Джорджетт Хейер - The Nonesuch

“I don’t feel I deserve any gratitude!” said Ancilla ruefully. “I haven’t succeeded in teaching her very much.”

“Oh, well!” said Mrs Underhill tolerantly. “I don’t hold with keeping girls cooped up in the schoolroom; and to my way of thinking they don’t need to have their heads stuffed full of learning. You teach her to be pretty-behaved, and you’ll hear no complaints from me! And as for the Squire’s wife, let her stare! Not that I think she would, for she’s always very civil to you, on account of your uncle being a General. In fact, it wouldn’t have astonished me if she’d invited you to her party.” She stopped, the most pressing problem of all evoked by her own words. “That party! Oh, dear, whatever’s to be done, Miss Trent? Tiffany will be as mad as Bedlam when she knows she’s not to go! Such a dust as she’ll raise! I own it puts me in a quake only to think of it!”

“She’s bound to fly into a passion,” admitted Ancilla, “but I believe I may be able to reconcile her. In a very improper way, of course, but it is never of the least use to appeal to her sense of what is right, because I don’t think she has any—or any regard for the sensibilities of others either.”

Mrs Underhill uttered a faint protest; but she found it impossible to deny that Tiffany, for all her caressing ways, had never yet shown the smallest consideration for anyone. She did not enquire into the methods Miss Trent meant to employ to keep that volatile damsel in good spirits; and Miss Trent volunteered no explanation. Her methods were certainly unorthodox, and must have earned the censure of any mother anxious to see her daughter grow into a modest female, with delicacy of character as well as prettiness of person. But Miss Trent had long since realized that her lovely charge was governed by self-interest. Perhaps, if she were to be deeply in love one day, her nature might undergo a change; meanwhile, the best that the most conscientious preceptress could do for her was to instill into her head the belief that elegant manners were as essential for social success as an enchanting face; to keep her from passing the line; and to prevent her setting everyone in the house by the ears whenever her will was crossed.

So when Tiffany came tempestuously into the schoolroom (as Ancilla had known she would), to pour out the tale of Mrs Mickleby’s infamous conduct, she listened to her with an air of blank amazement, and exclaimed: “But—! Good heavens, Tiffany, you don’t mean to tell me that you wish to go to that party? You cannot be serious!”

Tiffany’s bosom was heaving stormily, but an arrested, questioning look came into her eyes as she stared at Miss Trent. “What do you mean?”

Miss Trent arched her brows incredulously. “You at such an insipid squeeze? Oh, dear, how very improper in me to say that! Charlotte, don’t sit with your mouth at half-cock! You were not listening—and if you dare to repeat what I said I shall drag you through fields full of cows!”

Charlotte giggled, but Tiffany stamped her foot angrily. “It is a party for Sir Waldo and his cousin, and everybody will be there!”

“Exactly so! Now, don’t eat me! If you indeed wished for it I’m sorry—but I must own it is not at all the sort of party at which I should wish you to make an appearance. You would be the youngest lady present, and you may depend upon it that Mrs Mickleby, if she had asked you, would have taken care to have your place set as far from her distinguished guests as possible. I imagine you would have had Humphrey Colebatch to squire you, perfectly tongue-tied, poor boy! Another thing—which I know one ought not to consider, of course!—is that you couldn’t wear the dress that becomes you better than any of the others:—I mean the one with the knots of ribbon and the sash exactly the colour of your eyes.”

“Yes, I could!”

“Not in Mrs Mickleby’s drawing-room!” Ancilla said. “Only think of all those green curtains and chairs! The effect would be ruined!”

Tiffany was beginning to look thoughtful: but she said, with a slight pout: “Yes, but I don’t see why Mary Mickleby should be at the party, or Sophia Banningham, and not me! They aren’t out either—at least, they haven’t had a London season!”

“No, and I wouldn’t wager a groat on the chance that when they get up from dinner Mrs Mickleby won’t pack all the young people off to the morning-room, to play speculation, or some such thing. There is to be no dancing, you know: just a chattery evening, with a little whist for the gentlemen, I daresay.”

“Oh, no! How shabby! Do you think it will be like that indeed? How bored Sir Waldo and his cousin will be!”

“No doubt they will be. And how agreeably surprised when they come to your aunt’s party!”

“Yes, very true!” Tiffany said, brightening.

“Sir Waldo!” exclaimed Charlotte scornfully. “I think it’s the stupidest thing!—Everybody running wild over him, except Miss Trent and me! You don’t want to meet him, do you, ma’am?”

“No, not particularly, which is a fortunate circumstance, for I can’t suppose that he would think me any more interesting than I think him,” responded Ancilla cheerfully.

Ironically enough, the two persons who least desired the introduction were the first of the Staples household to meet Sir Waldo. Charlotte and Miss Trent, driving into the village in the one-horse phaeton originally bestowed on Mrs Underhill by her husband in the mistaken belief that it would afford her amusement to tool herself about the neighbourhood, were bound for the Church, with a basket full of flowers. Leaving the phaeton in the stableyard of the Rectory, they carried the basket through the wicket-gate into the Churchyard, and were employed in arranging lilies and delphiniums in two vases set on the altar when they were startled by a man’s voice, saying: “But how charming!”

“Oh, how you made me jump!” exclaimed Charlotte involuntarily.

“Did I? I beg your pardon!”

Miss Trent turned her head, and saw that a stranger had entered the Church, accompanied by the Rector, who said: “Well met, Miss Trent! How do you do, Charlotte? Charming indeed, is it not, Sir Waldo? And, I think, unusual. We are indebted to Miss Trent both for the notion and for the execution of it. But you are not yet acquainted! Sir Waldo Hawkridge—Miss Trent, Miss Charlotte Underhill!”

Charlotte bobbed a schoolgirl’s curtsy; Miss Trent, bowing slightly, critically watched the advance up the aisle towards her of this representative of a set she held in poor esteem. He carried himself with the natural grace of the athlete; he was certainly good-looking; and she was obliged to acknowledge that although it was evident that no provincial tailor was responsible for the cut of his coat he adopted none of the extravagances of fashion. He was dressed for riding, in buckskins and topboots, and he carried his hat and crop in one hand. The other, a shapely member, bare of rings, he held out to her, saying: “How do you do? May I compliment you? I have recently seen saloons and ballrooms decorated in this style, but not, I believe, a Church. It is altogether delightful!”

Their eyes met, both pairs gray, hers very cool and clear, his faintly smiling; she gave him her hand, and was aware of the strength latent in the clasp of his. She was a tall woman, but she had to look up to his face; and, as she did so, she became conscious of a tug of attraction. The thought flashed into her mind that she beheld the embodiment of her ideal. It was as instantly banished; she said, as he released her hand: “You are too good, sir. Mine was not the inspiration, however. In the parish where I was used to reside it has been the custom for some years.”

It would have been too much to have said that Miss Trent’s instinctive recognition of the ideal was reciprocated. The Nonesuch had been for too many years the target at which ambitious females had aimed their arrows to be any longer impressionable; and certain painful disillusionments suffered in his youth had hardened his heart against feminine wiles. He was not so much cynical as armoured; and at the age of five-and-thirty believed that he was past the age of falling in love. What he saw in Miss Trent he liked: the fine eyes which looked so directly into his, the graceful carriage, the indefinably well-bred air which distinguished her, and the absence of any affectation in her manners. He liked her voice, too, and the civil indifference with which she had received his compliment. It was refreshing to meet a marriageable female who did not instantly exert herself to win his admiration; it might be pleasant to pursue her acquaintance; but if he were never to see her again it would not cost him any pang of regret.

She turned her head away, to attend to the Rector, who was gently quizzing Charlotte. “I saw your phaeton in the yard, and was told by my good James that Miss Charlotte had driven in. Now, that I didn’t see, which is a severe disappointment!”

“Oh, Mr Chartley, you know—!” protested Charlotte, overcome by blushes and giggles. “It was Miss Trent!”

He laughed, and glanced at Sir Waldo. “Not even Miss Trent, who, I must tell you, is a very pretty whip, and a pattern-card of patience besides, has succeeded in curing this foolish child of a profound mistrust of even the sleepiest cart-horse! Eh, Charlotte?”

“Well, I don’t like horses!” she said boldly. She cast a defiant look at Sir Waldo, and added: “and I won’t pretend I do, because I hate shams! You can never tell what they mean to do next! And if you pat them, they—they twitch!”

This was rather too much for the Rector’s and Miss Trent’s gravity, hut Sir Waldo, though there was a laugh in his eye, replied gravely: “Very true! And when you stretch out your hand only to stroke their noses they toss up their heads, as though they supposed you meant to do them an injury!”