The Nonesuch

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Accordingly, he drove over to Staples that very day, ostensibly to visit Tiffany. He was met by the intelligence that Tiffany had gone to Harrogate, and that Miss Trent was laid down on her bed with the headache. He left cards and compliments, and drove off, by no means cast down by this setback. Laid down with the headache, was she? Promising! That was the excuse females always put forward whenever they had been indulging in a hearty fit of crying: he would have been far more daunted had he found her in excellent spirits.

  Waldo’s behaviour that evening was satisfactory too: he wasn’t exactly cagged, but he wasn’t what one could call chirping merry. Agreeable enough when addressed, but for the most part he was in a brown study. Julian had gone off somewhere with Edward Banningham, so there was very little conversation at dinner, Laurence not being such a cawker as to irritate Waldo with idle chatter when it was plain that he didn’t want to talk. When they rose from the table, Waldo shut himself up in the book-room, saying that he was sorry to be such bad company, but that a vexatious hitch had occurred in his arrangements for installing a suitable warden at Broom Hall. Humdudgeon, of course, but Laurence replied sympathetically, and said that there was no need for Waldo to trouble his head over him: he would be happy enough with a book.

  It was less satisfactory, on the following morning, to find neither Tiffany nor Miss Trent at home, when he called at Staples, but the evening, which was spent by him at the Ashes’ house, was more rewarding. Miss Trent had brought Tiffany to the party, and it was easy to see she’d got the hips. She might smile, and converse with her usual tranquillity, but she was suspiciously pale, and there were tell-tale shadows under her eyes. As soon as she could do so, she went to sit beside a mousy little woman whom Laurence presently discovered to be governess to the children of the house. She was taking care not to glance in Waldo’s direction: rather too much care, thought Laurence. Out of the tail of his eye he watched Waldo cross the room towards her. He couldn’t hear what passed between them, of course, but he was perfectly well able to draw conclusions. He had a pair of sharp eyes, and he saw how tightly her hands were gripping her reticule, and how swiftly the colour rushed into her cheeks and ebbed again. Then Waldo bowed—the bow of a man accepting a rebuff: no question about that!—and went off with Sir William Ash to the card-room. Miss Trent’s eyes were downcast, but they lifted as he turned away, and followed him across the room. Lord! thought Laurence, startled, who would have thought that such a cool creature could look like that? Flat despair! But what the devil had happened to set the pair of them at outs?

  The sound of a fiddle being tuned obliged him to drag his mind from this intriguing problem. The first set was forming; and as the dance was of an informal nature, Lady Ash having announced that since all the young people knew one another she meant to leave them to choose their own partners, it behooved him to look about him for an unattached lady. He saw Tiffany, talking vivaciously to Miss Banningham, and to Lindeth, who was clearly waiting to lead the eldest daughter of the house into the set. It did vaguely occur to Laurence that it was unusual to find Tiffany without an eager crowd of admirers clamouring for the privilege of dancing with her, but although he bowed, and smirked, and solicited the honour of leading her on to the floor, his mind was still too much preoccupied to allow of his paying more than cursory heed to this circumstance. Nor did he notice that the lady who was being besieged by suppliants was Miss Chartley.

  But Miss Trent noticed it, and she thought that it set the seal on an evening of unalleviated misery. Too well did she know that glittering look of Tiffany’s, that over-emphatic gaiety; and if she was relieved to see, as the evening progressed, that Tiffany was never left without a partner, her relief was soon tempered by the spectacle of Mr Wilfred Butterlaw, a pimply youth suffering from unrequited adoration of the Beauty, leading her charge into a set. Mercifully for what little peace of mind was left to Miss Trent, she could not know that Mr Butterlaw’s evil genius prompted him to blurt out, when he and Tiffany came together in the dance: “I d-don’t care a s-straw what anyone says, Miss Wield! I think you’re p-perfect!”

  But although she never knew of this essay in tactlessness she was not at all surprised, during the drive back to Staples, to find that Tiffany was in her most dangerous mood, which found expression, not in one of her stormy outbursts, but in brittle laughter, and the utterance of whatever damaging animadversions on the manners or looks of her acquaintances first occurred to her. Miss Trent preserved a discouraging silence, and devoutly hoped that Courtenay, seated opposite to the ladies, would refrain from adding fuel to the fire. So he did, until Tiffany reached the most galling cause of her discontent, and said, with a trill of laughter: “And Patience Chartley, looking like a dowd in that hideous green dress, and putting on die-away airs, and pretending to be so shy, and so modest, and casting down her eyes in that ridiculous way she uses when she wants to persuade everyone that she’s a saint!”

  “If I were you,” interposed Courtenay bluntly, “I wouldn’t be quite so spiteful about Patience, miss!”

  “Spiteful? Oh, I didn’t mean to be! Poor thing, she’s close on twenty and has never had an offer! I’m truly sorry for her: it must be odious to be so—so insipid!”

  “No, you ain’t,” said Courtenay. “You’re as mad as fire because it wasn’t you that got all the notice tonight buther! And I’ll tell you this!—”

  “Don’t!” said Miss Trent wearily.

  The interpolation was unheeded. “If you don’t take care,” continued Courtenay ruthlessly, “you’ll find yourself in the suds—and don’t think your precious beauty will save you, because it won’t! Lord, if ever I knew such a corkbrained wag-feather as you are! First you drove Lindeth off with your Turkish treatment, then it was Arthur, and to crown all you hadn’t even enough sense to keep your tongue about what happened in Leeds, when it was Patience that showed what a game one she is, not you! All you did was to scold like the vixen you are!”

  “A game one?” Tiffany said, in a voice shaking with fury. “Patience? She’s nothing but a shameless show-off! I collect you had this from Ancilla! She positively dotes on dear, demure little Patience—exactly her notion of a well-brought-up girl!”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t! Miss Trent never told us anything but that Patience had snatched some slum-brat from under the wheels of a carriage, with the greatest pluck and presence of mind! Nor did Lindeth! And as for Patience, she don’t talk about it at all! You did all the talking! You was afraid one of the others would describe the figure you cut, so you set it about that Patience had created an uproar just so that people should think she was a heroine, but that it was all a fudge: no danger to the brat or to herself!”

  “Nor was there! If Ancilla says—”

  “Wasn’t there? Well, now, coz, I’ll tell you something else! Ned Banningham was in York t’other day, staying with some friends, and who should be one of the people who came to the dinner-party but the fellow who nearly drove over Patience? I don’t recall his name, but I daresay you may. Very full of the accident he seems to have been! Told everyone what a trump Patience was, and how she didn’t make the least fuss or to-do, and what a stew he was in, thinking she was bound to be trampled on. Described you too. Jack wouldn’t tell me what he said, and I’d as lief he didn’t, because you are my cousin, and I ain’t fond of being put to the blush. But Ned told Jack, and of course Jack told Arthur, and then Greg got to hear of it—and that’s why you got the cold shoulder tonight! I daresay no one would have cared much if you’d said cutting things about Sophy Banningham, because she ain’t much liked; but the thing is that everyone likes Patience! What’s more, until you came back to Staples, and peacocked all over the neighbourhood, she and Lizzie were the prettiest girls here, and the most courted! So take care what you’re about, Beautiful Miss Wield!”

  Chapter 16

  By the time Miss Trent was at liberty to seek her own bed after that memorable party she was so much exhausted that she fell almost instantly into a deep, yet troub
led sleep. The drive back to Staples had ended with Tiffany in floods of tears, which lasted for long after she had been supported upstairs to her bedchamber. Miss Trent, thrusting aside her own troubles, applied herself first to the task of soothing Tiffany, then to that of undressing her, and lastly to the far more difficult duty of trying to point out to her, while she was in a malleable condition, that however brutal Courtenay might have been he had spoken no more than the truth. Bathing Tiffany’s temples with Hungary Water, she did her best to mingle sympathy with her unpalatable advice. She thought that Tiffany was attending to her; and found herself pitying the girl. She was vain, and selfish, and unbelievably tiresome, but only a child, after all, and one who had been flattered and spoilt almost from the day of her birth. She had met with a severe check for the first time in her headlong career; it had shocked and frightened her; and perhaps, thought Miss Trent, softly drawing the curtains round her bed, she might profit by so painful a lesson.

  She did not come down to breakfast, but when Miss Trent went to visit her she did not find her lying in a darkened room with a damp towel laid over her brow and smelling-salts clasped feebly in her hand, as had happened on a previous and hideous occasion, but sitting, up in bed, thoughtfully eating strawberries. She eyed Miss Trent somewhat defensively, but upon being bidden a cheerful good morning responded with perfect amiability.

  “No letters yet from Bridlington,” said Miss Trent, “but Netley has just brought up a package from the lodge. I couldn’t conceive what it might be until I saw the label attached to it, for a more unwieldy parcel you can’t imagine! My dear, those idiotish silk merchants haven’t sent patterns, but a whole roll of silk! They must have misunderstood Mrs Underhill—and I only hope it may match the brocade! I shall have to take it to Mrs Tawton in the gig. Will you go with me? Do!”

  “No, it will take hours,and I can’t, because I’ve made a plan of my own.”

  “Well, that’s not very kind! Abandoning me to the company of James, who can never be persuaded to say anything but Yes, miss! and No, miss! What is this plan of yours?”

  “I’m going to ride into the village,” said Tiffany, a hint of defiance in her voice. She cast a sidelong glance at Miss Trent, and added: “Well, I mean to call at the Rectory! And you know that pink velvet rose I purchased in Harrogate? I am going to wrap it up in silver paper, and give it to Patience! Especially to wear with her gauze ball-dress! Do you think that would be a handsome present? It was very expensive, you know, and I haven’t worn it, because though I did mean to, last night, I found it didn’t become me after all. But Patience frequently wears pink, so I should think she would feel very much obliged to me, shouldn’t you? And that will just show people! And also I shall invite her to go for a walk with us tomorrow—just you and me, you know!”

  “That would indeed be a noble gesture!” said Miss Trent admiringly.

  “Yes, wouldn’t it?” said Tiffany naively. “It will be horridly dull, and you may depend upon it Patience will be a dead bore, going into raptures over some weed, and saying it’s a rare plant, or—But I mean to bear it, even if she moralizes about nature!”

  Miss Trent was unable to enter with any marked degree of enthusiasm into these plans, but she acquiesced in them, feeling that they did at least represent a step in the right direction, even though they sprang from the purest self-interest. So she went away to prepare for her long and rather tedious drive to the home of the indigent Mrs Tawton, while Tiffany, tugging at the bell rope, allowed her imagination to depict various scenes in which her faithless admirers, hearing of her magnanimity, and stricken with remorse at having so wickedly misjudged her, vied with one another in extravagant efforts to win her forgiveness.

  It was an agreeable picture, and since she really did feel that she was being magnanimous she rode to the Rectory untroubled by any apprehension that she might not meet with the welcome which she was quite sure she deserved.

  The Rector’s manservant, who admitted her into the house, seemed to be rather doubtful when she blithely asked to see Miss Chartley, but he ushered her into the drawing-room, and said that he would enquire whether Miss Chartley was at home. He then went away, and Tiffany, after peeping at her reflection in the looking-glass over the fireplace, and rearranging the disposition of the glossy ringlets that clustered under the brim of her hat, wandered over to the window.

  The drawing-room looked on to the garden at the rear of the house. It was a very pretty garden, gay with flowers, with a shrubbery, a well-scythed lawn, and several fine trees. Round the trunk of one of these a rustic seat had been built, and in front of it, as though they had just risen from it, Patience and Lindeth were standing side by side, confronting the Rector, who was holding a hand of each.

  For a moment Tiffany stood staring, scarcely understanding the significance of what she saw. But when Lindeth looked down at Patience, smiling at her, and she raised her eyes adoringly to his, the truth dawned on her with the blinding effect of a sudden fork of lightning.

  She was so totally unprepared that the shock of realization turned her to stone. Incredulity, fury, and chagrin swept over her. Her conquest—her most triumphant conquest!—stolen from her by Patience Chartley? It wasn’t possible! Patience to receive an offer of marriage from Lindeth? The thought flashed into her mind that he had never so much as hinted at marriage with herself, and she felt suddenly sick with mortification.

  The door opened behind her; she heard Mrs Chartley’s voice, and turned, pride stiffening her. She never doubted that Mrs Chartley hoped to enjoy her discomfiture, and because the thought uppermost in her mind was that no one should think that she cared a rush for Lindeth she achieved a certain dignity.

  She said: “Oh, how do you do, ma’am? I came to bring Patience a trifle I purchased for her in Harrogate. But I must not stay.”

  She put out her hand rather blindly, proffering the silver-wrapped parcel. Mrs Chartley took it from her, saying in some surprise: “Why, how kind of you, Tiffany! She will be very much obliged to you.”

  “It’s nothing. Only a flower to wear with her gauze dress. I must go!”

  Mrs Chartley glanced uncertainly towards the window.

  “Won’t you wait while I see whether I can find her, my dear? I am persuaded she would wish to thank you herself.”

  “It’s of no consequence. The servant said he fancied she was engaged.” Tiffany drew in her breath, and said with her most glittering smile: “That’s true, isn’t it? To Lindeth! Has he offered for her? I—I have been expecting him to do so this age!”

  “Well—if you won’t spread it about, yes!” admitted Mrs Chartley. “But there must be nothing said, you know, until he has told his mother. So you must not breathe a word, if you please!”

  “Oh, no! Though I daresay everyone has guessed! Pray—pray offer her my felicitations, ma’am! I should think they will deal extremely together!”

  On this line she took leave of Mrs Chartley, declining her escort to the stableyard, but hurrying out of the house, the flowing skirt of her habit caught over her arm, and one hand clenched tightly on her whip. She was uplifted by the feeling that she had acquitted herself well, but this mood could not last. By the time she reached Staples, all the evils of her situation had been recollected. It no longer mattered that she had behaved so creditably at the Rectory, for even if Mrs Chartley believed that she was indifferent to the engagement no one else would. Her rivals, Lizzie only excepted, would rejoice in her downfall. She had boasted too freely of being able to bring Lindeth back to her feet by the mere lifting of a finger. She writhed inwardly as she remembered, knowing that it would be said she had been cut out by Patience Chartley. People would laugh at her behind her back, and say sweetly spiteful things to her face; and even her admirers could not be depended on to uphold her.

  When she thought of this, and of what had been the cause of their defection, it had the unexpected effect of drying the tears which till then had been flowing fast. Her predicament was too desperate for tears. S
he could see nothing but humiliation ahead, and by hedge or by stile she must avoid it. In her view there was only one thing to be done, and that was to leave Staples immediately, and to return to London. But London meant Portland Place, and although she could not suppose that even her aunt Burford would send her back to Staples, where she had been unhappy and ill-used, there was no saying that she might not try again to confine her to the schoolroom, until she brought her out in the following spring.

  Pacing up and down the floor of her bedroom, Tiffany cudgelled her brains, and not in vain. She remembered all at once the existence of her other guardian, bachelor Uncle James, who lived, with an old housekeeper to look after him, somewhere in the City. That, of course, was undesirable, but might, perhaps, be mended. James Burford, on the few occasions when they had met, had behaved much as all the other elderly gentlemen of her acquaintance did: chuckling at her exploits, pinching her ear, and calling her a naughty little puss. If he should not be instantly delighted to receive his lovely niece he could very easily be brought round her thumb. Either she would remain under his roof until the spring, or he must be persuaded to represent to Aunt Burford the propriety of bringing her out during the Little Season. Far less than Aunt Burford would he be likely to insist on her returning to Staples. Indeed, the more Tiffany thought of the wrongs she had suffered the more convinced did she become that no one could possibly blame her for running away. Aunt Underhill had deserted her, not even inviting her to go to Bridlington too; Courtenay had been unkind and boorish to her from the outset; and Miss Trent, whose sole business it should have been to attend her, had neglected her for Charlotte; and had shown herself to be so wholly wanting in conduct as to have allowed her to be exposed to the Mob in Leeds, going off in her carriage with an odious girl to whom she owed no duty at all, and leaving her precious charge alone in a public inn, to be conveyed back to Staples, un-chaperoned, by a single gentleman.