Джорджетт Хейер - The Nonesuch

“An hour?” exclaimed Tiffany. “And what am I to do, pray? Do you imagine I’m going to sit in that odious, stuffy taproom for a whole hour? I won’t!”

“Oh, so it’s odious and stuffy now, is it?” said Courtenay. “I thought you said you wouldn’t care a rush if you were obliged to spend the rest of the day in it? Yes, you can look daggers at me if you choose, but I know what you are, and that’s a selfish little cat! You never did care a button for anyone but yourself, and it’s my belief you never will!”

Tiffany burst into tears; and Miss Colebatch, sympathetic tears starting to her own eyes, cried: “Oh, Courtenay, no! You mustn’t—It is all my fault for being so stupid! Oh, Tiffany, I beg your pardon!”

“You beg her pardon?” ejaculated Courtenay.

“Mr Underhill, will you please mind your tongue?” said Miss Trent, with all the authority of her calling. “Stop crying, Tiffany! If you don’t care to stay here, I suggest you ride into Bardsey with your cousin. Then you may enjoy your quarrel without making the rest of us uncomfortable!”

Courtenay opened his mouth, encountered a quelling look, and shut it again.

“I won’t!” sobbed Tiffany. “I hate Courtenay, and I don’t want to go to Bardsey!”

Miss Trent, well aware of the ease with which Tiffany could lash herself into a fit of hysterics, cast a harassed look round in search of support. Lindeth, his lips rather firmly compressed, and his eyes lowered, neither spoke nor moved; but the Nonesuch, amusement in his face, strolled up to Tiffany, and said: “Come, come, my child! The beautiful Miss Wield with swollen red eyes? Oh, no, I beseech you! I couldn’t bear to see it!”

She looked up involuntarily, hiccupping on a sob, but with her tears suddenly checked. “Swollen—Oh, no! Oh, Sir Waldo, are they?”

He put a finger under her chin, tilting up her face, and scrutinizing it with the glinting smile so many females had found fascinating. “Thank God, no! Just like bluebells drenched with dew!”

She revived as though by magic. “Are they? Oh, how pretty!”

“Ravishing, I promise you.”

She gave a delighted little trill of laughter. “I mean how prettily said!”

“Yes, wasn’t it?” he agreed, carefully drying her cheeks with his own handkerchief. “What very long eyelashes you have! Do they ever become tangled?”

“No! Of course they don’t! How can you be so foolish? You are trying to flatter me!”

“Impossible! Don’t you wish to ride to Bardsey?”

Her face clouded instantly. “With Courtenay? No, I thank you!”

“With me?”

“With you! But—but you are not going—are you?”

“Not unless you do.”

A provocative smile lilted on her lips. “Ancilla wouldn’t permit it!” she said with a challenging glance cast at her preceptress.

“What, even though Courtenay goes with us?” He turned towards Miss Trent, interrogating her with one quizzical eyebrow. “What do you say, ma’am?”

She had been listening to this interchange with mixed feelings, torn between gratitude to him for averting a storm, and indignation at the unscrupulous methods he employed. Her answering look spoke volumes, but all she said was: “I am persuaded Mrs Underhill would raise no objection, if her cousin is to go with Tiffany.”

“Then I’ll go and saddle the horses again,” he said. “You, Julian, will remain to keep watch and ward over the ladies!”

“Of course,” Julian replied quietly.

“Unless you should choose instead to accompany us?” suggested Tiffany, blithely forgetting that it had been agreed that two defenceless females could not be abandoned in an alehouse.

“No, I thank you,” he said, and turned from her to persuade Miss Colebatch, with his sweetest smile, to retire again into the taproom.

Miss Trent had seen the look of shocked dismay in his face when it had been so forcibly borne in upon him that his goddess had feet of clay; and her heart was wrung with pity. She might tell herself that his well-wishers might rejoice in his disillusionment, but she was conscious of an irrational and almost overpowering impulse to find excuses for Tiffany. She subdued it, strengthened by the saucy look her artless charge cast at Julian before she tripped off in Sir Waldo’s wake. It was abundantly plain to her that Tiffany saw nothing in Julian’s refusal to ride to Bardsey but an expression of jealousy, which in no way displeased her. Tiffany delighted in setting her admirers at loggerheads, and never wasted a thought on the pain she inflicted; and had she been told that Julian was as much hurt by his cousin’s behaviour as by hers she would have been as incredulous as she was uncaring. But Miss Trent’s heart had more than once been wrung by the puzzled look in Julian’s eyes when he had watched Sir Waldo flirting with Tiffany, and she could not help longing to reassure him.

She stayed to see the riding-party off before joining Miss Colebatch and Julian in the taproom. She found them already discussing a pot of tea, Elizabeth reclining on the settle and looking rather more cheerful, and Lindeth not seeming to be in need of reassurance. Miss Trent warmly, if silently, applauded the good manners which prompted him to appear very well satisfied with his situation; and at once seconded his efforts to divert Elizabeth. She, poor girl, was still far from being her usually lively self, for, in addition to an aching head, she was suffering the mortification of knowing that she had ruined what should have been a day of pleasure, and had made her dear friend cry. She could not help laughing when Julian, amongst other schemes for ensuring her privacy, announced his intention of borrowing an apron from the landlady, and carrying tankards out to any thirsty patrons of the Bird in Hand; but a moment later she was wondering whether Tiffany would ever forgive her, and saying, for perhaps the fiftieth time, that she could not conceive what had come over her, or how she could have been so stupid.

“Well, for my part,” said Miss Trent, “I am glad that something did come over you! I was wishing I had never expressed a desire to visit the Dripping Well, and was never more thankful than when it was decided to abandon the scheme.”

“You are always so kind! But Tiffany was so set on it!”

“My dear Miss Colebatch, if Tiffany suffers no worse disappointments than today’s she may count herself fortunate!” replied Ancilla lightly. “I wish you won’t tease yourself merely because she flew into one of her tantrums! You must know what a spoilt child she is!”

“It is that, isn’t it?” Julian said eagerly. “Just—just childishness! She is so lovely, and—and engaging that it’s no wonder she should be a trifle spoilt.”

“No, indeed!” she said, adding with what she felt to be odious duplicity: “You must not blame Mrs Underhill, however. I daresay she should have been stricter, but her own nature is so gentle and yielding that she is no match for Tiffany. And she does so much dread her passions! I must own I do too! No one can be more enchanting than Tiffany, and no one that I ever met can more easily throw an entire household into discomfort! I can’t tell you, sir, how very much obliged I am to your cousin for coming to our rescue as he did!”

He responded only with a quick, constrained smile, and she said no more, hoping that she had given him enough to digest for the present, and had perhaps made him wonder whether Sir Waldo’s conduct had not sprung rather from a laudable impulse to nip a painful scene in the bud than from any desire to cut out his young cousin.

“I don’t deny that I was thankful to be spared a fit of strong hysterics,” Miss Trent told the Nonesuch, when, at the end of that memorable day, Miss Colebatch had been safely restored to her parents, “and I can’t doubt that you don’t deny, sir, that your conduct was utterly unscrupulous!”

“Yes, I shall,” he replied coolly. “I did nothing to promote the scene; I refrained from adding as much as one twig to the flames; and when I did intervene it was from motives of chivalry.”

“From what?”she gasped.

“Motives of chivalry,” he repeated, meeting her astonished gaze with a grave countenance, but with such a twinkle in his eyes that she was hard put to it not to laugh. “A look of such piteous entreaty was cast at me—”

“No!”protested Miss Trent. “Not piteous! I didn’t!”

“Piteous!” said the Nonesuch remorselessly. “Your eyes, ma’am—as well you know!!—cried Help me! What could I do but respond to the appeal?”

“Next you will say that it went much against the pluck with you!” said Miss Trent, justly incensed.

“No service I could render you, ma’am, would go against the pluck!”

Her colour mounted, but she said: “I should have guessed you would have a glib answer ready!”

“You might also have guessed that I meant it.”

She found herself suddenly a little breathless; and wished, for the first time, that she was more experienced in the art of dalliance. There was a note of sincerity in his voice; but caution warned her not to allow herself to be taken in by a man of the world whom she judged to be expert in flirtation. She managed to laugh, although rather shakily, and to say: “Very prettily said. Sir Waldo! I must give you credit too for having brought Tiffany back to us all compliance and good humour. A triumph indeed!”

“Fencing with me, Miss Trent?”

She was silent for a moment or two, and when she did speak it was with a good deal of constraint. “I think you forget my situation, sir.”

“On the contrary: your situation chafes me too much to be forgotten.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Chafes you!”

“Beyond endurance! You stare! Does it seem so strange to you that I should very much dislike seeing you in such a position?”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “One would suppose I was one of those unfortunate governesses who, for £24 a year, become drudges! But I’m no such thing! I’m excessively expensive, in fact.”

“So you once told me.”

“Well, it’s true. I don’t like to boast, but I can’t allow you to suppose that I eke out a miserable existence on a pittance. I am paid £150 a year!”

“My dear girl, it would make no difference if you were paid ten times that sum!”

“That shows how little you know! It makes a great deal of difference, I promise you. Females who are paid very high wages are never used like drudges.”

“You are at the beck and call of a woman I could more readily suppose to be your housekeeper than your mistress; you are obliged to endure impertinence from that abominable chit any time she is out of temper, and patronage from such mushrooms as—”

“Nonsense!” she interrupted. “Mrs Underhill treats me as if I were one of her family, and I won’t have her abused! I think myself very fortunate, and if I don’t dislike my position there can be no reason for anyone else to do so!”

“Oh, yes, there can be!” he retorted.

They had reached the gates of Staples, where the others had pulled up to wait for them. Miss Trent hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that her tête-à-tête with the Nonesuch had come to an abrupt end, and when he and Lindeth had taken their leave she rode up the avenue to the house so lost in her own thoughts that Courtenay had to speak her name twice before she realized that she was being addressed.

He supposed her to be tired; and Tiffany, at her most caressing, was instantly all solicitude. Miss Trent was obliged to take herself to task for harbouring the uncharitable suspicion that her engaging manner sprang from a wish to avert a scold for her previous conduct.

Mrs Underhill said she was quite shocked to think of poor Lizzie’s indisposition, but not at all surprised. She and Charlotte had taken a turn in the shrubbery, which had regularly exhausted her, so hot as it had been. Miss Trent made no mention of Tiffany’s outburst, but when Courtenay came in he gave his mother a full and indignant account of it, stigmatizing his lovely cousin as a devil’s daughter whom he was ashamed to own, and adding that she might as well stop setting her cap at Lindeth, since the veriest clodpole could have seen how outrageous he thought her behaviour.

This was all very dreadful, but, as Mrs Underhill presently confided to Miss Trent, every cloud had a silver lining. “For Courtenay told me, my dear, that his lordship was downright shocked, so I shouldn’t wonder at it if he began to hedge off. Very likely it will have given him a disgust of her, for there’s nothing gentlemen hate more than the sort of dust Tiffany kicks up when she flies into one of her miffs. Don’t you think so?”