So it was settled. The Baron de Montcontour was permitted by his mother to marry Miss Fairbrother; but that was the extreme limit of concession. The baroness would not call on the Fairbrothers, nor invite them to the Chateau de Plaissac, that was inhabited by herself and Mdlle. de Pleurans, along with her son, the owner.
Now, Madame de Montcontour spoke to her friends of the intended marriage, and when she did so always mentioned her proposed daughter-in-law as Mdlle. de Fareboutier, whereat her acquaintances and friends sneered behind her back, as she had sneered at her son when he added the de.
Mrs Fairbrother and her daughter returned to England, The trousseau of the latter had to be prepared. The wedding was to take place at the home of the bride. The father expected that, and Miss Pengelly admitted that it would never do to have Jacquetta married from Champclair, it would put the baroness in too unpleasant a situation. She might be willing to accept Jacquetta, but could not be expected to stoop further.
Mrs Fairbrother could not see why if the baroness yielded in essentials she should stick at immaterial matters. ‘If she will accept Jacket as her daughter, why don’t she come and see me and her? That may be French ways, it is not English. When we eat humble pie we eat it all and don’t niggle at the pastry.’
Mrs Fairbrother had other things to think of than the pride of the baroness when she was at home, though once or twice the good woman did grumble over it. For instance, when Fairbrother asked what sort of a house Jacket would have, whether the house was nicely furnished, ‘Bless you, Thomas,’ answered his wife, ‘I’ve not seen it. It does seem mean of the baroness not to have asked me there to take a look around. I should have liked to look at the nest which is to contain our dove. But, Thomas! French people ain’t on the outside like English people, yet inside I take it all are much the same; we all come from Adam. I thought at one time black sheep had black flesh and white sheep gave white mutton, but there’s no distinguishing the meat when the wool and skin are off.’
Poor Mrs Fairbrother did her utmost to put a good colour on the engagement. She was not in the best of spirits herself. The prospect of parting with her child troubled her, and she had less confidence in the future than she professed. Whilst at Champclair she had been encouraged by Miss Pengelly, who was delighted at the prospect of having her niece settled near her, and of reconciliation with the de Pleurans ladies. Old Fairbrother was proud of the idea of his daughter marrying a baron, and he vowed he would give up business and establish himself near her.
‘Let her get married and comfortable into her house first, old man,’ said Mrs Fairbrother, ‘then we’ll go. Give ’em a twelvemonth.’
Jacquetta was to be well furnished for her wedding. Her pocket handkerchiefs were embroidered with coronets, she was allowed to have as many dresses and bonnets as she chose. Mr Fairbrother gave her carte blanche to buy what she liked. He had plenty of money and spent little on himself. Everything he had was for his daughter, and would be hers eventually—as much of it now as she wished. Let her put both hands into his purse, he said, and grab as much as they would hold.
At last the wedding took place, first celebrated in the parish church, then at the Catholic chapel; Madame de Montcontour had insisted on this latter, the baron himself was indifferent, he would have been content with the earlier ceremony; but he would not go against the wishes of his mother, and Jacquetta was ready to do anything to ingratiate herself with her future mother-in-law.
The bride and bridegroom spent a happy month in the Channel Islands, and Jacquetta learned to value her husband for his many good qualities. He was most attentive to her, kind, simple-minded, and desirous of pleasing; easily amused and interested, full of conversation, and taking great delight in familiarising her with his native language. His weaknesses, absurdities, affectations were all superficial, at heart he was a good and upright man, perhaps a little narrow, and rather unselfreliant, but incapable of doing a dishonourable act, and always ready to think kindly of others. Jacquetta thankfully acknowledged what she saw; she wrote to her parents that she was very happy, and found reason to daily admire and love her husband more. The good old couple wept over her letters and the mother kissed them. And each, in prayer, every night and morning humbly asked that dear Jacket’s happiness might continue, and both talked of and laughed at the prospect of closing the shop and retiring to the banks of the Loire for the rest of their days.
‘And, mother,’ said Mr Fairbrother, ‘who knows, Jacket may want you near her some day when a mother is the best nurse and truest friend that can be called in to a young wife.’
One bright autumn day the carriage that contained the
bride and bridegroom drove up to Plaissac, and the servants
came to the door.
Jacquetta looked with colour spots in her cheek for her new mother. She was not on the threshold to welcome her. She was not in the entrance hall.
‘Where is madame, my mother?’ asked the baron uneasily, looking about him.
‘Madame la Baronne,’ answered a servant, ‘prays that she may be excused appearing, she has une migraine, and is in her room; but everything is ready.’
‘And my aunt, Mdlle. de Pleurans?’
‘She also is indisposed, and is attending on Madame la Baronne.’
Neither showed that evening. The baron affected a cheerfulness he did not feel. He apologised for his mother. She suffered acutely when she had a migraine. It was impossible for the mind of man to understand the greatness of her sufferings when indisposed. He would go into her room himself and ask to be allowed to introduce his wife to her there. Accordingly he went upstairs, and was admitted. He returned with heightened colour. ‘Mamma offered a thousand—a million apologies, but she was really very bad. She had been obliged to take camphor pilules, she could hardly hold up her head. She entreated Jacquetta to compassionate her, and suffer her to make her her compliments on the morrow. She was desolated that this migraine had come on her at so inopportune a moment,’ &c., &c.
Jacquetta saw that her husband was hurt and annoyed, and that he was making the best of a bad business. She tried also to put a good face on it, but when they were together in the pagoda, under the broken glass bells which clinked dismally overhead, she burst into tears.
‘My dear,’ said the baron, ‘why do you cry? You are tired with your journey. You are overwhelmed with the novelty of the situation. You had better go to your room, and rest there awhile.’ He knew why she cried, but he pretended not to.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All is so strange to me, and I cannot at once realise that this is to be in future the centre of my sphere, the sun-home round which all my thoughts as planets must move; from which I must try to exercise all my attractive powers.’ She smiled sadly. She thought that already she was exercising a repellent force.
She went up to her room. The chateau was not fully furnished, not as an English house, even among the middle classes. There were no deep pile carpets, no inlaid or Japanese cabinets, no pots with flowers about. There were pictures, family portraits, dingy, with old frames that had not been regilt for a century and a half, or two.
Her room seemed void of comforts. There were a couple of chairs, a washstand, no dressing-table, no carpet; only a little mat by the bed. The fireplace was closed with a board, papered with a rude picture of an ultramarine sea, under an ultramarine sky, with a ship on the former, and a boat and fishermen in vermilion caps. Over the mantelpiece was a mirror, dingy, in a more dingy frame. There were no ornaments on the shelf, there was not a vase or specimen-glass with flowers anywhere, giving token of welcome.
The window curtains were of muslin, tied back with scraps of pink ribbon. The bed and the washstand were of walnut.
Her own room at home had been so cosy. She had little pictures everywhere, a pretty paper on the walls, covered with rosebuds, and the freshest, crispest, gayest chintz, for her bed furniture and window curtains. Her chimney-piece, and her dressing-table had been crowded with ornaments.
Alphonse saw that his poor little wife’s heart was full, he took her hand, stroked it between his own, then raised it to his lips.
‘We do not live in the luxury to which you have been accustomed, dear Jacquetta, but——’
‘Oh, my husband, I do not ask for luxury, only for love.’
‘You have mine.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, and forced a smile. ‘But I would have that of your mother and aunt! ’
‘That you will conquer.’
‘I will try.’
At eight o’clock next morning the servant tapped at her door, to announce breakfast.
‘What—already!’ exclaimed Jacquetta. It is very early. I am hardly dressed, I—I thought——’ She looked at her watch, ‘It is only eight o’clock!’
‘Madame la Baronne and Mademoiselle have already been to the parish church to mass,’ said the servant—an old servant—somewhat grimly. She shared her mistress’s prejudices against the English girl, the heretic, the bourgeoise, brought into the house. Then Alphonse came in.
‘We are early here, my cherished one,’ he said. ‘You will try to be quick so as not to keep my mother waiting. It is my fault, I ought to have told you the rules and hours of the establishment. I will go down stairs and delay the breakfast—if possible. I will explain, I will take all the blame on myself. I know you will be as expeditious as possible.’
He did so. Presently he came up again, looking agitated. ‘Are yeu ready, my angel?’
‘Nearly, Alphonse, but surely your mother will excuse me—the first morning after my arrival. I was tired, and did not expect breakfast before nine o’clock. At home we breakfasted then.’
‘I have explained, but my mother has been accustomed to a clockwork life. Are you nearly ready? I will run down and tell her you will descend in one minute.’
Shortly after, he reappeared. ‘Chérie! are you ready? I am sure you will do. You look exquisite.’
‘One minute, I must put on my cuffs.’
‘Oh, you will do superbly without.’
‘I cannot come down without my cuffs. There, Alphonse, I am ready.’
He held out his arm, and made her descend the staircase on his arm, as if he were taking her to dinner, and entered the room thus, where breakfast was laid. Her mother-in-law and the aunt of Alphonse were there, standing and looking sternly at the coffee-pot and milk jug. Neither took a step forward to welcome her. Alphonse led his wife to them, and the poor little English wife put up her fresh cheek to the old baroness for a kiss, but her mother-in-law drew back.
‘My son—the coffee is very cold.’
‘So,’ said the aunt, ‘So is the milk.’
Alphonse coloured. ‘Ma mère!’ he said with some heat.
‘I beg you pardon, madame,’ said the dowager with a curtsey. ‘I was looking at the coffee-pot and did not observe you.’
‘I entreat you pardon,’ said Mdlle. de Pleurans, also with a curtsey. ‘My attention was so engrossed in the milk-jug that I also did not observe you.’
‘And now that you do observe her, my mother, my aunt, what have you to say?’ exclaimed Alphonse.
‘Madame,’ said the dowager, looking at Jacquetta, with a frosty, hard eye, ‘I regret the coldness of everything. I am desolated that the coffee and the milk, and—and a great deal beside, are so cold—so very cold, as you may have perceived, but—we are not to blame, not we.’