Джорджетт Хейер - The Nonesuch

“I haven’t, but I paid his gaming debts only on his promise that he would incur no more of them.”

“His promise—! Good God, Waldo, you don’t depend on that, do you?”

“But I do, Laurie won’t go back on his word: witness his rage today, only because I’ve compelled him to pledge it!”

“Once a gamester always a gamester!”

“My dear George, Laurie is no more a gamester than I am!” replied Sir Waldo, amused. “All he wishes to do is to sport a figure in the world. Do believe that I know him much better than you do, and take that frown off your face!” He slipped his hand within his cousin’s arm, grasping it lightly. “Instead, tell me this, old chap! Do you want Broom Hall? Because, if you do—and you need not fly up into the boughs!—I hope you know you’ve only to—”

“I do not!” interrupted George, with unnecessary violence. “Merely because I said I thought it an odd start in Cousin Joseph to have left his property to you—By the bye, my aunt didn’t like it above half, did she?”

“No—most understandable! But I really can’t feel that Lindeth stands in the least need of Broom Hall.”

“Oh, lord, no!—any more than I do! Bless the boy, he never gave it a thought! You know, Waldo, it’s my belief he’s going to cut up all her hopes! Ever since he came down from Oxford she’s been trying to push him into the first style of fashion—and into an eligible marriage—and then, when there isn’t a ton party he ain’t invited to attend, what does he do but beg you to let him go with you into the wilds of Yorkshire! I promise you, I was hard put to it not to burst out laughing at the look in her face when young Julian said the Season was a dead bore! Mark me if she don’t prevent his going with you!”

“She won’t even make the attempt. She’s by far too fond of him to try to thrust him down any path he doesn’t wish to follow—and has too much commonsense as well. Poor Aunt Lindeth! I do most sincerely pity her! She was obliged to abandon her efforts to bring her husband into fashion, for he despised nothing more; and to discover now that Julian, who has all in his favour to blossom into a Pink of the Ton, is as bored by such stuff as ever his father was is really very hard.”

“I think the better of him for it,” declared George. “To own the truth, I always looked to see him trying to follow in your steps! Well, if she does let him go with you next week, take care he don’t fall into mischief—unless you have a fancy for getting your eyes scratched out!”

“None at all! Are you apprehensive that he will form an attachment to a milkmaid? Or set the countryside by the ears? You terrify me, George!”

“No, no!” George said, chuckling. “It’s you who will do that! Well, I don’t mean you’ll set ’em all by the ears precisely, but, lord, what a flutter there will be when they find the Nonesuch amongst ’em!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, George—!” said Sir Waldo, withdrawing his hand abruptly from his cousin’s arm. “Don’t talk such nonsense! If I were a betting man, I’d lay you odds against the chance that anyone at Oversett has ever heard of me!”

Neither prophecy hit the mark, but, in the event Mr Wingham came nearer to it than Sir Waldo. Broom Hall belonged to a country parish whose centre was the village of Oversett, situated in the West Riding, rather closer to Leeds than to Harrogate, and not above twenty miles from York; and although the majority of the Reverend John Chartley’s parishioners knew nothing about Sir Waldo, and several elderly gentlemen, such as Squire Mickleby, took very little interest in any member of the Corinthian set, amongst the ladies, and the younger gentlemen, a good deal of excitement was felt. No one was acquainted with Sir Waldo; but several ladies had at some time or another spent a few weeks in London, and had had him pointed out to them in the Park or at the Opera as one of the leaders of the ton; and every budding young whip who prided himself on his light hands and the prime nature of his turn-out was torn between longing to see just how Sir Waldo did the trick and dread lest such an out-and-out top-sawyer should regard with contempt the efforts of his admirers to emulate his skill.

The first person to learn the news was the Rector, and it was his daughter who carried it to Staples, the most considerable house in the neighbourhood, where it was variously received. Mrs Underhill, who knew no more of Sir Waldo than the Rector’s most illiterate parishioner, but understood, from the awe in Miss Chartley’s face, that the news was remarkable, said, in a placid voice: “Fancy!” Miss Charlotte, a bouncing fifteen-year-old, looked for guidance at Miss Trent, her adolescent adoration of her young preceptress having led her to regard that lady as an authority on any subject which came under discussion; and Mrs Underhill’s niece, Miss Theophania Wield, fixed her large, suddenly sparkling eyes on Miss Chartley’s face, and uttered breathlessly: “Is it true? Coming to Broom Hall? Oh, you’re shamming it, Patience—I know you are!”

Miss Trent, though the announcement had caused her to look up from her stitchery, her brows raised in momentary surprise, resumed her work, volunteering no remark; but Mr Courtenay Underhill, who had lounged in to pay his respects to his mama’s visitor, exclaimed in the liveliest astonishment: “Sir Waldo Hawkridge? Old Calver’s heir? Good God! Mama, did you hear? Sir Waldo Hawkridge!”

“Yes, dear. Well, I’m sure I hope he’ll find it to his liking, though it will be wonderful if he does, the way Mr Calver let all go to rack and ruin! I don’t seem able to recall him at the moment, but there! I never was one for remembering names—not but what you’d think I should keep that one in my head, for I never heard such a funny one!”

“They call him the Nonesuch!” said Courtenay reverently.

“Do they, love? That would be a nickname, I daresay. Depend upon it, it was given him for some silly reason, like the way your grandfather was used to call your poor Aunt Jane Muffin, all because—”

“Oh!” cried her niece, impatiently interrupting these amiable meanderings, “as though anyone was ever called that for a stupid joke! It means—it means perfection! Doesn’t it, Ancilla?”

Miss Trent, selecting a length of silk from her skein, replied, in her cool, well-bred voice: “A paragon, certainly.”

“Fudge! It means being the greatest Go among all the Goers!” stated Courtenay. “Particularly on the roads—though they say the Nonesuch is a clipping rider to hounds too. Gregory Ash—and he knows all the Melton men!—told me that in harness and out no man can do more with a horse than the Nonesuch. Well, if he is coming here, I won’t be seen driving that chestnut I had from old Skeeby, that’s certain! Mama, Mr Badgworth has a neatish bay he’d be willing to sell: beautiful stepper—carries a good head—just the right stamp!”

“Oh, pooh! As though anyone cares a rush for such stuff!” broke in Miss Wield scornfully. “Sir Waldo is first in consequence with the ton, and of the first style of elegance, besides being very handsome, and hugely wealthy!”

“Elegant! Handsome!” jeered Courtenay, mimicking her. “Much you know about it!”

“I do know!” she flashed. “When I was at my uncle’s house in Portland Place—”

“Yes, you were as thick as inkle-weavers with him, of course! What miff-maff you do talk! I don’t suppose you’ve ever so much as clapped eyes on him!”

“I have, I have! Frequently! Well, several times! And he is handsome and elegant! Ancilla, he is, isn’t he?”

Miss Chartley, who was a very gentle, prettily behaved girl, seized the opportunity to intervene in what promised to develop into a shrill quarrel, turning towards Miss Trent, and saying in her soft, shy voice: “I expect you know more about Sir Waldo than any of us, for you were used to live in London, were you not? Perhaps you may even have met him?”

“No, indeed I have not,” Miss Trent replied. “I never saw him, to my knowledge, and know no more of him than the rest of the world.” She added, with the glimmer of a smile: “The company he keeps was quite above my touch!”

“I daresay you didn’t wish for his acquaintance,” said Charlotte. “I’m sure I don’t: I hate beaux! And if he is coming here to hold up his nose at us all I hope he will go away again!”

“I expect he will,” said Miss Trent, threading her needle.

“Yes, that is what Papa says,” agreed Miss Chartley. “He thinks he can only be coming to settle with the lawyers, and perhaps to sell Broom Hall, for he can’t wish to live in it, can he? Papa says he has a very beautiful house in Gloucestershire, which has been in his family for generations. And if he is so very fine and fashionable he must think this a dull place, I daresay—though it is quite close to Harrogate, of course.”

“Harrogate!” said Courtenay contemptuously. “That won’t fadge! He won’t remain at Broom Hall above a sennight, I’ll be bound! There’s nothing to make him wish to stay, after all.”

“No?” said his cousin, a provocative smile on her exquisite countenance.

“No!” he stated, revolted by this odious self-satisfaction. “And if you think he has only to see you to fall in love with you you much mistake the matter! I dare swear he is acquainted with a score of girls prettier by far than you!”

“Oh, no!” she said, adding simply: “He couldn’t be!”

Miss Chartley protested involuntarily: “Oh, Tiffany, how can you? I beg your pardon, but indeed you shouldn’t—!’”

“It’s perfectly true!” argued Miss Wield. “I didn’t make my face, so why shouldn’t I say it’s beautiful? Everyone else does!”

Young Mr Underhill instantly entered a caveat, but Miss Chartley was silenced. Herself a modest girl, she was deeply shocked, but however much she might deprecate such vainglory honesty compelled her to acknowledge that Tiffany Wield was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen or imagined. Everything about her was perfection. Not the most spiteful critic could say of her that it was a pity she was too tall, or too short, or that her nose spoiled her loveliness, or that she was not so beautiful in profile: she was beautiful from every angle, thought Miss Chartley. Even her dusky locks, springing so prettily from a wide brow, curled naturally; and if attention was first attracted by her deep and intensely blue eyes, fringed by their long black lashes, closer scrutiny revealed that a little, straight nose, enchantingly curved lips, and a complexion like the bloom on a peach were equally worthy of admiration. She was only seventeen years of age, but her figure betrayed neither puppy-fat nor awkward angles; and when she opened her mouth it was seen that her teeth were like matched pearls. Until her return, a short time since, to Staples, where her childhood had been spent, Patience Chartley had been generally held to be the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood, but Tiffany had quite eclipsed her. Patience had been brought up to believe that one’s appearance was a matter of no importance, but when the parent who had inculcated one with this dictum said that It gave him pleasure merely to rest his eyes on Tiffany’s lovely face one might perhaps be pardoned for feeling just a trifle wistful. No one, thought Patience, observing herself in the mirror when she dressed her soft brown hair, was going to look twice at her when Tiffany was present. She accepted her inferiority meekly, so free from jealousy that she wished very much that Tiffany would not say such things as must surely repel her most devout admirers.

Apparently sharing her views, Mrs Underhill expostulated, saying in a voice which held more of pleading than censure: “Now, Tiffany-love! You shouldn’t talk like that! Whatever would people think if they was to hear you? It’s not becoming—and so, I’ll be bound, Miss Trent will tell you!”

“Much I care!”

“Well, that shows what a pea-goose you are!” struck in Charlotte, firing up in defence of her idol. “Because Miss Trent is much more genteel than you are, or any of us, and—”

“Thank you, Charlotte, that will do!”

“Well, it’s true!” muttered Charlotte rebelliously.

Ignoring her, Miss Trent smiled at Mrs Underhill, saying: “No, ma’am: not at all becoming, and not at all wise either.”

“Why not?” Tiffany demanded.

Miss Trent regarded her thoughtfully. “Well, it’s an odd circumstance, but I’ve frequently observed that whenever you boast of your beauty you seem to lose some of it. I expect it must be the change in your expression.”