A Civil Contract Read online

  Meanwhile, she was making plans for her own maintenance. She thought it only right to inform Adam that Mama, after calculating ways and means, had come to the conclusion that although no one must doubt her readiness to stuff her last crust into the mouth of a famished daughter she would be wholly incapable of providing for this damsel out of the miserable portion which was her jointure.

  With a sinking heart Adam picked up the second sheet of this missive, and discovered that Mama had formed the intention of seeking an asylum in Bath, with her sister, Lady Bridestow. This, Lydia wrote, could never prosper, since Aunt Bridestow was a widow of much longer standing than Mama.

  The precise significance of these words eluded Adam, but he gathered that they were ominous. Whatever might be the issue the younger Miss Deveril had realized that she was unlikely to be a comfort to Mama, and had therefore decided to seek her own fortune, since nothing (heavily underscored) would prevail upon her to be a charge on her brother. It was just possible that her new scheme might not win his approbation, but she had no doubt that his commonsense would rapidly enable him to perceive all the advantages attached to it.

  In the deepest foreboding he turned the sheet, to discover that his worst fears had been outdistanced: the younger Miss Deveril (but she rather thought she should adopt the name of Lovelace) had formed the intention of leaping to fame and affluence upon the London stage with her brilliant portrayals of all the better known comedy rôles. And let not Adam doubt that she could do this! At Christmas, when a large party had been entertained at Fontley, theatricals had been the order of the day. Twelfth Night had been the chosen play; and by the greatest stroke of good fortune the lady selected to enact the part of Maria had been struck down at the eleventh hour by a sudden indisposition and Lydia had taken her place. Everyone had declared her to be a Born Actress. In this unanimous judgement she concurred, but doubted, modestly, whether she would make a hit in the tragic rôles. Comedy was her forte, and although this might entail the playing of some breeches-parts she was persuaded that Adam would see no real objection to that, whatever Charlotte might say. In short, she would be very much obliged to him if he would approach whichever of the theatrical managers he thought the most respectable, and represent to this magnate that a rare chance was offered him of engaging the services of a young actress perfectly ready to take the town by storm, and not at all afraid of challenging comparison with such experienced players as Mrs Jordan, or Miss Mellon, or Miss Kelly. He gathered, with a grin, that the appearance on the boards of Miss Lydia Deveril (or Lovelace) would be the signal for these ladies to retire into chagrined obscurity.

  He might laugh at his sister’s naïve plans, but they added nothing to his peace of mind. It distressed him to know that she was scheming how to support herself when she should have been thinking of her coming-out, and drove to the back of his tired mind his own trouble. He found the time, not to approach a respectable manager, but to write a tactful reply to Lydia; and was engaged on this task when a waiter came up to his private parlour with a visiting-card on a salver, and a note addressed to him in Lord Oversley’s hand.

  ‘Gentleman waiting downstairs, my lord.’

  Adam picked up the card, and read it with slightly raised brows. It was a rather larger card than was usually carried, and the name on it was inscribed in extremely florid script. Mr Jonathan Chawleigh ran the legend. It was followed by an address in Russell Square, and by another in Cornhill. This seemed very odd. Mystified, Adam turned to Lord Oversley’s letter. It was brief, merely requesting him to receive my good friend, Mr Chawleigh, and to give careful consideration to any proposition which that gentleman might lay before him.

  ‘Desire Mr Chawleigh to step upstairs,’ Adam said.

  He recognized in the waiter’s wooden countenance, and in the utter lack of expression with which he replied: ‘Very good, my lord,’ profound disapproval. Undismayed, but at a loss to account for Mr Chawleigh’s visit, he nodded the waiter away, and awaited events. That Lord Oversley had some scheme in mind for his relief was plain enough, but in what way the unknown Mr Chawleigh could contribute to it he was quite unable to imagine.

  In a few minutes the waiter returned, announcing Mr Chawleigh, and into the room stepped a very large, burly man, who halted on the threshold, and favoured Adam with a fierce stare, directed from under a pair of craggy brows.

  The stare was at once suspicious and appraising. Adam met it tranquilly enough, but he did not entirely relish it. There was amusement in his face, but a faint hauteur too: what the devil did this fellow, who looked like a tradesman, mean by glaring at him?

  Mr Chawleigh was a middle-aged man, whose powerful frame was clad in an old-fashioned suit of snuff-coloured broadcloth. Unlike his host, who wore a close-fitting coat of black superfine, with cutaway tails, pantaloons, and Hessian boots, Mr Chawleigh favoured a mode that had been for many years worn only by respectable tradesmen, and perhaps a few country squires who had no ambition to figure in the world of ton. His coat was full-skirted, and he wore knee-breeches, with stockings, and square-toed shoes embellished with steel buckles. His shirt-points were no more than decently starched, and his neckcloth was tied with more neatness than artistry; but his waistcoat relieved the general drabness of his raiment with broad, alternating stripes of grass-green and gold. The most henhearted member of the dandy-set would have died at the stake rather than have worn such a garment, but it was certainly magnificent. So was the diamond pin stuck into Mr Chawleigh’s neckcloth, and the emerald ring on his finger. He was plainly a man of substance, but he reminded Adam of nothing so much as a belligerent bull, with his great, muscular shoulders, his short, thick neck, and the habit he had of champing his jaws, as though chewing the cud of his ruminations.

  ‘Mr Chawleigh?’ Adam said.

  ‘That’s my name. Jonathan Chawleigh: no more and no less! That ain’t to say I couldn’t get a handle set to it, if I’d a mind to do it. I’d look as like as ninepence is to nothing, wouldn’t I? Nay, Jonathan Chawleigh’s good enough for me! Good enough for anyone, come to think of it,’ he added ruminatively. ‘I’ll tell you this, my lord! – you won’t find a name that’s more honoured in the City, look where you will!’ This was uttered in a voice of menacing challenge; but fortunately for Adam, who could think of nothing whatsoever to say, Mr Chawleigh continued abruptly: ‘Now, I’m one that likes to be sure of my ground! You are the Viscount of Lynton?’

  Taken aback, Adam answered: ‘I’m Viscount Lynton – yes.’

  ‘No of?’ said Mr Chawleigh acutely.

  ‘No of,’ corroborated Adam, with admirable gravity. ‘We Viscounts, you know, are a part of what you might call the scaff and raff of the peerage! No one under the rank of an Earl may use of!’

  ‘That’s something his lordship didn’t tell me,’ Mr Chawleigh observed. ‘I daresay it don’t make much odds, but the fact is I did fancy an Earl. Still, a Viscount’s better than a Baron. A Baron’s no manner of use to me: you won’t budge me from that!’ He directed another of his searching looks at Adam, and chuckled: ‘Ay, you’re wondering who the devil I am, and what I want with you, ain’t you?’

  Adam laughed. ‘I do wonder what you want with me, but not who you are, sir! You are Lord Oversley’s friend. Won’t you sit down?’

  Mr Chawleigh allowed himself to be shepherded to a chair, but said, keeping his shrewd eyes fixed on Adam’s face: ‘Told you that, did he? I take that kindly in him. I wouldn’t make so bold myself, though I don’t deny I’ve been able to nudge his lordship on to a sure thing now and now, and I’ve always found him very affable. But I’m no tuft-hunter, prating about my grand friends, Lord This and Lord That, which don’t bamboozle any but gapeseeds. You want to remember that!’ he added, shooting out a thick finger at Adam. ‘You won’t find me setting up in Mayfair, all amongst the nobs, for I know well I’d be doing naught but making a bobbing-block of myself.’ He refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff. ‘That’s better!’ he announced, wiping his nose with a