The Nonesuch

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘No,’ agreed Mrs Underhill doubtfully. ‘That’s true enough, but – he might want to marry her, and a pretty piece of business that would be!’

  ‘If he shows any such disposition,’ said Miss Trent, laughter warming her eyes, ‘we must take care to remind her that he is not a member of the peerage!’

  Mrs Underhill smiled, but she sighed too, saying that she wished to goodness Sir Waldo wasn’t coming to Broom Hall.

  The wish was echoed, a few days later, by the Squire, who told Miss Trent that he heartily wished the Nonesuch at Jericho.

  He had overtaken her on her way back to Staples from the village, and had very civilly dismounted from his hack to walk with her down the lane. He was thought by many to be rather an alarming man, for besides being a trifle testy he had an abrupt manner, and a disconcerting way of staring very hard at people from under his bristling eyebrows. Mrs Underhill always became flustered in his presence, but Miss Trent was not of a nervous disposition. She met his fierce gaze calmly, and answered the questions he shot at her without starting or stammering, thus winning his rare approval. He said she was a sensible woman: no nambypamby nonsense about her! He wished he could say the same of some others he might mention.

  In this instance Miss Trent responded only with a slight smile, which caused him to say, in a threatening tone: ‘Don’t tell me you are in raptures over this Pink of the Ton!’

  That drew a laugh from her. ‘No, how should I be? I am past the age of falling into raptures, sir!’

  ‘Gammon! Chit of a girl!’ he growled.

  ‘Six-and-twenty!’

  ‘Ay, so you may be: exactly what I thought! Wouldn’t signify if you was six-and-fifty, either. Look at my wife! Killed with delight because this chuckfarthing fellow is coming amongst us! Means to give a party in his honour, if you please! None of your pot-luck, mind! Oh, no! Shouldn’t wonder if she sends out her cards for a turtle-dinner, and has a waltzing-ball to round the thing off in style! Ay, you may laugh, miss! Don’t blame you! I shall laugh when the fellow sends his regrets – which he will do, if I know anything about these Town Tulips! I shall call on him, of course: can’t but do the civil, though I’d as lief give him the go-by.’

  ‘Never mind, sir!’ said Miss Trent encouragingly. ‘I daresay he will be gone again within a sennight, and he can’t break any hearts in such a short time, surely?’

  ‘Break any hearts? Oh, you’re thinking of the girls! They don’t bother me! It’s our boys. Damme if I wouldn’t be better pleased if he was a Bond Street fribble, for that wouldn’t send ’em mad after him! The mischief is that he’s a Top-of-the-Trees Corinthian – and I’ve seen what harm they can do to silly young greenheads!’

  The amusement left her face; she replied, after a moment: ‘Yes, sir: so too have I. In my own family – But that was in London! I can’t think that here, in such a quiet neighbourhood, the silliest greenhead could find the means to run into a ruinous course.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t fear they’ll do that!’ he said impatiently. ‘Merely break their necks, trying to outdo their precious Nonesuch! Would you believe it? – even my Arthur, slow-top though he is, has smashed my phaeton, trying to drive through my west farm-gate with never a check – nor any precision of eye neither! As for Banningham’s cub, riding that goose-rumped gray of his up the stairs at Brent Lodge, and your Courtenay hunting the squirrel on the Harrogate road – but mum for that! No harm done, and a rare trimming he got from old Adstock – for it was the wheels of his carriage the young chucklehead was trying to graze! Driving to an inch! ‘You can’t drive to an ell!’ Adcock told him. But you won’t repeat that!’

  She assured him that she would not; and as they had by this time reached the main gates of Staples he took his leave of her, saying sardonically, as he hoisted himself into the saddle, that they might think themselves fortunate Joseph Calver hadn’t gone to roost in the middle of the hunting season, when every cawker for miles round, after first pledging his father’s credit for white-topped boots, would have crammed his horse at a stake-and-bound, and would have been brought home on a hurdle. ‘Mark my words!’ he admonished Miss Trent. ‘You’ll see Underhill rigged out in a coat with a dozen shoulder-capes, and buttons the size of saucers before you’re much older! I told Arthur not to think I’d help him to make a cake of himself, aping the out-and-outers, but I don’t doubt Courtnay will get what he wants out of his mother! All the same, you females!’

  Three

  It was perhaps inevitable that the Nonesuch’s arrival at Broom Hall should fall a long way short of expectation. Young Mr Mickleby, the Squire’s son, was able to report to his cronies that Sir Waldo had sent his horses on ahead, for he had himself seen two grooms turn in at the gates of Broom Hall. But the horses they led were only coverhacks: good-looking prads, but nothing marvellous, and no more than two of them. They were followed by a travelling-carriage, which was later discovered to contain only a couple of soberly-clad servants, and a disappointingly small amount of baggage. It soon became known that Sir Waldo was driving himself from London, by easy stages; and although this accorded, in the main, with the younger gentlemen’s ideas of how a noted whip should travel, easy stages fell tamely on their ears, spoiling visions of some sporting vehicle, slap up to the echo, swirling through the village in a cloud of dust.

  No one of more note than the ostler at the Crown witnessed Sir Waldo’s arrival in Oversett, and his account of this momentous event was discouraging. Instead of a curricle-and-four, which even provincials knew to be the highest kick of fashion, Sir Waldo was driving a phaeton; and so far from swirling through the village he had entered it at a sedate trot, and had pulled up his team outside the Crown, to ask the way to Broom Hall. No, said Tom Ostler, it wasn’t a high-perch phaeton: just an ordinary perch-phaeton, drawn by four proper good ’uns – a bang-up set-out of blood and bone! There was another gentleman with Sir Waldo, and a groom riding behind. Very pleasant-spoken, Sir Waldo, but not at all the regular dash Tom Ostler had been led to expect: he wasn’t rigged out half as fine as Mr Ash, for instance, or even Mr Underhill.

  This was dispiriting, and worse was to follow. The Squire, paying his promised call, was agreeably surprised by Sir Waldo: a circumstance which might please the Squire’s contemporaries but which conjured up in the minds of Mr Underhill, Mr Banningham, and, indeed, Mr Arthur Mickleby as well, a sadly dull picture. No buck of the first head, it was gloomily felt, would have met with the Squire’s approval. Arthur ventured to ask if he was a great swell. ‘How the devil should I know?’ said his father irascibly. ‘He ain’t all daintification, if that’s what you mean.’ He eyed Arthur’s exquisitely starched shirt-points, and the wonderful arrangement of his neckcloth, and added, with awful sarcasm: ‘You’ll cast him quite into the shade! Lord, he’ll be like a farthing-candle held to the sun!’

  To his wife he was rather more forthcoming. Mrs Mickleby was as eager as her son to learn what Sir Waldo was like, and far less easy to snub. Goaded, the Squire said: ‘Fashionable? Nothing of the sort! Turns out in excellent style, and looks the gentleman – which is more than Arthur does, since he took to aping the smarts!’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so provoking!’ exclaimed Mrs Mickleby. ‘My cousin told me he was of the first style of elegance – bang-up to the nines, he said! You know his droll way!’

  ‘Well, he ain’t bang-up to the nines. Not the kind of man to be cutting a dash amongst a set of quiet folk like us, my dear!’

  Mrs Mickleby opened her mouth to utter a retort, saw the malicious gleam in the Squire’s eye, and shut it again.

  Pleased with this success, the Squire relented. ‘It’s of no use to ask me what sort of coat he was wearing, or how he ties his neckcloth, because I didn’t take any note of such frippery nonsense – which I should have done if he’d been sporting a waistcoat like that Jack-a-dandy one Ash was wearing the last time I saw him! Seemed to me he looked just as
he ought. Nothing out of the ordinary!’ He paused, considering the matter. ‘Got a certain sort of something about him,’ he pronounced. ‘I don’t know what it is! You’d better ask him to dinner, and see for yourself. Told him I hoped he’d come and eat his mutton with us one day.’

  ‘Told him – Mr Mickleby! You did not! Eat his mutton with us – ! Of all the vulgar, shabby-genteel – What did he say?’

  ‘Said he’d be very happy to do so,’ replied the Squire, enjoying his triumph.

  ‘Very civil of him! I shall hope to show him, my dear Ned, that although we may be quiet folk we are not precisely savages ! Who is the young man he brought with him?’

  But the Squire, beyond saying that Sir Waldo had mentioned that his cousin was bearing him company, was unable to enlighten her. He had not seen the young man, and it had not seemed proper to him to enquire more particularly into his identity. Indeed, as his wife told Mrs Chartley, in some exasperation, it had apparently not seemed proper to him to find out anything whatsoever about Sir Waldo. She was perfectly at a loss to guess what the pair of them had found to talk about for a whole hour.

  The next person to see Sir Waldo was Courtenay Underhill, and in circumstances which set all doubts to rest. By a stroke of rare good fortune, Courtenay was privileged to witness the Nonesuch perform just such a piece of driving skill as he had yearned to see; and was thus able to reassure his friends. He had been riding along the road when he had seen Sir Waldo’s phaeton approaching. He had known at once that it must be his, for he did not recognize the horses. ‘Such a team! I never saw such perfect movers! Matched to a hair, and beautifully put-together! I had a capital view, for it was on that long stretch half a mile short of the pike-road to Leeds. Well, the Nonesuch was coming along at a spanking pace, overtaking a farm-cart, which I’d just met. The fellow that was leading the horse made as much room as he could, but you know how narrow the lane is, and ditched too; I must say I thought the Nonesuch would be pretty well bound to check, but he kept on, so when he went past me I stopped, and looked back – well, to own the truth I thought he’d either lock his wheels, or topple into the ditch!’

  ‘He gave the cart the go-by? On that road?’ demanded Mr Banningham, awed.

  Young Mr Mickleby shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have cared to attempt it: not just there!’

  ‘I should rather think you wouldn’t!’ said Mr Banningham, with a crack of rude laughter.

  This unkind reference to his late mishap made Arthur flush angrily; but before he could utter a suitable retort Courtenay said impatiently: ‘Oh, sneck up! He gave it the go-by just as though – just as though he had yards to spare! More like inches! I never saw anything like it in my life! I’ll tell you another thing: he catches the thong of his whip over his head. I mean to practise that.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Banningham knowledgeably. ‘Nervous wheelers! Cousin of mine says it’s the quietest way, but there ain’t many people that can do it. Shouldn’t think you could. Was the Nonesuch wearing F.H.C. toggery?’

  ‘No – at least, I don’t know, for he had on a white drab box coat. Looked as trim as a trencher, but nothing to make one stare. Greg says the out-and-outers all have as many as a dozen or more capes to their box coats, but I didn’t notice anything like that. No nosegay in his buttonhole, either: just a few whip-points thrust through it.’

  Meanwhile, the Nonesuch, as yet unaware of the interest he was creating, had found enough to do at Broom Hall to keep him in Yorkshire for much longer than he had anticipated. The house itself was in better repair than he had been led to expect, the main part of it, though sadly in need of renovation, being, as Wedmore anxiously assured him, quite dry. Wedmore made no such claim either for the eastern wing, which contained a number of rooms bare of furnishings, or for the servants’ wing. Of late years, he said, the Master hadn’t taken much account of them. There were slates missing from the roofs: they did the best they could with pails set to catch the worst leaks, but there was no denying those parts of the house were a trifle damp. ‘I only hope dry-rot may not have set in,’ said Sir Waldo. ‘We must get a surveyor to come and inspect it immediately. Did your master employ a bailiff ?’

  ‘Well, sir, no!’ Wedmore replied apologetically. ‘There used to be one – Mr Hucking, a very respectable man – but – but –’

  ‘Not of late years?’ suggested Sir Waldo.

  Neither the defective roofs nor the lack of a bailiff was any concern of the old butler’s; but he was a meek, nervous man, and was so much in the habit of bearing the blame for every shortcoming in the establishment that it was several moments before he could believe that Sir Waldo really was smiling. Much relieved, he responded with an answering smile, and said: ‘The Master got to be very eccentric, sir, if you’ll pardon the expression. Mr Hucking thought there were things that needed doing, but he couldn’t prevail upon the Master to lay out any money, and he quite lost heart. He was used to say that bad landlords make bad tenants, and I’m bound to own – Well, sir, I daresay you’ll see for yourself how things are!’

  ‘I’ve already seen enough to prove to me that I shall be kept pretty busy for the next few weeks,’ said Sir Waldo, rather grimly. ‘Now I should like to discuss with Mrs Wedmore what are the most pressing needs here: will you desire her to come to me, if you please?’

  ‘Waldo, you’re never going to lay out your blunt, bringing this rackety place into order?’ demanded Lord Lindeth, as Wedmore departed. ‘I may be a green ’un, and I know I haven’t sat in my own saddle for very long yet, but I’m not a widgeon, and only a widgeon could fail to see that this old lickpenny of a cousin of ours has let the estate go to rack! It’s true we haven’t had time to do more than throw a glance over it, but don’t you tell me that old Joseph ever spent a groat on his land that wasn’t wrenched from him, or that he hasn’t let out the farms on short leases to a set of ramshackle rascals that dragged what they might from the land, and never ploughed a penny back! I don’t blame them! Why – why – if one of my tenants was living in the sort of tumbledown ruin I saw when we rode round the place yesterday, I’d – I’d – lord, I’d never hold up my head again!’

  ‘Very true: I hope you wouldn’t! But with good management I see no reason why the estate shouldn’t become tolerably profitable: profitable enough to pay for itself, at all events.’

  ‘Not without your tipping over the dibs in style!’ countered Julian.

  ‘No, Master Nestor! But do you imagine that I mean to throw the place on the market in its present state? What a very poor opinion you must hold of me!’

  ‘Yes!’ Julian said, laughing at him. ‘For thinking you can gammon me into believing you mean to bring the place into order so that you may presently sell it at a handsome profit! Don’t throw your cap after that one: I know you much too well to be bamboozled! You are going to bring it into order so that it will support some more of your wretched orphans. I daresay it may, but I’d lay you long odds that it won’t also give you back what you’ll spend on it!’

  ‘If only old Joseph had known how much after his own heart you were, Julian – !’ said Sir Waldo, shaking his head. ‘No, no, don’t try to mill me down! You know you can’t do it – and we shall have Mrs Wedmore upon us at any moment! Take comfort from the thought that I haven’t yet decided whether the place is what I want for my wretched orphans: all I have decided is that it would go too much against the pluck with me to shrug off this – er – honeyfall!’

  ‘Honeyfall? An obligation, more like!’ exclaimed Julian.

  ‘Just so!’ agreed Sir Waldo, quizzing him. ‘You’ve nicked the nick – as usual, of course! No, you pretentious young miller! Most certainly not!’

  Lord Lindeth, his spirited attempt at reprisals foiled, said hopefully: ‘No, but I dashed nearly popped in a hit over your guard, didn’t I?’

  ‘Country work!’ mocked Sir Waldo, releasing his wrists as the door opened
. ‘Ah, Mrs Wedmore! Come in!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the housekeeper, dropping a curtsy. ‘And if it is about the sheet which his lordship put his foot through last night, I’m very sorry, sir, but they’re worn so thin, the linen ones –’

  ‘About that, and a great many other things,’ he interrupted, smiling reassuringly down at her. ‘Why didn’t you confess like a man, Lindeth? Afraid to give your head to Mrs Wedmore for washing, no doubt! Go away, and I’ll try what I can do to make your peace with her!’

  ‘Oh, sir – !’ protested Mrs Wedmore, much flustered. ‘As though I would think of such a thing! I was only wishful to explain to you –’

  ‘Of course you were! It’s quite unnecessary, however. What I wish is that you will tell me what must be purchased to make this house habitable, and where it may be most quickly obtained.’

  Mrs Wedmore could not remember when more welcome words had fallen on her ears. She gave a gasp, and said in a strangled voice that quite failed to conceal her emotions: ‘Yes, sir! I shall be most happy to – if you mean it, sir!’ She read confirmation in his face, drew a deep breath, and launched into a catalogue of her more pressing needs.

  The outcome of this interview would have vexed him very much, had he known of it; but as his staff at Manifold had always taken it for granted that whatever was needed in the house might instantly be ordered, and none of his neighbours considered anything less than the installation (by his mother) of the very newest and most revolutionary of closed kitchen-stoves to be worthy of interest, he had no idea that the carte blanche he gave the Wedmores would instantly become a topic for wonder and discussion in the district.