The Nonesuch

“Lindeth wasn’t there,” he said, cracking his second egg. “Told Lady Colebatch he was already engaged. Deepest regrets: all that sort of flummery! But,ma’am, Patience wasn’t there either! She had a previous engagement too, and if you can tell me what it could have been but Lindeth’s being invited to the Rectory, it’s more than anyone else can! Because Arthur Mickleby and his sisters were at Colby Place, and Sophy and Jack Banningham, and the Ashes, so where did Lindeth go if it wasn’t to the Rectory? Plain as a pikestaff! But what must Mary Mickleby do but—no, it wasn’t Mary! it was Jane Mickleby, and just the sort of thing she would do!—well, she said, with that silly titter of hers, that she was sure no one could give the least guess as to why Patience and Lindeth were both engaged on the same evening. And, if you ask me,ma’am,” concluded Courtenay, in a very fair-minded spirit, “she didn’t say it only to pay off a score with Tiffany, but because she’s as cross as crabs herself that Lindeth never showed the least preference for her! But, however it may have been, you should have seen Tiffany’s face!”

“I am thankful I did not!” responded Miss Trent.

He chuckled. “Ay, so you may be! Lord, what a ninny-hammer she is! It’s my belief she’d never had the least suspicion that Lindeth had a tendre for Patience—and, I must say, I felt quite sorry for her!”

“That was kind of you,” said Miss Trent politely.

“Well, I think it was,” owned Courtenay. “For I don’t like her, and never did! But she’s my cousin, after all, and I’m dashed if I wouldn’t as lief have her for a cousin as an antidote like Jane Mickleby!” He paused, his fork spearing a vast quantity of ham, halfway to his mouth and said, in portentous accents: “But that wasn’t the whole!”

Miss Trent waited with a sinking heart while he masticated this Gargantuan mouthful. “Well?”

“Arthur!” he pronounced, a trifle thickly. He washed down the ham with a gulp of coffee, and handed her his cup to be replenished. “Mighty cool to her!”

“Very likely. She didn’t speak of his sisters as she ought.”

“I know that, but I’ve got a notion there was more to it than that. Seemed to me—Well, you know what cakes he, and Jack, and Greg have been making of themselves over that chit, ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“Seemed to me they weren’t. Don’t know why, but I daresay Jack will tell me, even if Greg don’t. Not that they were uncivil, or—or—Dashed if I know what it was! Just struck me that they weren’t any of ’em so particular in their attentions. Good thing! For,” said Courtenay, about to dig his teeth into a muffin, “they were getting to be dead bores!”

Miss Trent could not share his satisfaction. Since she knew no more than he did what had happened to cause Tiffany’s local admirers to grow suddenly cold, she could only hope either that he had been mistaken, or that these ill-used gentlemen were trying a change of tactics in their attempts to attach her.

“Was Mr Calver present?” she asked.

“No, but he wasn’t invited,” replied Courtenay. “Sir Ralph can’t abide him: he told me. Said he wouldn’t have any man-milliners running tame at Colby Place!”

It was in a mood of considerable foreboding that Miss Trent presently went upstairs to visit Tiffany. Never before had that turbulent beauty sustained a rebuff, and what the repercussions might be Miss Trent could only, shudderingly, guess.

She found Tiffany seated, partially clothed, at her dressing-table, while her maid, who was looking aggrieved, brushed out her lustrous black locks. Tiffany made no mention of the previous night’s party, but complained of a sleepless night, of a headache, and of unutterable boredom. “I want to go back to London!” she said. “I hate Yorkshire! I declare I had liefer by far be with the Burfords than at Staples, which is dowdy, and slow, and horrid!”

Miss Trent did not think it worth while to remind her that the Burfords were hardly likely to be in Portland Place in the middle of July, or that they had evinced no desire to have their niece restored to them. Instead, she reminded Tiffany that she had the Ashes’ party to look forward to, and, not so very far ahead, the York Races. Tiffany disclaimed any interest in either event; so, after trying several more gambits with as little success, Miss Trent left her, hoping that one at least of her admirers would present himself at Staples that day, to restore the discontented beauty to good humour.

At the foot of the staircase she encountered Totton, who informed her that Sir Waldo had called, to enquire if any tidings had yet been received from Mrs Underhill.

“He asked for Miss Tiffany, ma’am, but I told him Miss had the headache,” disclosed Totton. “So he said if you was at home he would like to see you instead. I was just coming to find you, ma’am. Sir Waldo is in the Green Saloon.”