The Nonesuch Read online

  ‘I am thankful I did not!’ responded Miss Trent.

  He chuckled. ‘Ay, so you may be! Lord, what a ninnyhammer she is! It’s my belief she’d never had the least suspicion that Lindeth had a tendre for Patience – and, I must say, I felt quite sorry for her!’

  ‘That was kind of you,’ said Miss Trent politely.

  ‘Well, I think it was,’ owned Courtenay. ‘For I don’t like her, and never did! But she’s my cousin, after all, and I’m dashed if I wouldn’t as lief have her for a cousin as an antidote like Jane Mickleby!’ He paused, his fork spearing a vast quantity of ham, halfway to his mouth and said, in portentous accents: ‘But that wasn’t the whole!’

  Miss Trent waited with a sinking heart while he masticated this Gargantuan mouthful. ‘Well?’

  ‘Arthur!’ he pronounced, a trifle thickly. He washed down the ham with a gulp of coffee, and handed her his cup to be replenished. ‘Mighty cool to her!’

  ‘Very likely. She didn’t speak of his sisters as she ought.’

  ‘I know that, but I’ve got a notion there was more to it than that. Seemed to me – Well, you know what cakes he, and Jack, and Greg have been making of themselves over that chit, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Seemed to me they weren’t. Don’t know why, but I daresay Jack will tell me, even if Greg don’t. Not that they were uncivil, or – or – Dashed if I know what it was! Just struck me that they weren’t any of ’em so particular in their attentions. Good thing! For,’ said Courtenay, about to dig his teeth into a muffin, ‘they were getting to be dead bores!’

  Miss Trent could not share his satisfaction. Since she knew no more than he did what had happened to cause Tiffany’s local admirers to grow suddenly cold, she could only hope either that he had been mistaken, or that these ill-used gentlemen were trying a change of tactics in their attempts to attach her.

  ‘Was Mr Calver present?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but he wasn’t invited,’ replied Courtenay. ‘Sir Ralph can’t abide him: he told me so. Said he wouldn’t have any man-milliners running tame at Colby Place!’

  It was in a mood of considerable foreboding that Miss Trent presently went upstairs to visit Tiffany. Never before had that turbulent beauty sustained a rebuff, and what the repercussions might be Miss Trent could only, shudderingly, guess.

  She found Tiffany seated, partially clothed, at her dressing-table, while her maid, who was looking aggrieved, brushed out her lustrous black locks. Tiffany made no mention of the previous night’s party, but complained of a sleepless night, of a headache, and of unutterable boredom. ‘I want to go back to London!’ she said. ‘I hate Yorkshire! I declare I had liefer by far be with the Burfords than at Staples, which is dowdy, and slow, and horrid!’

  Miss Trent did not think it worth while to remind her that the Burfords were hardly likely to be in Portland Place in the middle of July, or that they had evinced no desire to have their niece restored to them. Instead, she reminded Tiffany that she had the Ashes’ party to look forward to, and, not so very far ahead, the York Races. Tiffany disclaimed any interest in either event; so, after trying several more gambits with as little success, Miss Trent left her, hoping that one at least of her admirers would present himself at Staples that day, to restore the discontented beauty to good humour.

  At the foot of the staircase she encountered Totton, who informed her that Sir Waldo had called, to enquire if any tidings had yet been received from Mrs Underhill.

  ‘He asked for Miss Tiffany, ma’am, but I told him Miss had the headache,’ disclosed Totton. ‘So he said if you was at home he would like to see you instead. I was just coming to find you, ma’am. Sir Waldo is in the Green Saloon.’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the butler to deny her, but she mastered the impulse. The interview must be faced, since she could not run away from Staples, deserting her post, as she longed to be able to do. She had made up her mind that she must be prepared to meet the Nonesuch, and to conduct herself, when she did so, with calm and dignity.

  She entered the Green Saloon to find him standing by the table in the middle of the room, and glancing through the latest issue of the Liverpool Mercury. He looked up as the door opened, and at once laid the paper down, saying with the smile that made her heart tremble: ‘At last!’

  ‘I beg your pardon! Have you been waiting for long?’ she returned, determined to maintain an attitude of friendly civility, and desperately hoping that he would understand from this that it would be useless to make her any sort of declaration.

  ‘More than a sennight! Yes, I know you feel that the delicacy of your position makes it ineligible for you to receive visitors, but I have been very discreet, I promise you! I told the butler that I came to enquire after the travellers – and even went so far as to ask first if Miss Wield was at home.’

  ‘We have had no news yet.’

  ‘You could scarcely have done so, could you? It was the only excuse I could think of.’ He paused, the laughter arrested in his eyes as they searched her face. ‘What is it?’ he asked, in quite another tone.

  She answered with forced lightness: ‘Why, nothing!’

  ‘No, don’t fob me off ! Tell me!’ he insisted. ‘Something has happened to distress you: has that spoilt child been plaguing you?’

  She had known that it would be a dreadful interview, but not that he would rend her in two by so instantly perceiving the trouble in her face, or by speaking to her in that voice of concern. She managed to summon up a laugh, and to say: ‘Good gracious, no! Indeed, sir, –’

  ‘Then what?’

  How could you ask a man if it was true that he had several love-begotten children? It was wholly impossible: not even the boldest female could do it! Besides, it would be useless: she knew the answer, and her knowledge had not come to her from a doubtful, or a spiteful source: Lindeth had said it, not dreaming of mischief, treating it as only a slightly regrettable commonplace. The thought stiffened her resolution; she said, in a stronger voice: ‘Nothing more serious than a headache. I fancy there’s thunder in the air: it always gives me the headache. Tiffany isn’t feeling quite the thing either. Indeed, I should be with her, not talking to morning-visitors! I hope you may not think it uncivil in me to run away, Sir Waldo, but –’

  ‘I don’t think you uncivil: merely untruthful! Why do you call me a morning-visitor, when you know very well I’ve been awaiting the opportunity to see you privately – and certainly not with the object of uttering social inanities?’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you fearful of offending against the proprieties? You’re not so missish! And even the most strictly guarded girl, you know, is permitted to receive an offer of marriage un-chaperoned!’

  She put out her hand, in a repelling gesture, averting her head, and saying imploringly: ‘No, don’t say it! pray don’t!’

  ‘But, my dear – !’

  ‘Sir Waldo, I am very much obliged to you – much honoured – but I can’t accept your – your very flattering offer!’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked quietly.

  Dismayed, she realized that she ought to have foreseen that he would say something quite unexpected. She had not, and was betrayed into incoherence. ‘I don’t – I could never – I have no intention of – no thought of marriage!’

  He was silent for a moment, a crease between his brows, his eyes, fixed on her profile, a little puzzled. He said at last: ‘Don’t you think that you might perhaps bring yourself to give marriage a thought? It’s quite easy, you know! Only consider for how many more years than you I never gave it a thought. And then I met you, and loved you, and found that I was thinking of very little else! Forgive me! – I don’t mean to sound presumptuous – but I can’t believe that you are as indifferent to me as you’d have me think!’

  She flushed. ‘I am aware that I – that I gave you reason to suppose that it wou