Джорджетт Хейер - The Nonesuch

It was an easy matter to find Lord Lindeth. The stream he was fishing wound through a stretch of open country. Tiffany saw him from a distance, and cantered easily in his direction, neither so close to the stream as to make it apparent that she wished to attract his attention, nor so far from it that he would not hear the thud of the mare’s hooves. It was a little unfortunate that his back should be turned towards her, but she felt sure that he would look round when he heard her approach. She reckoned without her host: Lord Lindeth was casting into a likely pool; he had got a rise; and he gave not the smallest sign of having heard the sound of a ridden horse. For a moment it seemed as though Miss Wield’s careful strategy must be thrown away. She was a resourceful girl, however, and as soon as she realized that he was wholly absorbed in his sport she let her whip fall, and reined in, uttering a distressful exclamation.

That did make him look round, not so much interested as vexed. It was on the tip of his tongue to request the intruder to make less noise when he perceived that the rude interruption had come from a lady.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” Tiffany called. “But would you be so very obliging, sir, as to give me my whip again? I can’t think how I came to be so stupid, but I’ve dropped it!”

He reeled in his line, saying: “Yes, of course—with pleasure, ma’am!”

She sat still, serenely awaiting his approach. He laid his rod down, and came towards her. There was a slight look of impatience on his face, but this speedily vanished when he was near enough to see what a vision of beauty had accosted him. Instead of picking up the whip he stood staring up at Tiffany, frank admiration in his gaze.

She was dressed in a flowing habit of sapphire-blue velvet, a lace cravat round her neck, and a curled ostrich plume caressing her cheek. It did not occur to Julian that this undeniably becoming costume was scarcely the established country-mode; he thought only that never in his life had he beheld a more staggeringly lovely girl.

An enchanting smile made him blink; Tiffany said contritely: “I am so sorry! I interrupted you—but I can’t mount without a block, so you see ....!”

He found his tongue, saying quickly: “No, no, you didn’t, I assure you!”

A gleam shone in her eyes. “But I know very well I did!”

He laughed, flushing a little: “Well, yes! But you needn’t be sorry: I’m not!”

“Oh, and you looked so vexed!”

“That was before I saw who had interrupted me,” he retorted audaciously.

“But you don’t know who I am!”

“Oh, yes, I do. Diana!”

“No, I’m not!” she said innocently. “I’m Tiffany Wield!”

“Tiffany! How pretty! But you make me remember an old poem: Queen and huntress, chaste and fair—though I rather fancy it was about the moon, not the goddess. But I know the title is To Diana,and the refrain, or whatever it’s called, is Goddess, excellently bright!So—!”

“I don’t think I ought to listen to you,” she said demurely. “After all, sir, we haven’t been regularly introduced yet!”

“There’s no one to perform that office for us,” he pointed out. “Do you care for such stuff?”

“No, not a scrap, but my aunt thinks I should! And also that I should never converse with strange gentlemen!”

“Very true!” he answered promptly. “May I present Lord Lindeth to you, Miss Wield?—he is most anxious to make your acquaintance!”

She gave a trill of laughter. “How do you do? How absurd you are!”

“I know—but what else was to be done in such a case? I was afraid you would gallop away!”

“So I shall—if you will be so very obliging as to pick up my whip for me, sir!”

He did so, but stood holding it. “I’m tempted to keep it from you!”

She held out her hand. “No, please!”

He gave it to her. “Only funning!” It struck him that it was strange that so young and lovely a girl should be quite unattended, and he said, glancing about him in a puzzled way: “Is no one with you, Miss Wield? Your groom, or—or—”

“No one! It’s so stuffy to have a groom at one’s heels! Do you think it very improper?”

“No, indeed! But if anything were to happen—some accident—”

“I’m not afraid of that!” She shortened the bridle. “I must go now. Thank you for coming to my rescue!”

“Oh, wait!” he begged. “You haven’t told me where you live, or when I shall see you again!”

“I live at Staples—and who knows when you will see me again?” she replied, her eyes glinting down into his. “I’m sure I don’t!”

“Staples,” he said, committing it to memory. “I think I know—oh, I should have told you that I’m at Broom Hall, with my cousin, Waldo Hawkridge! Yes, and we are to dine at the Manor the day after tomorrow—some sort of a party, I believe! Shall I see you there?”

“Perhaps—perhaps not!” she said mischievously, and was off before he could demand a more positive answer.

Lord Lindeth, who had greeted with disapprobation the news that he was to be dragged out to a dinner-party, returned to Broom Hall after his encounter with Miss Wield in quite a different frame of mind. The first thing he did was to run through the various visiting-cards which had been bestowed upon his cousin; the next was to burst into the library, where Sir Waldo was frowning over his deceased cousin’s rent-books, demanding: “Waldo, are you acquainted with anyone called Wield?”

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Sir Waldo, rather absently.

“Do pay attention!” begged Julian. “From Staples! Isn’t that the place with the wrought-iron gates, beyond the village? They must have called, but I can’t find any card!”

“Presumably they haven’t called, then.”

“No, but—Of course, the name might not be Wield: she spoke of her aunt,and I suppose—But there’s no card bearing that direction that I can find!”

Sir Waldo looked up at this, a laugh in his eye. “Oho! She?”

“Oh, Waldo, I’ve met the most ravishing girl!” disclosed his lordship. “Now, think! Who lives at Staples?”

“Miss Wield, I collect.”

“Yes, but—Oh, don’t be so provoking! Surely you must know who owns the place.”

“I can see not the smallest reason why I must know—and I don’t.”

“I wish you may not have lost the card! You would suppose her uncle must have called, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I haven’t so far given the matter any consideration,” said Sir Waldo apologetically. “Perhaps he doesn’t approve of me?”

Julian stared at him. “Nonsense! Why shouldn’t he?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“No, nor anyone else! Do stop talking slum, and try to be serious!”

“I am serious!” protested Sir Waldo. “Quite perturbed, in fact! I have sustained an introduction to someone who, unless I am much mistaken, does disapprove of me.”

“Who?” demanded Julian.

“A female whose name I can’t recall. A remarkably good-looking one, too,” he added reflectively. “And not just in the common style, either.”

“She sounds a maggotty creature to me!” said Julian frankly. “Not but what I think you’re shamming it! Why should she disapprove of you?”

“I rather fear, my fatal addiction to sport.”

“What a ninnyhammer! No, but, Waldo, do think! Are you perfectly sure no one from Staples has been here?”

“Not to my knowledge. Which leaves us quite at a stand, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it does—except that she may be at the party. She didn’t precisely say so, but—Lord, what a fortunate thing it was that we stayed with the Arkendales on our way here! I might not else have brought my evening rig with me!”

This ingenuous observation made Sir Waldo’s lips twitch, for Julian’s reception of the news that his journey north was to be broken by a visit to the home of one of the highest sticklers in the country would not have led anyone to foresee that he would presently think himself fortunate to have undergone a stay which he had stigmatized as an intolerable bore. Similarly, when he knew that he had been included in Mrs Mickleby’s invitation to Waldo he had denied any expectation of enjoyment, saying that if he had guessed that he had fled from the London scene only to be plunged into a succession of country dinner-parties he would not have accompanied his cousin.

But all such unsociable ideas were now at an end; it was not hebut Sir Waldo who deplored the necessity of attending a dinner-party on a wet evening: Julian had no doubt of its being a delightful party; and as for the ancient vehicle brought round from the coach-house for their conveyance, he told his cousin, who was eyeing it with fastidious dislike, that he was a great deal too nice, and would find it perfectly comfortable.

Miss Wield would have been pleased, though not at all surprised, to have known how eagerly his lordship looked forward to meeting her at the Manor, and how disappointed he was not to see her there; but if she had been an invisible spectator she would not have guessed from his demeanour that he was at all disappointed. He was far too polite to betray himself: and of too cheerful and friendly a disposition to show the least want of cordiality. It was a great shame that this ravishing girl was absent; but he had discovered her aunt’s name, and had formed various plans for putting himself in this lady’s way. Meanwhile, there were several pretty girls to be seen, and he was perfectly ready to make himself agreeable to them.

A quick survey of the drawing-room was enough to inform Sir Waldo that the beautiful Miss Wield was not present. Miss Chartley and Miss Colebatch were the best-looking ladies, the one angelically fair, the other a handsome redhead, but neither corresponded to the lyrical description Julian had given him of Miss Wield’s surpassing beauty. He glanced towards Julian, and was amused to see that he was being very well entertained amongst the younger members of the party. He was not surprised, for he had not taken Julian’s raptures very seriously: Julian had begun to develop an interest in the fair sex, but he was still at the experimental stage, and during the past year had discovered at least half-a-dozen goddesses worthy of his enthusiastic admiration. His cousin saw no need to feel any apprehension: Julian was enjoying the flirtations proper to his calf-time, and was some way yet from forming a lasting passion.

For himself, Sir Waldo was resigned to an evening’s boredom, denied even the amusement of pursuing his acquaintance with the lady who disapproved of him. He had looked in vain for her, and was conscious of disappointment. He could not recall her name, but he did remember that he had been attracted by her air of cool distinction, and the smile which leaped so suddenly into her eyes. She was intelligent, too, and had a sense of humour: a rare thing, he thought, amongst females. He would have liked to have known her better, and had looked forward to meeting her again. But she was not present, and he was provided instead with a number of middle-aged persons, as dull as they were worthy, and with a sprinkling of boys and girls. Amongst the girls, he awarded the palm to Miss Chartley, with whom he exchanged a few words. He liked, as much as the sweetness of her expression, the unaffected manners which, in spite of a not unbecoming shyness, enabled her to respond to his greeting without blushing, nervously giggling, or assuming a worldly air to impress him. As for the boys, he would have had to be extremely dull-witted not to have realized, within a very few moments of entering the room, that most of them were taking in every detail of his dress, and, while too bashful to put themselves forward, were hoping that before the evening was out they would be able to boast of having talked to the Nonesuch. He was well-accustomed to being the object of any aspiring young sportsman’s hero-worship, but he neither sought nor valued such adulation. Mr Underhill, Mr Arthur Mickleby, Mr Jack Banningham, and Mr Gregory Ash, bowing deeply, and uttering reverently Sir! and Honoured!,would have been stunned to know that the only young gentleman to engage Sir Waldo’s amused interest was Humphrey Colebatch, a redheaded youth (like his sister), afflicted with an appalling stutter. Presented by his fond father somewhat dauntingly as this silly chub of mine,and further stigmatized by the rider: not of your cut, I’m sorry to say! he had disclosed, in the explosive manner of those suffering an impediment of speech, that he was not interested in sport.