“Doing you a favour to take such a treasure from you? My dear Mr Chawleigh, I could not!”

“Now don’t say that!” begged Mr Chawleigh.  “You take it, and I’ll know I’ve hit on something which you do like, and that’ll give me more pleasure than what putting it into one of my cabinets would, for it’s something I was thinking I never would do. You don’t drive the curricle I had built, for you, nor — ”

His cheeks burning, Adam interrupted: “I — I found my father’s curricle, almost new — ! It seemed a pity — and I had a fancy to — ”

“Ay, well, no need to colour up! Your taste don’t in general jump with mine. Lord, did you think I hadn’t twigged that? No, no, a Jack Pudding I may be, but no one’s ever called Jonathan Chawleigh a bleater!”

“Certainly I have not!” Adam said, trying to hide his discomfiture. “As for my not liking what you’ve given me, sir, ask Jenny if I wasn’t delighted with the shaving-stand you placed in my room!”

“That’s nothing! You take this bowl, my lord, and it will be something.”

“Thank you. I can’t resist — though I know I ought!” Adam said, receiving the bowl from him, and holding it between his hands. “You are a great deal too good to me, but you need never think I don’t value this treasure as I should. You have given my house an heirloom!”

“Well,” said Mr Chawleigh, much gratified, “I’m sure I didn’t look for you to say that, but I don’t deny it’s as good a piece as you’ll find anywhere — and not bought for a song either!”

Jenny said, in a practical tone that betrayed none of the relief she felt: “Now, where will you have it put, Adam? It ought to be under lock and key, but it won’t look well all amongst the Bow China, and I don’t care to turn that out of the cabinet, for it belongs to your family, besides being very pretty.”

“Don’t trouble your head over it, my dear! I know just where I mean to put it,” Adam said, turning the bowl carefully between his thin fingers. “What a lustre, sir! How can you bear to part with it? No, Jenny, it would not look well amongst the Bow China! It is going to stand alone in the library at Fontley, in the embrasure at present occupied by that very ugly bust of one of my forebears.” He set the bowl down on the table, saying as he did so: “When you come to visit us, sir, you shall tell me if you approve of my taste!”

“Nay, I wouldn’t want you to put it in your ancestor’s place!” said Mr Chawleigh. “It wouldn’t be seemly!”

“My ancestor can remove himself to the gallery. I don’t want to look at him, and this I do want to look at. There are wall-sconces on either side of the embrasure, sir, and — But you will see for yourself!”

“Now, don’t you run on so fast, my lord!” Mr Chawleigh admonished him. “It’s — not by any means a settled thing that I’ll be visiting you in the country.”

“You’re mistaken, sir. I know you don’t care for the country, but you must resign yourself.”

“Well,” said Mr Chawleigh, intensely pleased, “I don’t deny I’d like to see this Fontley of yours, but I told you at the outset you wouldn’t find me foisting myself on to you, and no more you will.”

“I hope you’ll think better of that decision, sir. I shall be obliged to kidnap you, if you don’t. That’s a fair warning!”

Mr Chawleigh’s formidable bulk was shaken by chuckles. “Eh, it would puzzle you to do that, lad — my lord, I should say!”

“You should not — as I have frequently told you! It wouldn’t puzzle me in the least: I should hire a gang of masked bravoes to do the thing. So let us have no more of your flummery, sir!”

Mr Chawleigh thought this an excellent joke, but it was not until he had been assured that he would not arrive at Fontley to find the house full of his son-in-law’s grand friends that he could be brought to consent to the scheme.

“A nice thing when I have to beg and pray my father to pay me a visit!” Jenny said severely. “And well do I know you wouldn’t have hesitated, not for a moment, if Lydia had been going with us!”

This sally made Mr Chawleigh laugh heartily. He denied the accusation, but admitted that it seemed to him a great pity Lydia was not to remain in her brother’s charge.

In this opinion he met with agreement, but neither Adam nor Jenny could feel that it would be proper to keep her away from the Dowager, whose letters were becoming ever more querulous, and who described herself as counting the moments until her youngest loved one should be restored to her.

So, when the fete in the parks was over, Lydia went regretfully back to Bath, bearing with her a store of rich memories, and renewed theatrical longings. One visit to Drury Lane had been enough to set her on fire. She had sat spellbound throughout a performance of Hamlet, her lips eagerly parted, and her wide gaze fixed on the new star that had appeared in the theatrical firmament. So entranced had she been that she had barely uttered a syllable from start to finish; and when she had emerged from this cataleptic state she had begged to be taken home before the farce, since she could not endure to listen to any other actors in the world after having been so ravished by Kean. Subsequent visits (two of which she had coaxed out of Mr Chawleigh) to see Kean play in Othello, and Riches, had confirmed her in her first opinion of his genius, and had provided her with her only disappointment: that she had come to London too late to see him as Shylock, in which rôle he had taken the town by storm, in this, his opening London season. In the first heat of her enthusiasm she could imagine no greater felicity than to play opposite to him, and startled Jenny by evolving various schemes for the attainment of this object. These quite scandalized Mr Chawleigh, who begged her not to talk so silly, and nearly promoted a quarrel by saying that he couldn’t see what there was in such a miserable little snirp as Kean to send the town mad.

Adam entered gravely into all his sister’s plans, and was far more successful than Jenny or Mr Chawleigh in convincing her that they would not answer. He wasted no breath on foolish arguments, but he did suggest that perhaps Kean might not think a lady half a head taller than himself quite the ideal stage partner. These casual words sank in; Lydia became thoughtful; and when it next occurred to her sympathetic elder brother that an actress who excelled in comedy would find too little scope for her genius in the company of one acclaimed for his portrayals of the great tragic rôles, she was most forcibly struck by the truth of this observation. So, although it would have been too much to have said that she no longer cherished hankerings, Adam was reasonably confident, when he put her on the Bath Mail with her maid, that she would not prostrate their fond parent by divulging them to her.

Chapter XVI

Two days later the Lyntons left London, driving to Fontley by easy stages and in the greatest comfort. Much to Jenny’s relief Adam showed no disposition to practise any of his economies, but carried her to Lincolnshire in all the luxury to which she was accustomed.

For her, the journey, in spite of some queasiness, was the most agreeable she had as yet experienced in Adam’s company. Their previous expeditions had taken place when they were so barely acquainted that being shut up together for several hours at a stretch had imposed a strain on them, neither knowing whether the other would like to talk, or to remain silent; and each being anxious not to bore or to appear bored. This awkwardness no longer lay between them; and although they spoke of nothing that went far below the surface they talked with the ease of intimacy, and were able to lapse into companionable silences without feeling any compulsion to seek a new topic for conversation.

At Fontley Jenny was glad tobe idle for some days. She even admitted that she was a little tired, but she assured Adam that the quiet of the country was all that was needed to restore her to high health. He thought, but privately, that it would not be long before she was wishing herself back in London, for however much he might have to occupy him at Fontley he could not imagine what she would find to do.

But Jenny, wandering about the rambling house, peeping into dust-sheeted rooms, discovering treasures in forgotten corners, knew that there was plenty to do. It was work after her own heart, but so morbidly afraid of offending was she that she hardly dared even to alter the position of a chair. When they had entered the Priory Adam had said: “I dare say you will wish to make changes. My mother, you know, doesn’t take much interest in household matters — no such capital housewife as you are, Jenny! Dawes will show you all about, and you must do as you think proper, if you please.”

She did not say: I am only a guest in your house, but it was what she thought, for he uttered the speech just stiltedly enough to betray that it had been rehearsed. It was prompted by his courtesy: she appreciated its generosity, but if he had told her not to meddle she would have been less daunted.

Charlotte driving over from Membury Place, did not help to put her at ease. She came full of kind intentions, but when she entered the Priory she could not help casting an anxious glance round the Great Hall, which was not lost on Jenny. Charlotte had not seen Lynton House since Mr Chawleigh’s hand had fallen heavily upon it, but she knew all about the green stripes, the sphinxes, and the crocodile-legs, and she had dreaded to discover that Fontley had been transformed already into something more nearly resembling Bullock’s Museum than a gentleman’s country seat. Relieved to detect no change in the Hall, she accompanied Jenny upstairs to the Little Drawing-room, saying as she tucked a hand in her arm: “Dear Jenny, you must let me thank you for being so kind to Lydia! She wrote to me, you know: one of her pelting letters, crammed with the tale of her doings! Four pages! Lambert said, in his droll way, that he was thankful she was able to get a frank from Adam, for it would otherwise have ruined us to receive it!”

“Well, there’s no need to thank me, for I never enjoyed anything half as much as having her with me,” replied Jenny. “I miss her sadly, I can tell you.”

“Oh, I’m glad! To be sure, I think everyone must like her, for she is the dearest girl, besides being what Lambert calls full of fun and gig!” They had by this time reached the Little Drawing-room, where Charlotte instantly perceived an alteration. She exclaimed: “Oh, you have taken away the marquetry sewing-table!”

It was mere comment, but it threw Jenny on to the defensive. “I have only moved it into the library,” she said stiffly. “Adam told me I might do so;”

“Yes, of course! I didn’t mean — It just seemed strange not to see it where it always used to be! But I know many people dislike marquetry: my cousin Augusta can’t bear it!”

“I like it very much,” replied Jenny. “It is exactly what I need for my silks and threads, so it was wasted in this room. Adam likes to sit in the library in the evening, you know. We have taken up our readings again — he was used to read to me when we were at Rushleigh — and that’s why I moved the table, so that I’d have my embroidery ready to my hand.”

“Oh, yes! How cosy! I remember thinking how exquisitely you stitched when Mama and I visited you in Russell Square and so much admired the work you were engaged on. It quite put me to shame — and Mama, of course, was never a needle-woman.”

Jenny could not help wondering how the Dowager had occupied herself at Fontley.  Her inspection of the house had given her the poorest opinion of her mother-in-law: besides being no needlewoman she was no housewife either. She had told Jenny that she had been obliged to let the house fall into disrepair, but in her place Jenny would have set stitches to the first split in a brocade curtain; and if her domestic staff had been so much reduced as to have made it impossible for them to keep the furniture polished she would have set about the task herself rather than have allowed wood to grow dull and handles tarnished. She thought that Fontley had suffered as much from a negligent mistress as from an improvident master. The Dowager would have renovated it in excellent taste, but she lacked Jenny’s eye for an undusted table, or a corner left unswept, and, in consequence, her servants had grown careless, even Mrs Dawes, the housekeeper, finding it easier to join her mistress in bemoaning the want of extra footmen and chambermaids than to keep the remaining servants up to their work. Jenny held Mrs Dawes in contempt and showed it. She did not mean to do so, but she knew nothing of dissimulation, and her blunt tongue betrayed her. When every evidence of neglect was attributed to the want of an adequate staff she grew more and more curt, finally losing her temper when Mrs Dawes said: “In the old days, my lady, we always had a steward, and a groom of the chambers, and things were different.”