Mr Chawleigh could not think of this function without rubbing his hands together gleefully; nor, whenever he visited his daughter, could he resist the temptation to pick up the card of invitation, and to gloat over it, very often reading it aloud.
“To think how close I came to telling my Lord Oversley you’d be no manner of use to me!” he told Adam, in a burst of confidence. “Why, a Marquis couldn’t have done better for my Jenny! Well, it was a great day for me when I saw her go off to Court to be presented, but no more than what I bargained for, after all. But this — ! The Lord Chamberlain being commanded by his Royal Highness to invite you and Jenny to a Dress Party, to have the honour of meeting her Majesty the Queen! I don’t scruple to own that I never looked for anything as bang-up as that, my lord!”
Adam, who was becoming inured to his father-in-law’s frank utterances, laughed, but disclaimed responsibility. “No bread-and-butter of mine, sir! We owe the invitation to my father, who was one of the Prince’s friends, you know. I hope Jenny will enjoy it.”
“Enjoy it! You may lay your life she will! Ay, and I’ll enjoy hearing all about it, I can tell you, and thinking how proud Mrs C. would have been, if she’d been spared to see her wish come true.”
“Perhaps she can see it,” suggested Adam.
“Well, I like to think she can,” confessed Mr Chawleigh, “but there’s no saying — and no sense in getting into the dismals either, you’ll be telling me.”
“I shan’t, but you put me in mind of a crow I have to pull with you, sir: Jenny tells me that you don’t mean to come to our rout-party.”
“No, that I don’t, and a fine trimming I gave her for sending me a card — not but what I take it very kind in you to invite me! A pretty figure I’d cut, rubbing shoulders with the nobs! Nor I’m not going along with you to St Paul’s neither, so let’s hear no more of that!” He gave a deep chuckle. “Eh, the way my Jenny told me she was getting tickets from my Lord Adversane! ‘Brough’s father,’ was what she called him, to the manner born!”
Adam was slightly mystified by this, so he left it unanswered, reverting instead to the subject of the approaching rout-party. But to all his persuasions Mr Chawleigh remained adamant, saying, with embarrassing candour, that if my lord started to dish him up at his parties he would soon find that his acquaintance had dropped off.
It was soon made apparent that although he would not attend the party he had every intention of making his presence felt at it, so keen an interest did he take in the arrangements for it, and so determined was he that it should excel in magnificence every other party held during the Season. “Order everything of the best!” he adjured his daughter. “I’ll stand the nonsense, never you fear! You’ll be wanting half-a-dozen footmen: I’ll send those fellows of mine along. And no need to trouble yourself about the champagne, because I’ll attend to that, and I warrant you’ll hear no complaints from your guests!”
“Thank you — we are much obliged to you, but I’ve already attended to that matter, sir,” said Adam, trying to speak cordially, and not quite succeeding.
“Then I’ll be bound you’ve wasted your blunt, my lord!” responded Mr Chawleigh tartly. “Beef-witted, that’s what I call it — meaning no offence! — for you might ha’ known I could buy it cheaper, and better, than what you could!”
Baulked on this issue, he veered off on another tack, offering to augment the Lynton silver with his own formidable collection of plate, to make, he explained, more of a show. This suggestion drove Adam from the room, too angry even to excuse himself. He betook himself to his book-room, and here Jenny found him, some time later. He looked at her with alien eyes, and said curtly: “Jenny, I have no wish to wound your father, but I shall be obliged to you if you will make it plain to him that I want neither his footmen nor his plate, nor, let me add, do I desire him to frank me!”
She replied calmly: “As though I didn’t know it! Now, there’s not a bit of need for you to get into a miff! Just keep a still tongue in your head, my dear, and leave me to deal with Papa — which I promise you I can do! There’ll be nothing done you don’t like, and I’ve no more intention of letting him frank us than you have. That’s what I came to tell you, for I could see Papa put you into a regular flame.”
He relaxed, saying: “I hope he could not!”
“Well, he did, of course, but that’s no matter. He’s one that likes to be giving, and he don’t always see when people don’t want him to butter their bread on both sides. I’ve told him how it is, so you may be easy.”
“I’m not at all easy,” he confessed. “I ought to beg his pardon for behaving so churlishly.”
“No such thing! I don’t say he enters into your feelings, but he doesn’t like you any the worse for not wishing to hang on his sleeve. Don’t give it another thought!”
If he was unable to follow this advice, at least he took care to conceal from Jenny that Mr Chawleigh’s subsequent activities caused him to feel an even greater unease. Mr Chawleigh, prohibited from bringing his daughter’s party up to the nines, turned his attention to the question of her personal appearance. His rout by Lady Nassington still rankled in his mind, and his energies were next alarmingly directed to the task of turning Jenny out in what he called prime style, and what Adam shudderingly thought would transform her into a walking advertisement for a jeweller’s shop. He never knew by what means she had dissuaded her father from purchasing for her a ruby and diamond tiara which had taken his fancy, and since she agreed to all Mr Chawleigh’s suggestions for her embellishment he was agreeably startled by the discovery, on the night of the party, that she was wearing no other jewels than the delicate necklace approved by Lady Nassington, the diamond aigrette which he had himself given her as wedding-present, one ring, and only two of her many bracelets.
There was another improvement, for which he was indebted to his sister. Lydia, critically studying the fashion-plates in a periodical devoted to current modes, had suddenly exclaimed: “Jenny, this would become you!”
Looking over her shoulder at the sketch of a willowy female clad in a ball-dress of white satin with a three-quarter pelisse of pale blue, Jenny said bluntly: “Well, it(wouldn’t. It would make me look more squat than Nature did, you silly girl!”
“Oh, not the dress!” Lydia said. “The hair! No curls, you see, and no crimping, which I think hideous, like Mama’s crape! Now, if you were to arrange your hair like this, it would be becoming, and not just in the common style, which my Aunt Bridestow says is most important, unless, of course, one has the good fortune to be a Beauty.”
Jenny studied the drawing rather doubtfully. To one accustomed to the effect produced by curl-papers and hot irons the willowy lady’s smooth braids presented a very odd appearance. “I’d look like a dowd,” she decided.
“Do but try it!” coaxed Lydia. “You know you mean to have it washed and curled again for the party: well, when Martha has washed it, let me dress it for you! I have often done so for Charlotte, and even Mama owns that I do it better than Miss Poolstock. And if you don’t care for it, Martha can curl it for you after all.”
Jenny allowed herself to be persuaded, not without misgiving. But when Lydia’s clever fingers had done their work, and she studied her reflection in the mirror she was not displeased. After a prolonged scrutiny, she said: “It seems queer not to have curls over my ears, but there’s no denying my face doesn’t look so broad — does it?”
“Exactly so!” said Lydia. “You must never have those bunches of curls again, but always dress your hair close at the sides, and braid it into a coronet on the top of your head. And I wish you will stop sniffing, Martha! Don’t you see how well her ladyship looks?”