The Nonesuch

by Джорджетт Хейер

  “There! if I didn’t say it wasn’t the thing!” exclaimed Mrs Underhill.

  “Who cares whether they come or not?” said Tiffany scornfully. “If they choose to be stuffy, I promise you I don’t!”

  Arthur reddened, and got up to take his leave. Mrs Underhill, acutely embarrassed, pressed his hand warmly, and gave him a speaking look; but Tiffany turned her shoulder on him, saying that he was quite as stuffy as his sisters.

  “I must be going too, ma’am,” Lindeth said. “Pray tell Charlotte how sorry I am to hear that she’s so much pulled, and tell her to take care she don’t get her toes pinched by a crab when she goes sea-bathing! ... Are you coming, Laurie?”

  “Oh, don’t wait for me! I have been thinking, Miss Wield, if we might perhaps get up a party to dance at one of the Assemblies in Harrogate—instead of the ridotto. Would you countenance it, ma’am? With Miss Trent, of course, or some older lady, if any might be persuaded?”

  Tiffany’s eyes lit up, but Mrs Underhill looked dismayed, and faltered: “Oh, dear! No, no, don’t suggest it, Mr Calver, for it’s the very thing Mr Burford—that’s Tiffany’s uncle, and her guardian, you know—don’t wish for! Because she ain’t out yet, and he won’t have her going to public dances, for which, of course, he can’t be blamed.”

  “It wasn’t he, but Aunt Burford!” said Tiffany. “The greatest beast in nature! Why shouldn’t I go to an Assembly in Harrogate! I will go. I will!”

  Lindeth went quietly away, hearing the storm break behind him. Miss Trent was coming down the stairs, and paused, looking enquiringly at him. “How do you do? Tell me at once! The ridotto?”

  He burst out laughing. “Well, yes! Coupled with Mrs Underhill’s saying she might not go to a Harrogate Assembly.”

  Miss Trent closed her eyes for an anguished moment. “I see. How prudent of you to slip away, sir! Would that I could do so too! She will sulk for days!”

  Chapter 12

  That Tiffany refrained from sulking was due to Miss Trent, who waited only until they were alone in the room to utter words which provided her with food for reflection. She said cheerfully that she did not wonder at it that Tiffany was bored with her admirers, but that she thought she might have chosen a better way of being rid of them. Tiffany stared at her.

  “Nothing, of course, makes a gentleman retire more quickly than a fit of the tantrums; but you should recollect that a reputation for being ill-tempered would be most prejudicial to your success. As for being rude and unkind to your aunt—indeed, Tiffany, I had not thought you such a wet-goose! What will become of you if you drive off all your admirers?”

  “I d-don’t! I c-couldn’t!” Tiffany stammered.

  “It can be done more easily than you know,” replied Ancilla. “You have accomplished it with Lord Lindeth; and, unless I am much mistaken, we shan’t see Arthur Mickleby at Staples for some time to come. Your aunt tells me that you spoke slightingly of his sisters. How stupid of you, Tiffany! and how dreadfully ill-bred! How came you to do such a thing?”

  “I don’t care! I only said they were stuffy, and they are! And I don’t care a button for Arthur either! And I didn’t drive Lindeth off! I didn’t! He’s jealous, because his cousin is teaching me to drive! I have only to smile, at him—How dare you look like that? I tell you—”

  “You will be wasting your breath,” interrupted Miss Trent. “Try to believe that I am rather more up to snuff than you! I am, you know. Don’t glare at me! When your aunt Burford engaged me to be your companion, she particularly desired me to teach you how to go on in society, and if I didn’t warn you that your conduct lately has been such as to give people a disgust of you, I should be failing in my duty.”

  “Disgust! Of me?It’s not true!” Tiffany gasped, white with rage.

  “If you will stop preening yourself on your beauty, and allow yourself the indulgence of a few moments’ reflection, I think you must realize that it is true,” responded Miss Trent. “Before you began to fancy yourself to be a Nonpareil beyond criticism you were used to take care not to fly into unbecoming rages when any stranger was present; but during these past weeks you have grown to be so puffed up in your own conceit that you seem to think you may go your unbridled length and still command everyone’s admiration. Well, you were never more mistaken! That is all I have to say to you—and I’ve said it only because I can’t reconcile it with my conscience not to warn you to mend your ways.”

  She then opened a book, and apparently became so absorbed in it that the furious tirade directed at her did not cause her to betray by the flicker of an eyelid that she heard a word of it. Tiffany slammed out of the room, and was not seen again until she came down to dinner; but as she then seemed to be in her softest mood, even speaking affectionately to Charlotte, and politely to her aunt, Miss Trent was encouraged to suppose that her words had not failed of their intended effect. Towards her, Tiffany adopted a manner of frigid disdain, which had not abated by the following morning, when she refused every offer made by her companion to minister to her entertainment. So Miss Trent, unabashed, left her to her own devices, or (as she suspected) to the attentions of Mr Calver, and seized the opportunity to pay a call on Mrs Chartley, with a copy of the recipe for pickling white mushrooms tucked into her reticule. Charlotte was fretful, and would not go with her, so she went to the village alone, and, having delivered a large parcel at the Crown, to be picked up by the carrier, drove the gig into the Rectory stableyard.

  She found Mrs Chartley in her morning-parlour, and received the usual kind welcome from her. Mrs Chartley thanked her for the recipe, enquired after Charlotte, and, when Ancilla would have taken her leave, begged her to sit down for a few minutes.

  “I am very glad to see you, Miss Trent,” she said, “because I fancy you can perhaps answer a question which is teasing me a good deal.” She smiled. “Rather an odd question, you may think—but I know I may depend upon your discretion.”

  “Certainly you may, ma’am.”

  Mrs Chartley hesitated. “Yes. If I did not—Miss Trent, I find myself in a quandary! I daresay you are aware that Lord Lindeth is growing extremely particular in his attentions to Patience?”

  “I wasn’t aware of it, ma’am. I have been constantly with Charlotte, you know. But I am not at all surprised. He always liked her, and I have frequently thought that he and Miss Chartley might have been made for one another. I hope you don’t dislike it? I have a great regard for Lord Lindeth—as far as I know him—and I believe him to be really worthy of Miss Chartley.”

  “No. No, I don’t dislike it—though I own to some feelings of doubt at the outset. He appeared to me to be violently in love with Tiffany, which argues a volatility I cannot like.”

  “I had rather say that he was dazzled by her, as so many have been. He might have loved her if her disposition had matched her face, which, alas, it does not! You are thinking that the change in his sentiments was very sudden, but I fancy he began to be disillusioned quite early in their acquaintance. There were several occasions when—But I should not be talking of them!”

  “You need not scruple to speak frankly: if her conduct at Leeds is anything to judge by, I can readily understand Lindeth’s disillusionment. But to turn so soon from Tiffany to Patience does disquiet me! The Rector, however, sets very little store by it. Indeed, he seems to think it perfectly natural that a young man, when he is ripe for falling in love (as he puts it), should transfer his affection to another, when he finds he has mistaken his own heart. It seems very odd to me, but I am well aware, of course, that men are odd, even the best of them!”

  “And Miss Chartley, ma’am?” Ancilla said, smiling.

  “I am very much afraid that she is in danger of forming a lasting attachment,” replied Mrs Chartley, with a sigh. “She is not volatile, you know, and if he were again to discover that he had mistaken his heart—”

  “Forgive me!” Ancilla interposed. “I collect that you believe Lindeth to be fickle. But I have been a great deal in his company,
and I have had the opportunity to observe his infatuation. AsIhave said, it might have deepened into love,but it never did so. And—I do assure you, ma’am, that it would have been wonderful indeed if an ardent young man, having at that time formed no real attachment, had not succumbed to Tiffany’s beauty, and to the encouragement he received from her.”

  Mrs Chartley’s face lightened a little. “So the Rector says. I own, there is no infatuation in question now. I don’t leave them alone together, I need hardly say, but even if I allowed my daughter the license Tiffany has I am persuaded Lindeth would not flirt with her. Indeed, I have been agreeably surprised in him! Under the gaiety which makes his manners so taking, there is a strong vein of seriousness. He feels as he ought on all important subjects, and the tone of his mind is particularly nice.”

  “But in spite of this you do not wish for the connection, ma’am?” Ancilla asked, a little puzzled.

  “My dear, a very strange creature I should be if I did not wish for such an advantageous connection for my daughter! If he is sincere, nothing would please me more than to see her so well-established. But although they are not unequal in birth they are unequal in consequence. Nor is Patience an heiress. She will have some four thousand pounds, but that, though it is a respectable portion, might be thought paltry by Lindeth’s family. From things he has let fall, about disliking ton parties, and being the despair of his mother—in his funning way, you know!—I suspect that the family wish him to make what is called a brilliant marriage, and might be strongly opposed to his marriage to a country clergyman’s daughter.” She paused, and rather aimlessly shifted the position of a book lying on the table at her elbow. “I had fancied that Sir Waldo had been his guardian, but I understand this was not the case. At the same time, there can be no doubt that he has stood in much that position. Nor that his influence over Lindeth is great. That, my dear Miss Trent, is why I have been anxious to have the opportunity of talking to you. If there is any fear that Sir Waldo might exert himself to prevent the marriage—even if he should merely dislike it—I would not upon any account continue to permit Lindeth to visit us as he now does. Neither the Rector nor I would countenance the alliance if it had not the approbation of Lindeth’s family. You will understand, I am persuaded, why I am in a quandary, and why I made up my mind to admit you into my confidence. Tell me! What are Sir Waldo’s sentiments upon this occasion?”

  Miss Trent felt her colour rising, but she responded in a steady voice: “I am honoured by your confidence, ma’am, but Sir Waldo has not taken me into his. I wish I might be able to help you, but it is not in my power.”

  Mrs Chartley raised her eyes, directing a slightly sceptical look at her. “If that is so, there is no more to be said, of course. I ventured to put the question to you because I know you to be far better acquainted with him than anyone else in the district.”

  There was silence for a few moments. Then Miss Trent drew a breath, and said: “I have been obliged to be a good deal in his company, ma’am, but I do not stand upon such intimate terms with him as—as you seem to suggest.” She managed to smile. “My sins have found me out! I allowed myself to be persuaded to accept Lady Colebatch’s invitation, and was imprudent enough to waltz with Sir Waldo, twice. I have been made to regret it. I’m afraid the pleasure of dancing again, after such a long time, went to my head!”

  Mrs Chartley’s face softened; she leaned forward, and briefly clasped one of Ancilla’s hands. “No wonder! I perfectly understand. But—My dear, will you permit me to speak frankly to you? You are a young woman, in spite of your sober ways! And you have not your mama at hand to advise you, have you? I am most sincerely fond of you, so you must forgive me if I seem to you to take too much upon myself. I have been feeling a little anxious about you, for I’m afraid you may be cherishing hopes which are unlikely to be fulfilled. Don’t think that I blame you! Sir Waldo’s attentions have been marked: it is even common knowledge that not a day has passed since Charlotte has been laid up without his calling on you at Staples.”

  “To enquire after her progress—to bring her what he thought might entertain her!” Ancilla uttered, her throat constricted.

  “My dear!” protested Mrs Chartley, with a slight laugh.

  “Ma’am, I only once saw him—and then in company!”

  “If you tell me so, I believe you, but it will be a hard task to convince others.”

  “I am aware of it, ma’am,” said Ancilla bitterly. “I am held to be setting my cap at him, am I not?”

  “We need not concern ourselves with expressions of spite. That is not at all my opinion. What makes me uneasy is his pursuit of you.If it had been any other man than Sir Waldo, I should have known it to be a determined courtship, and I should have been expecting every day to be able to wish you happy—for you cannot conceal from me, my dear, that you are by no means indifferent to him. That doesn’t surprise me in the least: I fancy there are few women strong-minded enough to withstand him. Even I—and he does not make up to me, you know!—am very conscious of his charm. I think him dangerously attractive, and don’t for a moment doubt that a great many females have fallen in love with him.”

  “Did Mrs Mickleby tell you so, ma’am?”

  “On the authority of her cousin in London. I should be sorry to place too much reliance on mere gossip, but it has been to some extent borne out by Lindeth—not, you may be sure, with any intention of traducing his cousin. Indeed, the reverse! He often talks about Sir Waldo, and always with admiration—I had almost said, with pride! And one must bear in mind, my dear Miss Trent, that Sir Waldo belongs to a certain set which is considered to be the very height of fashion. In fact, he is its leader, and very much a man of the world. You must know, perhaps better than I do, that the manners and too often the conduct of those who are vulgarly called Top-of-the-Trees are not governed by quite the same principles which are the rule in more modest circles.”

  “Are you trying to warn me, ma’am, that Sir Waldo is a libertine?” asked Ancilla bluntly.

  “Oh, good gracious! No!” exclaimed Mrs Chartley. “You must not think—my dear, I beg you won’t say that I said that! No doubt he has had his—shall we say his adventures?—but pray don’t imagine that I suspect him of—of—”

  “Offering me a carte blanche? That, I believe, is the term, is it not? I promise you I should not accept it!”

  Mrs Chartley was thrown still more off her balance by this, and said: “No, no! I don’t suspect him of meaning to do you the least harm! What I fear is that he may harm you unwittingly, not realizing that you might fall far more deeply in love with him than he knew, or intended. He is accustomed to associate, recollect, with fashionable females who understand the rules of flirtation as you, I am happy to say, do not. Very likely he has been a trifle misled into thinking you are as worldly wise as any of his London flirts: you are posée beyond your years, you know! He would not, I am persuaded, tamper with the affections of a girl whom he knew to be inexperienced.”

  “But you don’t hold him in very high esteem, do you, ma’am?” said Ancilla, with a painful smile.

  “Oh, you are quite mistaken! In some respects, I hold him in the highest esteem!” Mrs Chartley replied quickly. “I have every reason—” She checked herself, colouring, and added: “All I wish to say to you, my dear, is that you should be on your guard. Don’t refine too much upon his gallantry, but recollect that he is a man of five or six-and-thirty, handsome, rich, very much courted—and still a bachelor!”

  Miss Trent began to pull on her gloves. “I do recollect it,” she said, in a low voice. “I am very much obliged to you for your kindness in—in warning me, ma’am, but I beg you to believe that it was unnecessary! You have told me nothing that I haven’t told myself.” She rose. “I must go. I wish I might have been able to give you the assurance you want. I cannot—but I don’t think Sir Waldo would ever stand in the way of what he saw to be Lindeth’s happiness.”

  “Thank you: I hope you may be right. Did you come in the
gig? I’ll walk with you to the stables. By the bye, what has been the outcome of Mr Calver’s Harrogate scheme? I can picture your dismay! We heard of it from Lindeth, and from what he did not say I collect that Tiffany was sadly disappointed by her aunt’s refusal to countenance it!”

  Ancilla laughed. “Not sadly, ma’am! Furiously! Lord Lindeth made good his escape when he saw the storm about to break. I fancy we shall hear no more of the scheme.”

  “You must be thankful for it! A very rackety suggestion to have put forward! I daresay you will be glad to see the last of that young man.”

  “Well, I own that I can’t like Mr Calver, but I should be doing him less than justice if I didn’t tell you that when he saw that Mrs Underhill disliked the scheme he let it drop immediately. I must say, too, that I have felt very much more cordial since he confessed to me that he had spoken without reflection, meaning only to divert Tiffany’s mind, and was sincerely sorry for it. He assured me I might depend upon him to discover a hundred reasons, if it should be necessary, why the scheme was ineligible! He was extremely civil—as, indeed, he has always been.”

  They had reached the stables; and they parted on this lighter note. Mrs Chartley stayed only until Ancilla had stepped up into the gig, and then walked back to the house, along the garden-path. Ancilla drove out of the stable-gate, and turned into the village street. Before the cob had broken into a trot a phaeton, drawn by a team of chestnuts, swept round the bend immediately ahead. Knowing herself to be in full view of the Rectory, Miss Trent saw with dismay that Sir Waldo was checking his team, with the evident intention of pulling up alongside the gig. There seemed to be nothing to do but to follow suit, since to urge the cob into a trot at that moment would be so uncivil as to make Sir Waldo think that she was trying to avoid a meeting.

  The next instant the phaeton had stopped beside the gig, driven up so close that if she had not known how expert was the driver she would have feared that the wheels would be locked; the groom had jumped down, and run to the wheelers’ heads; and Sir Waldo was raising his hat, and smiling at her. “How do you do, ma’am? I must have been born under a lucky star! A moment earlier, and I should have missed you. I have been thinking myself singularly unlucky for the past sennight, you know.”