplace. White satin did not become Jenny; and, to make matters worse, she was as flushed as Adam was pale. She was quite composed, however, and spoke her responses clearly; but after the ceremony Lydia thought that perhaps she was not as composed as she seemed, for when she believed no one to be looking at her she pressed her hands to her cheeks, as though to force back her high colour.

Lydia felt very low during the unromantic ceremony; but in Russell Square her melancholy vanished. Her surroundings were entirely new to her, and although she had heard a great deal about Mr Chawleigh’s taste she had never imagined quite so much opulence. She looked about her with bright-eyed appreciation, drinking it all in, and wishing that she could exchange just one glance with Adam. That was impossible, but Lord Brough did very well as a substitute. Their eyes met fleetingly, and she saw by the lazy twinkle in his that he was enjoying it as much as she was; and she began to feel much more cheerful. It was still tragic that Adam was married to Jenny instead of Julia, but it was impossible to be sad in the middle of such an ill-assorted party. It was even difficult not to laugh when Mrs Quarley-Bix, robed in Berlin silk, and highly rouged, greeted Lady Lynton with the effusive affectation of intimacy, and lost no time in placing herself on equality with her by the employment of such phrases as: ‘You and I, dear Lady Lynton…’ and: ‘Persons of quality, as we know, dear Lady Lynton…’

Mr Chawleigh, observing the merry look in Lydia’s eye, took an instant fancy to her, and bore down on her. She was not as beautiful as her sister, but what he called a big, handsome girl, with no nonsense about her. By way of breaking the ice he told her that he was downright ashamed of himself for having provided no smart beaux for her entertainment. ‘There’s only my Lord Brough to be split between you and Lizzie Tiverton, and that’s what I call a shabby way of doing things. Not but what there won’t be much splitting done, if his lordship’s got as much sense as I think he has!’

Lydia, who partook far more of her father’s robust character than her brother and sister, was not at all offended by this speech. No one like Mr Chawleigh had previously come in her way, but by the time the assembled guests sat down to the Gargantuan meal provided for them he and she were in a fair way to becoming fast friends; and several times her mother was pained to hear her spontaneous, schoolgirl’s laugh break from her. Lady Lynton, conducting herself throughout with impeccable, if chilly, civility, later took Lydia to task for laughing at Mr Chawleigh, and read her a lecture on the want of breeding she had shown in wounding his sensibilities.

But Mr Chawleigh’s sensibilities were not even grazed. His shrewd eyes twinkled at Lydia; and he presently told Lady Lynton that he didn’t know when he had taken more of a liking to a girl. He added, in a confidential undertone, that he had placed Lord Brough beside her at the table. ‘Though she tells me she’s not out yet, and his lordship ought to be next to Miss Tiverton. But what I say, my lady, is: Hang Lizzie Tiverton! His lordship will be better pleased to talk to Miss Lydia!’

Lady Lynton, though she accepted the compliment politely, was not gratified. On the other hand, Adam, who had noticed, with relief, that Lydia seemed to be on the best of terms with her host, smiled gratefully at her when he met her eyes across the table.

In his lazy, unconcerned way Brough too was proving himself to be a tower of strength. Mr Chawleigh, quick to detect and to resent condescension, thought him a very nice young fellow: of much the same cut as Lord Oversley, who was good-naturedly engaging Mrs Quarley-Bix’s attention at one end of the table, while his lady, at the other end, maintained a flow of inconsequent conversation, laughed at all her host’s jokes, and delighted him by partaking of all the dishes offered her and declaring that she had never tasted anything so good.

When Jenny went upstairs to change her dress Lydia accompanied her, rescuing her from Mrs Quarley-Bix, whose proffered ministrations were clearly unacceptable to her. Waiting only to be sure that Miss Tiverton, a very shy girl, did not mean to put herself forward, she got up, saying: ‘May I come with you? Pray let me!’

‘That’s right!’ approved Mr Chawleigh. ‘You go with Miss Lydia, love, and do you sit down again, Mrs Q.-B.! Jenny don’t want two of you to help her dress, thanking you all the same!’

Lydia trod beside her new sister up the heavily carpeted stairs, trying to think of something friendly to say. But it was Jenny who first spoke, saying with a stammer: ‘Thank you! I’m much obliged to you! I hope you don’t dislike it?’

‘No, no, of course not!’ Lydia replied, flushing. ‘If
you
don’t!’

‘Oh, no! so kind!’ Jenny sighed. ‘If you knew what Mrs Quarley-Bix has been like all day – !’

Lydia giggled. ‘Your papa says she has been capering like a fly in a tar-box! Goodness, is this your bedchamber? Isn’t it
huge
?’ She stood looking about her in astonishment, presently remarking that there was much to be said for being an only daughter. ‘My bedchamber isn’t nearly as big, and nor is Charlotte’s.’ She added, turning her serious gaze upon Jenny: ‘I expect you’ll think Fontley pretty shabby.’

‘Oh, no, I promise you I shan’t!
Pray
don’t think – Oh, Martha, Miss Lydia Deveril has been so kind as to come and help me! Martha used to be my nurse, Miss Deveril.’

‘You should call me Lydia: I wish you will,’ Lydia said, sitting down on the end of an elegant day-bed. She smiled at the angular female who was dropping her a stiff curtsy, and said: ‘I won’t get in the way: I will only watch!’

The abigail’s presence did not help to lessen the constraint that tied each young lady’s tongue. Conversation was confined to the merest commonplaces, Jenny’s contributions to it being largely monosyllabic. It was not until she stood fully attired, and Martha had left the room, that she seemed to brace herself, and abruptly addressed Lydia. ‘You love him, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You needn’t tell me: I know you do, and that this isn’t what you – or he – wished. I only want to tell you that he’ll be comfortable: I’ll see to that!’ The intensity of her expression was broken by a wintry little smile. ‘You don’t think that signifies, but it does. Men like to be comfortable. Well – he will be! That’s all!’

She ended this speech with a determined nod, and without waiting for a reply went out of the room with a brisk step, leaving Lydia to follow her downstairs to where the assembled company awaited her in the hall.

The leave-takings were not prolonged. Mr Chawleigh, enfolding his daughter in a bear’s hug, bade Adam, between jocularity and ferocity, to take good care of his girl; Lady Lynton said mournfully that she hoped Adam would be happy; Charlotte and Lady Oversley shed tears; and Lydia, convulsively embracing Adam, whispered: ‘I don’t hate her! I
don’t
!’ and the gentlemen of the party offered bluff congratulations mingled with recommendations not to keep the horses standing.

The posting-chariot, which was one of Mr Chawleigh’s wedding-gifts, stood at the door, a team of match-bays harnessed to it, and the Lynton arms emblazoned on the door panels and the rich hammercloth; behind it a fourgon was drawn up, for the accommodation of my lord’s valet, my lady’s abigail, and all their baggage; and the final touch of grandeur was supplied by a couple of liveried outriders. Adam handed his bride into the chariot, paused only for a word with Brough, and followed her; the steps were put up, the door shut; and as goodbyes were called and handkerchiefs fluttered the carriage moved forward. Since postilions had been chosen for the journey the box seat, under that resplendent hammercloth, was unoccupied. So too was the rumble, Adam having successfully resisted Mr Chawleigh’s attempts to foist two footmen on to him.

The equipage swept round the angle of the square; and as the group on the flagway was lost to sight Adam turned away from the window, and smiled at Jenny, saying: ‘Well, your father may say what he chooses, but
I
think we had a very handsome wedding, don’t you? Are you very tired after it all?’

‘Well, I am fagged,’ she acknowledged, ‘but not as much as you are, I daresay.’

‘Nonsense!’