‘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, too! – 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 modern 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 learned 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.’
William Sidford, bailiff, was not quite sure, either, that he approved of Adam’s interest in what had never interested his volatile parent, although he had welcomed the advent of a master who not only listened to what he had to say, but seemed to understand that only ruin could result from wresting every penny it would yield out of the land, and ploughing not one penny back into it. He had felt hopeful, at first, of being able to check the rot he had been deploring for years; but after spending the better part of four days in the Sixth Viscount’s company he was attacked by qualms. His new master was chuck-full of modern ideas, which he had got out of books. William Sidford had no time to waste on books, and he approached new theories with extreme caution, since it stood to reason that what had been good enough for his father and his grandfather must be good enough for him. Not that he was an enemy to progress: when my lord talked of road-making, under-draining, and embanking, he was heartily in agreement with him; and he was by no means averse from adopting the Four-Course System. But when my lord began to talk about Tull’s drill, and such new crops as swedes and mangel-wurzels, it became apparent to him that it was his duty to check him. Such notions might answer: he didn’t say they wouldn’t, nor that the Tullian Method wasn’t a good one; but one thing he could tell his lordship, and that was that he wouldn’t find the Tullian Method in general use amongst those who might be supposed to know their business. Having been accustomed all his life to see fields that were luxuriant in summer barren, and often flooded, in winter, he found it difficult to adjust his mind to my lord’s ideas: winter crops were certainly desirable, but it would cost a mint of money to ma
ke it possible to grow them; and as for the enclosures my lord talked about, he didn’t know, he was sure, but he had heard it said that enclosures made for poor lean people.
‘But, according to what I have read,’ said Adam, ‘it is rather the open field system that does that, because it means winter idleness, with no hedges to plash, ditches to scour, draining to maintain, or drilled crops to keep clean.’ He added, as William Sidford looked doubtful: ‘You’ve told me – and I’ve seen for myself – that there’s much distress amongst the farm labourers.’
‘That’s so, my lord, but it’s on account of the low prices. I disremember when the times were so sickly,’ Sidford said. ‘By what I’m hearing, there’s upwards of two hundred country banks have stopped payment – like they did a matter of twenty years ago.’
These last words were charged with significance, and referred, as Adam realized, to the financial crash of ’93, in which the Fifth Viscount had been disastrously involved. It was plain that William Sidford thought the time ill-chosen for unnecessary expenditure. He began to grumble about the Corn Laws, and the Property Tax, but to deaf ears. Adam interrupted him suddenly, saying: ‘Wasn’t my grandfather very friendly with Mr Coke of Norfolk? Would he be willing to advise me, I wonder?’
William Sidford could advance no opinion, but none was expected, the question having been rhetorical. Adam brought the conference to an end, saying, with a smile: ‘I’m woefully ignorant, am I not? I must go to school again. In the meantime, set in hand, if you please, the work upon which we are agreed.’
William Sidford left him to the task of composing a letter to Mr Coke. Mistrusting the cross-country mails, he sent it by the hand of one of his grooms. It was productive of an instant response: Mr Coke held the Fourth Viscount’s memory in affection, and would be happy to advise his present lordship to the best of his ability. He suggested that Adam should honour him with a visit to Holkham, immediately, if that should be convenient to him. Detecting the cordiality underlying the formality of Mr Coke’s reply, Adam decided to take him at his word. He dispatched a brief note to Jenny, informing her that his return to town would be a trifle delayed; and set out for Norfolk.
The apprehensions natural to a modest young man thrusting himself upon the notice of his grandfather’s old friend were instantly overcome by the warmth of Mr Coke’s welcome. Mr Coke, living in the inherited splendour of Holkham, was a shrewd man of simple tastes and forthright disposition. He had succeeded to the property of his noble kinsman, Lord Leicester, on the distaff side; and instead of scheming to get the Earldom revived, he had applied himself to the task of improving and developing a large estate whose rent-roll amounted to no more than two thousand guineas. Today, rather less than forty years later, it more nearly approached the sum of twenty thousand pounds, and the handsome young man of whom no one had heard had for long been a power in the land. He had never made the least push to get the title revived: he was content to be Mr Coke of Norfolk; and neither his wealth nor his unchallenged supremacy in the agricultural world altered his kindly, unpretentious character. He entertained all sorts at Holkham, from Royal Dukes to quite insignificant persons, and treated everyone alike, without ceremony, but with a genuine desire to make his guests comfortable. In this he was ably seconded by his youngest daughter, who kept house for him. Within a very few minutes of having his hand warmly grasped, and a likeness traced in his countenance to his grandfather, Adam felt at home; and by the time he had spent an evening in his host’s company he found himself able not only to ask for advice but to take Mr Coke far more deeply into his confidence than he would previously have believed to be possible.
The problems besetting him in the Lincolnshire fens were not precisely those which had confronted Mr Coke in Norfolk, but Mr Coke’s knowledge was not confined to the conditions of his own county. He gave Adam wise counsel, conducted him over his own experimental farm, and patiently instructed him in the intricacies of successful agriculture. When Adam left Holkham, he carried with him, besides a sheaf of notes, a head crammed with so much information that he felt slightly dazed. It would take time to assimilate all he had learned: meanwhile, one fact only stood out clearly: to restore his acres to prosperity would entail the expenditure of far more money than he could hope to raise.
He reached London late one evening, and in a conscience-stricken mood, having overstayed what he felt to have been his leave of absence by a full week. He found Jenny in the drawing-room, at work on one of her chair-covers, and paused on the threshold with such an expression of apprehensive guilt on his face that she burst out laughing, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, you look just like a naughty little boy found out in mischief! How can you be so absurd?’
He laughed too, but said, as he came across the room to bend over her and kiss her cheek: ‘Well, that’s precisely what I feel I am! I beg your pardon, Jenny: it was infamous of me! Didn’t I promise I’d come home to go with you to some party or another?’
‘Yes, but I told you it was of no consequence: I went with Lady Oversley.’
‘You are a great deal too forgiving. An agreeable party?’
‘Yes, very. Naldi sang, and I met an old acquaintance there – a girl that was at school with me, and is married now to a Mr Usselby.’ Her eyes narrowed in amusement. ‘I couldn’t but laugh inside myself! I’ve never clapped eyes on her since she left Miss Satterleigh’s, but you’d hardly believe how enchanted she was to meet me again, now that I’m Lady Lynton!’
‘What an odious female! I hope you gave her a set-down?’
‘Oh, no! Why should I? I’m sure it wasn’t to be wondered at,’ she responded. Her eyelids lifted as the butler came in, bearing the massive silver tea-tray. This was set down on a table before her, and, having satisfied herself that a plate of freshly-made macaroons stood upon it, she nodded dismissal, and began to make the tea.
‘How comfortable this is!’ Adam remarked, sinking into a chair. ‘I thought you must have had tea more than an hour ago, and had quite made up my mind to it that I should get none – for I shouldn’t have dared to ask for it, after my abominable perfidy!’
‘Well, what a notion to take into your head!’ she said. ‘As though you might not have tea whenever you chose to call for it in your own house! Oh, you’re joking me, are you? I have a very good mind to hide the macaroons from you!’
‘Not my favourite macaroons as well?’ he exclaimed. ‘Jenny, that’s coals of fire! What made you think I should arrive tonight? Or is it just a lucky chance?’
She did not tell him that she had given orders for macaroons to be made every day, but only smiled, handing him the plate, and asked him if his business at Fontley had prospered.
‘Well, not entirely, perhaps – but never mind that! I went on to Holkham, you know. I wished you had been with me: you’d have liked it, I think. They are the kindest people – just Mr Coke, and his daughter: a very unaffected, intelligent girl. I was charged with all sorts of civil messages for you, and pledged myself to take you there for the Holkham Clippings, in August. Ah! I’ve had no tea like this since I left town! You don’t know how often I’ve yearned for it! Exactly as it should be! Thank you! Tell me what you have been doing since I left you! Not drudging over that stitchery all the time, I do trust?’
‘Oh, dear me, no!’ she responded. ‘I have been going about a great deal, I promise you, besides receiving more morning-callers than I looked for.’ She paused, longing for the courage to ask him what had been engaging his time at Fontley. He enquired, instead, who had been her morning-callers. Her countenance betrayed neither hurt nor chagrin; tacitly accepting his reserve, she began to enumerate her visitors, adding one or two caustic comments which made him laugh.
He was glad to discover from her account of her activities that she seemed to be finding her feet in society. She had attended several parties, visited an exhibition, driven in the Park with one of her new acquaintances, and had even ventured to invite the Adversanes to go with her to the Opera – though not without misgivin
g. ‘But Brough told me they don’t rent a box, and it seemed a shame ours should be standing empty, when it was Alceste, which Lady Adversane was particularly wishful to hear, so I plucked up my courage, and asked her if she would be so kind as to go with me. She didn’t take it amiss, so I was glad I’d done it.’
‘I expect she was very much obliged to you. It comes as news to me, however, that we rent a box at the Opera House. What do we pay for it? Or don’t we?’
Her colour rushed up; she cast him a wary glance, faltering: ‘Papa thought – It was a present to me, because he knows I’m fond of music. I’m sorry!’
‘Why should you be? It’s I who owe you an apology: I ought to have attended to the matter – but I expect your box would be rather above my touch! I believe one is obliged to pay four hundred guineas for a quite inferior box, which I feel sure yours is not.’
She was silent, her face wearing the wooden look which he had come to recognize as a sign of discomfiture. His own colour rose; ashamed of having allowed his temper to ride him, he said penitently: ‘Now I do owe you an apology! Forgive me – or give me a trimming! Why don’t you? I certainly deserve that you should!’ She gave him instead a tiny shake of the head, and a tremulous smile. He said, with quick compassion: ‘My poor dear, you’re too patient – and will soon have the devil of a husband on your hands if you don’t take care! So you went to the Opera, and enjoyed it, I hope. What else?’
It was a moment before she could recover her balance, but she managed to do it, and to respond, with a little chuckle: ‘Well, I went with Mrs Usselby to a lecture by the Memory Man!’
‘The what?’
‘Memory Man – I’ve forgotten his name, but he is all the crack, I promise you! He teaches one how to remember every-thing, by supposing rooms with compartments – fifty to each room! Someone said he had reached the seventeenth room, but a Mr Frampton, who came up after the lecture to talk to Mrs Usselby, said he would wager he would be in a puzzle if he were asked to say what was in the forty-seventh compartment! I don’t think there’s anything more to tell you – except about the Peace Celebrations. There’s a great deal of what your Aunt Nassington calls tracasserie about the White’s Club ball, because by some means or another the Princess of Wales has contrived to obtain tickets for it, and the Prince Regent declares he won’t go to it if she does. I don’t know how it will be, or what the truth is, and I don’t believe anyone does, for everyone has a different story to tell about it!’ She paused, drew a breath, and said, with a slight effort: ‘The civic banquet is fixed for the 18th. I don’t know if you recall – if you would wish –’