Джорджетт Хейер - A Civil Contract

“I should rather think you would!” exclaimed Lydia enviously.

“You would too, wouldn’t your” said Brough, who was seated beside her, “Can’t it be contrived? I shouldn’t go to Bath, if I were you: very dull sort of a place! Full of quizzes and cripples — balls end at eleven — nothing to do all day but drink the waters and parade about the Pump Room — not the style of thing you’ll enjoy!”

“I know I shan’t,” she sighed. “I have to go because of Mama. It is my Duty, so of course I don’t expect to enjoy it”

Jenny, who had quick hearing, had caught some part of this interchange. She said nothing then, but a little later, when the ladies had retired to the drawing-room and the Dowager was enjoying a comfortable gossip with Lady Oversley, she moved to where Lydia and Julia were seated side by side on a sofa, and said abruptly: “I’ve been thinking it over, and I believe I should ask Papa to procure a large window, or perhaps a room with several windows, so that we may invite our particular friends to share it with us. Would you care for it, Julia? And do you suppose that her ladyship might spare you for a visit to us, Lydia, so that you could see the procession, and all the other sights?”

“Oh, Jenny!” Lydia gasped. “If you truly mean it, and Mama won’t let me come, I’ll — I’ll jump on to the first stagecoach, and come without her leave!”

“No, that won’t fit: it wouldn’t be seemly,” said Jenny. “There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be able to spare you, for it won’t be for a few weeks yet, and you’ll have time enough to settle her into her new house. I’ll broach the matter to her now, while my Lady Oversley is here to add her word to mine, which I’ll be bound she will do.”

She gave her little characteristic nod, and crossed the room again. Watching her, Lydia said: “You know, Julia, one can’t but like her, however much one means not to! I quite thought she would be detestable, for I was as mad as fire when I knew what Adam had done, but she’s not! To be sure, I should have known she couldn’t be, because she was your friend.”

“I never knew her,” Julia said, in a low tone. “O God, will this evening never end?”

She got up as she spoke, and took a few hasty steps away before she recollected herself. The Dowager, seeing her standing by the pianoforte, said: “Dear child! Are you going to indulge us with a little music? Such a treat!”

Julia stared at her for a moment as though she scarcely understood; and then, without answering, threw her fan and her reticule aside, and sat down at the instrument. The Dowager, saying how well she remembered how very superior was dear Julia’s performance, resumed her conversation with Lady Oversley.

Amongst a multitude of damsels who numbered pianoforte-playing as one of their laboriously acquired accomplishments, Julia’s performance was indeed superior. She did not always play correctly, but she had, besides a great love of music, real talent, and a touch on the keys which Jenny, who seldom played a wrong note, could never rival.

Lady Oversley felt relieved. She had seen how impetuously Julia had sprung up from the sofa, and she had been seized by apprehension. But she knew that once Julia sat down at the pianoforte the chances were that she would forget herself and her surroundings, and become lost in music; and so she was able to relax her strained attention, and to apply herself to the task of persuading the Dowager to look with a kindly eye upon Jenny’s scheme for Lydia’s entertainment.

Julia was still playing when the gentlemen came into the room. She glanced up, but indifferently, and lowered her eyes again to the keyboard, and kept them so until she had struck the final chord of the sonatina, and Rockhill, moving forward, said: “Ah, that was very well done! Bravo! Now sing!”

She looked at him, faintly smiling. “No, how should I? You know my voice is nothing!”

“A little, sweet voice, charmingly produced. Sing a ballad for me!”

But she sang it for Adam, her eyes meeting his, and holding them. It was a trivial thing, a sentimental air which had been all the rage a year before. She sang it softly, and quite simply, but there was always in her singing a nostalgic sadness that tore at the heart-strings, and made people remember the past, and the might-have-been.  For Adam, to whom she had sung it many times before, the song conjured up every banished memory. He was still standing, his hand resting on the back of a chair, and as he listened, unable to drag his eyes from Julia’s face, it closed on the gilded wood, gripping it so tightly that his fingers whitened. Lydia noticed it, and, looking upward, saw an unguarded expression in his face which frightened her. She glanced instinctively at Jenny. Jenny was sitting very upright, as she always did, with her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes downcast; but as Lydia watched her her eyelids lifted, and she directed a long look at Adam. Then she looked down again, and there was nothing in her face to show whether she had seen the suffering in his.

Lydia began to feel uncomfortable. The opulent room seemed to be charged with emotions beyond the range of her experience. Scarcely comprehending, she was yet aware of tension. Blighted love and broken hearts were phrases which had tripped readily from her tongue; it had not appeared to her that Adam, laughing at Jenny’s bathroom, poking fun at Lambert Ryde, could be unhappy, until she saw the look in his eyes as he watched Julia. It was a dreadful look, she thought, and dreadful for Jenny to see it, even if she had married him only for social advancement.

She stole a surreptitious glance round the circle. No one was looking at Adam. The older members of the party were all watching Julia; Jenny’s eyes were downcast; Charles Oversley, plainly bored, was gazing at nothing in particular; and Brough, Lydia discovered, was looking at herself. There was the hint of a smile in his eyes: it drew a response from her; and this encouraged him to change his seat for the vacant space beside her on the sofa, saying under his breath: “Musical, Miss Deveril?”

She shook her head “No!”

“Good!” he said. “Nor am I.” Under their heavy lids, his eyes glanced at Adam, and away again, as though he had intruded upon something not meant for him to see.

The song ended. Hardly had the chorus of acclamation, abated than Lydia jumped up, saying: “Jenny, you said we might play a round game! Do let me find the counters for a game of speculation!”

It was gauche; it made the Dowager frown; but Brough murmured approvingly, as he dragged himself to his feet: “Good girl!”

“Speculation? Oh, no!” uttered Julia involuntarily.

Lady Oversley did not hear the words, but she saw the gesture of distaste, and braced herself to intervene. She was rescued by Rockhill, who gently shut the lid of the pianoforte, and said, smiling with amused understanding into those tragic blue eyes: “But yes, my little wicked one! Come, Miss Mischief, I depend on you to instruct me!”

She smiled too, but reluctantly. “You? Oh, no! You will play whist!”

“No: my attention would wander too much.” He took her hand, and held it sustainingly, saying softly: “Put up your chin, my pretty! You can, you know.”

Her fingers clung to his. “Ah, you understand — don’t you?”

“Perfectly!” he said, the amusement deepening in his eyes.

five days later, Adam left London for Lincolnshire, promising to return within a week. He did not ask Jenny to accompany him, nor did she suggest it. He told her that he was going on business connected with the estate; and she answered that he must not think himself bound to hurry back to town if it should prove to be inconvenient to do so. He said: “I won’t fail you! Isn’t there a rout-party looming, or some such thing?”

“Oh,  yes, but it’s of no consequence! If you should still be away I can very well go with Lady Oversley.” She added, with a gleam of humour: “I must learn to go to parties without you or we shall have people saying that we are quite Gothic. I expect I ought to set up a — what do you call it? — cicisbeo!”

“Not if it would mean my tripping over him every time I entered the house!”

She laughed. “No fear of that! Though I did once have an admirer. He thought me an excellent housekeeper.”

“A dull fellow! But I must own I think so too.”

She grew instantly pink. “Do you? I’m glad.”

It seemed to him pathetic that she should be pleased by such a mild tribute; he tried to think of something else to say, but she forestalled him, turning the conversation away from herself by asking if she should send the necessary order to the stables, or if he preferred to do it himself.

“No orders,” he said. “I’m going down by the Mail.”

“But — When we have our own chaise, and the boys — perfectly idle, tool — and the Mail won’t carry you to Fontley itself!”

“No, it will set me down at Market Deeping, where Felpham will meet me with the phaeton. As for the postilions, I must own I think it ridiculous to keep them kicking their heels at your expense. Does your father insist on their employment? Why don’t you turn them off?”

“They need not kick their heels,” she said. “They are not here only to serve me. That’s not as Papa meant it to be when he engaged them for us.”

“Well, they will serve me as well as you when I take you to Fontley later on.” He saw her compress her lips, and said, after a moment’s hesitation: “Leave me some little independence, Jenny! I don’t question your expenditure, or wish you to forgo any luxury, but you mustn’t expect me to waste your father’s money on personal extravagance. Don’t look so troubled! there’s no hardship in travelling by the Mail, I assure you!”

“No, but — Your father did not do so, did he?”

“My father conducted himself as though he were as wealthy as yours. His example is not one I mean to follow — even if I wished to, which, believe me, I don’t! It really wouldn’t make me happy to live en prince, as he did, and as you, I think, would like me to.”

“You must do as you wish,” she said, in a subdued tone.

He did not pursue the subject. The ice was too thin, nor did he feel able to make her understand what he could not explain even to himself. His personal thrift was illogical: to travel in a public conveyance, to drive his father’s curricle in preference to the glossy new one provided for him, to make no unnecessary purchases, gave him only the illusion of independence. He knew it, but in the middle of the luxury that surrounded and stifled him he clung obstinately to his economies.

It was a relief to escape from the splendour of the house in Grosvenor Street, to be alone, to be going home; it was even a relief, when he reached Fontley, to see a worn carpet, faded chintz, a chair covered in brocade so old that it would rip at a touch. There were no modern conveniences, no mirrored bathrooms, no Patent Oil Lamps, no Improved Closed Stoves in the kitchen: water was pumped into the scullery, heated in an enormous copper, and carried in cans to the bedchambers; all the rooms, except the kitchen, where an old-fashioned oil-lamp hung, and blackened the ceiling with its fumes, were candle-lit. The house in Grosvenor Street blazed with light, for Mr Chawleigh had installed oil-lamps even in the bedrooms; but at Fontley, unless the candles were lit in all the wall-sconces, there were miles of dim passages, and one carried a single candle up to bed, guarding its flame from the draughts.

The Dowager had tried for years to induce the Fifth Viscount to renovate Fontley, asserting, with truth, that its shabbiness was a disgrace; and when he had returned to it from the Peninsula Adam had heartily agreed with her; but, escaping from the cushioned splendour of the town house, all the inconveniences of Fontley seemed to him admirable, and he would have received with hostility even a suggestion that the frayed rug in which he caught his heel should be replaced. He did not quite acknowledge it, but in his mind was a jealous determination never to allow Chawleigh-hands to touch his home; shabbiness would not destroy its charm; Chawleigh-gold would destroy it overnight.

But his acceptance of decay did not extend to his land. Here he wanted every modem improvement he could get. He might indulge foolish sentiment over a torn rug; he had none to waste on an ill-drained field, an outdated plough, or a labourer’s cottage falling to ruin; and had Mr Chawleigh shared his love of the land he might have been willing to admit him into some sort of a partnership, overcoming his pride for the sake of his acres. But Mr Chawleigh, fascinated by mechanical contrivances, had no interest in agriculture. Born in a back-slum, of town-bred ancestry, there was no tradition of farming behind him, and no inherited love of the soil. How anyone could wish to live anywhere but in London was a matter passing his comprehension, but he knew that the nobs (as he phrased it) possessed country estates, and since an estate added greatly to a nob’s consequence Adam’s value in his eyes had been considerably enhanced when he had learnt from Lord Oversley that he was the owner of a large one in Lincolnshire, and of a mansion which figured in every Guide Book to the county. Lord Oversley spoke reverently of Fontley. Mr Chawleigh had no great opinion of antiquity, but he knew that the nobs set store by it, so it was obviously desirable that Jenny should become the mistress of an ancient country seat. In his view, this meant a palatial residence, set in extensive gardens, with such embellishments as ornamental water, statuary, and Grecian temples, the whole being surrounded by a park. Had he considered the matter, he would have supposed that a farm to supply the needs of the household would be attached to the mansion; but that the owner should concern himself with its management he would have thought absurd, and even improper. As for the rest of the estate, he knew that in an agricultural district this must consist largely of farms, which were let out to tenants, and from which the overlord drew a large part of his subsistence. In his opinion, it was a poor source of revenue. No one was going to make Mr Chawleigh believe that there were fortunes to be made in farming: as far as he could see, it was as chancy a business as speculating on ’Change. In any event, it was not for the overlord to meddle in such matters: whatever had to be done was done by his agent. “Gentlemen,” said Mr Chawleigh, like another before him, “have no right to be farmers.”