When the dowager baroness knew that her daughter-in-law was about to become a mother, she became excited, and was more gracious than she had been before. Jacquetta was required to take the greatest care of herself, to follow the old lady’s prescriptions, to take exercise when and how she ordered, to eat this and refuse that, and to submit to an infinity of minute and unnecessary restrictions. Jacquetta yielded because she was thankful to find her mother-in-law unbend towards her, and show some interest in her, though she did not hide from herself that the old lady thought much more of the future heir to the title and estate than of the mother. The dowager had quite made up her mind that the child was to be a boy. Jacquetta hoped it would be so, or she would be completely out of favour. Her only chance of ingratiating herself with the mother and the aunt was to become the mother of a boy.
As Jacquetta wrote to her own dear mother, and confided to her her anticipations, Mrs Fairbrother wrote back a gushing letter, declaring her intention of coming to Nantes to be with her daughter. She took it as a matter of course that she was to nurse her.
Jacquetta would dearly have liked to avail herself of this offer, but she hesitated and showed the letter to her husband.
‘You must do as you like,’ he said; ‘but I doubt whether your mother and mine will get on together. My mother has planned everything, she has her ideas, she has her rights. Would Mdme. Fareboutier consent not to take the lead?’
Jacquetta’s eyes filled. ‘I should like to have my mother here. I—I don’t like to be among strangers.’
‘Strangers!’
‘I beg your pardon, dear Alphonse, the word slipped out of my mouth unconsidered. I mean that the dowager is not, cannot be, and does not wish to be, in a position towards me such as my own mother occupies.’
‘I know that,’ said the baron sorrowfully; ‘but wait—in time! You do not know what a pretty thing the curé said about the frost going.’
‘Yes, dear husband, the frost may go, and the dear little primrose that will show his sweet face will banish it, maybe, but, in the meantime, it is not merely a white frost that reigns, it is a black frost, and I want some home warmth when I am in trouble.’
‘You must decide. It would be painful if your mother and mine did not agree, and the sickroom were made a battlefield and the baby’s body the bone of contention.’
‘I will go and consult Aunt Betsy.’
‘Do so. But I do not think it would conduce to your health and happiness to have bickerings about you.’
Jacquetta drove to Champclair. She was never allowed now to go out alone; one of the old ladies attended her. Mdlle. de Pleurans accompanied her to Aunt Betsy’s but refused to go in, she would not even look at the house lest she should see the face of the assassin. She allowed the baroness to descend, and then ordered the coachman to drive along the road for a little league and return. ‘When you see the carriage,’ said Mdlle. de Pleurans, ‘I hope you will come out and not keep me and the horses waiting.’
‘I will be as quick as I can,’ answered Jacquetta with a smile. She was quite sensible of the effrontery of the old lady, but too sensible to take offence.
This was a sample of their treatment. Everything that was bought with the young baroness’s money was accepted ungraciously as a contribution to the family, a paying of her footing to be acknowledged by it. It was an honour to her that mdme. the dowager used the carriage and horses sent out to Jacquetta from her father, the grocer. The fact of the baronial arms and coronet being painted on the panels made them the property of the family, and Jacquetta used them as she used the house, and bore the name and title, on sufferance. What was hers became theirs, but what was theirs was only grudgingly lent her.
‘My dear,’ said Aunt Betsy, ‘I don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t, if I were you, offend the baroness in any way. If she would like to have your mother, send for her, if she would not, it will never do to go contrary to her wishes. She might make the house very unpleasant both for you and for your mother.’
‘She is capable of doing it,’ said Jacquetta. ‘I will tell you what it is, Aunt Betsy. I do care a little for myself, and I would dearly love to have my darling mother with me. Oh, aunt, suppose anything were to happen to me and I were never to see mamma again, or papa! Oh, aunt, I cannot bear the thought. Do you think I can run home and be there?’
‘Certainly not. That would give mortal offence.’
‘Then, if I must remain here, it does seem hard that mamma should not come to me. But I am afraid for her sake. I would not for the world have her snubbed by my mother-in-law; and I would not have her think that I am unhappy. Perhaps if she were here and saw some of the ways of going on, she might fire up. Mamma has plenty of spirit, and a strong sense of justice, and she speaks out her mind—only the dowager cannot understand English, so mamma would be attacking Alphonse, and setting him, perhaps, thereby, against me. He does not like to be worried, he takes matters easily.’
‘My dear, you must decide for yourself, but—be quick, there is the carriage. Mdlle. de Pleurans is in it with her head turned away, looking at the rope-walk. Do not keep her waiting. I do not suppose she is really interested in seeing the man spin ropes.’
So, both by her aunt and her husband, Jacquetta was thrown back on herself for a decision. She did not talk in the carriage, the old lady at her side told her she was under strict orders not to let her talk much, as too exhausting. But Jacquetta had no wish to talk. James Asheton passed and removed his hat. The young baroness leaned back in the carriage. Had she made a mistake? If she had been the wife of an Englishman, her mother would of course have been welcome to be with her in her troubles. She knew perfectly how unpleasant the dowager could make the house to her mother, she knew that the old baroness was resolved to have her own way in everything with the baby. It would be a Montcontour and not a Fairbrother, and therefore what had Mrs Fairbrother to do with it? Properly it was for her, the Dowager Baroness of Montcontour to take the charge of everything connected with the advent of the heir to the barony. Jacquetta was quite aware that her mother-in-law saw matters in this light and would act on her conviction. Then Mrs Fairbrother would refuse to give way. She would want everything in English fashion, and if the dowager was obstinate in one way, Mrs Fairbrother was obstinate in another. There would be storms, and her mother would return to England very unhappy, and make her old father unhappy as well—convinced that their daughter was miserable. No, it was better that Mrs Fairbrother should not come out. So poor Jacquetta wrote home a letter which cost her many tears and much thought to write, a letter which in spite of all her efforts to soften the refusal she knew must wound the dear mother, because it declined her services.
‘Don’t cry,’ said Alphonse, ‘you have decided wisely. It will never do to bring two strong heads in juxtaposition. Wait, and when the child is strong enough, we will go together with it on a visit to its grandparents.’
The prospect was far off, but after all it was something to look forward to. Jacquetta submitted with a sigh.
At last the eventful day arrived. The hopes, the ambition of all were gratified. The baby was a boy, a very fine boy. Jacquetta laughed and cried, and hugged the little thing. ‘It is an English boy; see Alphonse, is it not?’
Now mmde. la douairière was in her glory. She assumed absolute management of everything. As for Mdlle. de Pleurans she bounced about the house like a bird in snowy weather which bobs its head against everything. She was here, there, and everywhere, in wild excitement getting into every one’s way, and doing nothing. The dowager had provided a lusty peasantess as wet-nurse, but Jacquetta absolutely refused to give up her baby to the woman. She would have it and nurse it herself. At least her baby should be her own; the dowager and aunt might appropriate her carriage, and her green-house—anything else she had—but she would not surrender her baby.
On the eighth day it was to be christened.
‘But, Alphonse, we have not decided on a name yet.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘my angel, that is all settled by mamma and Aunt Celestine.’
‘But—I have not been consulted.’
‘You have been too unwell; besides, the names are admirable.’
‘What are they?’
‘Joseph Marie Celeste.’
‘What! a boy called Marie! Nonsense. I won’t have my boy given a girl’s name. And Celeste! it is ridiculous. I don’t half like Joseph even.’
‘But it is not uncommon for a man to be called Marie.’
‘I cannot suffer it. Why, how he will be teased at school, all the boys will call him Molly! And Celeste—it is really too absurd.’
‘My mother is Josephine, and my aunt Celestine.’
‘Yes, but my boy is a boy, and must have a boy’s name.’
‘You must persuade my mother.’
‘Look here, Alphonse. I will not have my boy grow up a milksop, and if he is called by girls’ names he will very likely be that. I am determined he shall be manly, and go to Eton, play cricket, and football. He shall not wear baggy red trousers, and a peaked pink cap, and wear stays and have a wasp’s waist. I put my foot down at once at the name. If he be called by these girls’ names be will be brought up effeminately. It is the first step which costs.’
The baron looked distressed. He did not know what to do.
‘Alphonse,’ pursued his wife, ‘you know that little shrimp, Anatole de Puygarreau—he is just ten years old and walks about in uniform like a soldier. Well, one day when your aunt and I were in the garden we had Anatole with us, as his mother was with the baroness. We were in the shrubbery, and as he lagged I said to him, turning round, “Come, follow us, Anatole.” Whereupon, will you believe it, he removed his cap, bowed, and replied, “Madame, je vous suivrai jiwqu’aux enfers.” And he—Ten years old. I should die of shame if my baby were to address me thus.’
‘But why, Jacquetta? It was a pretty speech.’
‘It was absurd—especially in a child of ten. No; my boy shall be brought up English fashion, and as a beginning he shall not be Marie, neither shall he be Celeste. I do not like Joseph, but—I will call him Joe.’
‘I fail to see anything in Anatole’s answer, but great readiness and spirit.’
‘There we think differently. I will not have my boy brought up to be a petit-maitre like Anatole. I will write home at once to mamma—give me a book and a pencil and paper. I will write in bed.’
‘What for, Jacquetta?’
‘A set of stumps, and a ball, and cricket bat. My boy shall be manly—he shall not be a girl.’
Of course Jacquetta was not present at the baptism. She was not sufficiently well. When the ceremony was over, she asked her husband eagerly, ‘Well! what name was given him?’
‘Joseph Victor.’
‘Why Victor?’
‘First, because your Queen is Victoria—’
‘What a hankering you have after female names!’
‘We thought it a delicate compliment to you; and also because his godfather, the Comte de Puygarreau is Victor.’
‘That first and the compliment to me second. My boy shall be only plain Joe to me.’
Alphonse did not tell her, but she discovered it after wards, that her wishes had been disregarded, her boy had been baptised by the names of Joseph Marie Celeste Victor. When Jacquetta did learn this she was very angry and scolded her husband.
‘I could not help it,’ he said. ‘I conveyed to my mother your objections, but she overruled them. Besides, at the ceremony, when the curé asked the names, she, as sponsor, answered and gave them—it was not possible for me to interfere.’
‘I shall never forgive it. But I do not care. He shall be Joe to me, and Joe only. I have written for the ricketing things.’