The Nonesuch

Miss Trent could not picture the Nonesuch overcome by bashfulness, but she kept this reflection to herself. She had no wish to prolong a discussion which she felt to be unbecoming, so after murmuring an agreement she directed Mrs Underhill’s thoughts into a different channel, by producing a list of all the things that must be attended to before that lady could leave Staples with a quiet mind. Fortunately the list was a long one, and included problems of great complexity, chief amongst which loomed the vexed question of the new winter curtains for the drawing-room. These were being made by an indigent widow, living in a village some miles distant from Staples: an arrangement which, owing partly to the dilatory disposition of the widow, and partly to the folly of the silk warehouse in sending silk for the linings which in no way matched the opulent brocade chosen by Mrs Underhill, had already been productive of considerable annoyance.

“If it isn’t one thing it’s another!” declared Mrs Underhill. “Faithfully did they promise to send me another pattern this week! And did they do it? Answer me that!”

“No, ma’am,” said Miss Trent obediently. “They sent you a civil letter, explaining why there must be a little delay. Would you perhaps wish me to write to the warehouse, desiring them to send the new pattern to Mrs Tawton, so that she may judge—”

“No, that I wouldn’t!” interrupted Mrs Underhill. “She judge? She wouldn’t know black from white, for a sillier creature I never met! And so slow that—Well, there! I knew how it would be when Mrs Chartley asked me if I’d put some work in her way, for I never yet employed anyone out of kindness but what it cost me more and was worse done than if I’d sent all the way to London to have it made for me! I’d liefer by far have dipped my hand in my pocket, and made her a present of the money, and so I would have done if Mrs Chartley hadn’t warned me not, for fear of hurting the silly woman’s pride. Which is another thing I don’t hold with. Don’t you ever, my dear, send out work to anyone that has claims to gentility, for if they don’t do it in their time instead of yours ten to one they’ll do it wrong, and very likely look as if you’d insulted ’em if you tell ’em it’s not been done to your satisfaction!”

“I won’t,” said Miss Trent. “If you think I may be trusted to judge, I’ll take the lining-silk to Mrs Tawton, and look at it beside the brocade. If the pattern is sent before your return, that is. Or would you prefer to let it stand until you can take it yourself?”

“No, that I wouldn’t!” said Mrs Underhill. “It’s this winter I want my new curtains, not next! Though I don’t like to be asking you to run my errands, which you might well take offence at!”

“I’m not so genteel, ma’am! So that is settled. Then there is the fruit to be given to—”

“Oh, my goodness, if that hasn’t put me in mind of old Matthew!” exclaimed Mrs Underhill. “Well, I’m sure it’s no wonder I should have forgot, with all the fuss and worry about Charlotte, and the packing, and such! He’s laid up with his rheumatism, and there’s a bottle of liniment, and a bit of flannel to be taken to his cottage, which I’ll have to find the time to do, because he’s a pensioner, and Mr Underhill was always very particular not to neglect any of them.”

“I shall be glad of a walk, and I’ll go tomorrow morning, as soon as I have seen you and Charlotte safely into the carriage,” promised Ancilla.

Since Mrs Underhill, who rarely spent a night away from Staples, was rapidly becoming distracted, this duty proved to be more arduous than might have been expected, and entailed much hurried unpacking to discover whether various indispensable comforts had been included in the numerous trunks and portmanteaux, as Mrs Underhill’s maid asserted they had; or whether they had been overlooked, as Mrs Underhill feared they must have been. However, after only one false start, because Charlotte found that she had forgotten her travelling chessboard, the travellers at last drove away, leaving behind them a somewhat breathless and exhausted household.

“Phew!” uttered Courtenay, restoring the handkerchief he had been waving to his pocket. “You’d think they were bound for the Antipodes!” He turned to his giggling cousin, and said, with all the air of a young gentleman virtuously mindful of his mother’s parting injunctions: “I’m riding over to Crawshays, and if you care to go with me you may. Only don’t keep me kicking my heels for ever while you rig yourself out!”

Having no other engagement, and apprehending that Miss Trent might bear her off to visit the aged Matthew, Tiffany accepted this handsome invitation, and ran into the house to put on her riding-dress. Relieved of responsibility for one morning at least, Miss Trent presently set forth with a basket over her arm, glad of the exercise after her close attendance on Charlotte, and only too happy to be alone with her thoughts.