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 ramble, 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!”
“You’re worn to a bone: I know that. You’ve had far more to do than I have — besides other things. I only hope you may not be sea-sick in this carriage!”
He laughed. “I hope not indeed! Do you think you will?”
“Well, I think I might. It sways about so much. I daresay I shall grow used to it, but if I don’t you mustn’t tell Papa, if you please! He would be so disappointed, for he had it specifically built,”
“It won’t be as bad once we’re off the stones. Lean back and shut your eyes! Did you bring your smelling-salts with you?”
“I haven’t any. Oh, yes, I have! A horrid vinaigrette, which was Mrs Quarley-Bix’s wedding-gift to me. I expect she had it by her, for she couldn’t have supposed it would be of the least use to me.”
“Ungrateful girl! Don’t tell me you left it behind!”
“Yes, but never mind! I shall soon grow accustomed.”
This seemed to be true, for after remaining for some time with her eyes closed she presently opened them, and turned her head a little to study Adam’s profile. He was not at first aware of her scrutiny, his thoughts being remote from her, and his inattentive gaze fixed on the changing landscape; but after some minutes, as though suddenly conscious that he was being watched, he glanced at her.
His vision of ethereal loveliness vanished. Beside him, plump and a little homely, sat reality, in a stylish pelisse, and a hat whose poke-front and curled ostrich feathers made ah incongruous frame for a round, rosy face remarkable only for its determination. Revulsion held him speechless for a moment, but as his eyes met Jenny’s he saw the anxiety in hers, and his mood changed to one of compassion. Whatever had been her motive for consenting to the bargain struck by her father, she did not look happy. He thought her case to be worse than his own. The benefits accruing to him through marriage were solid; if she sought social advancement, he, born into the ton, and taking for granted the advantages of birth and rank, believed that she would discover her elevation to the peerage to be a worthless thing. If she had been forced into a loveless match by her father’s ambition, she was the more to be pitied. He did pity her, and forgot his own aching heart in the need to reassure her. How to do it he did not know; he could only smile at her, and take her gloved hand in his, saying cheerfully: “That’s better! Have you been asleep?”