Джорджетт Хейер - The Nonesuch

A ripple of laughter broke from her. “What a boy he is! Tell me, if you please: when did this event take place, sir?”

“This morning. I had the news from him barely half-an-hour before I received Laurie’s message.”

“Then I know why Tiffany ran away,” said Miss Trent, with a despairing sigh. “She was at the Rectory this morning, and they must have told her. You may say she’s abominable—and, of course, very often she is! —but one can’t but pity her, poor child! So spoiled as she has been all her life, so pretty, and so much petted and admired—! Can’t you understand what it must have meant to her, coming, as it did, after the ball last night?”

He glanced down at her. “The ball last night? What happened to overset her then?”

“Good God, surely you must have noticed?” she exclaimed. “All those foolish boys who have been dangling after her ever since I brought her to Staples clustered round Miss Chartley—almost showed Tiffany the cold shoulder!”

“No, I didn’t notice,” he answered. “I was in the card-room, you know. But I can readily understand her feelings upon being shown a cold shoulder: I was shown one myself, and I assure you I am filled with compassion.” Again he glanced down at her, his smile a little wry. “That, Miss Trent, is why I sought refuge in the card-room.”

She turned away her face, aware of her rising colour. He said reflectively: “I can’t recall that I was ever so blue deviled before.”

She knew that it was unwise to answer him, but she was stung into saying: “That, Sir Waldo, is—as you would say yourself—doing it rather too brown! You do not appear to me to be suffering from any want of spirits!”

He laughed. “Oh, no! Not since it occurred to me that you were blue deviled too!”

“To be thrown into a ditch is enough to blue devil anyone!” she retorted.

“What, twice ?” he exclaimed. “I had no notion that such an accident had befallen you on the way to the ball! ”

“It didn’t. Last night,” she said carefully, “I was not feeling at all the thing. I had the headache.”

“Again?” he said, in a voice of deep concern. “My dear Miss Trent, I’m persuaded you should consult a physician about these recurrent headaches of yours!”

She did her best to stifle it, but he caught the sound of the tiny choke of laughter in her throat, and said appreciatively:

“Do you know, I think that of all your idiosyncrasies that choke you give, when you are determined not to laugh, is the one that most enchants me. I wish you will do it again!”

Only the recollection that he must of necessity be expert in the art of seduction prevented her from complying with this request. Appalled to discover that in despite of upbringing and principles her every fibre was responsive to the Nonesuch’s wicked charm, she said, apparently addressing the ears of his leaders: “Sir Waldo, circumstance compelled me to accept a seat in your carriage. When I consented to go with you to Leeds, I trusted that chivalry—a sense of propriety—would prohibit you from entering again upon this subject.”

“Did you?” he said sympathetically. “Only to find your trust misplaced! Well, that is a great deal too bad, and one must naturally shrink from shattering illusions. At the same time—where did you pick up such a ridiculous notion?”

The Reverend William Trent, whose mind was of a serious order, had several times warned his elder sister that too lively a sense of humour frequently led to laxity of principle. She now perceived how right he was; and wondered, in dismay, whether it was because he invariably made her laugh that instead of regarding the Nonesuch with revulsion she was obliged to struggle against the impulse to cast every scruple to the winds, and to give her life into his keeping.

“What is it that troubles you, my heart?” he asked gently, after a short pause.

The change of tone almost overset her, but she managed to say, though faintly: “Nothing!”

“No, don’t say that. What did I do to bring about this alteration in your sentiments? I’ve racked my brain to discover the answer—searched my memory too, but quite in vain. God knows I’m no saint, but I don’t think I’m more of a sinner than any other man. Tell me!”

She realized from these words that they must be poles apart. She thought it would be useless to enter upon any discussion, even if she could have brought herself to broach a subject of such delicacy. She said, with as much composure as she could command: “Sir Waldo, pray leave this! I don’t wish to be married.”

“Why not?”

She ought to have guessed, of course, that he would disconcert her. Casting wildly in her mind for an excuse, she produced, after a betraying pause: “I am an educationist. No doubt it seems strange to you that I should prefer to pursue that profession, but—but so it is!”

“My dear girl, so you might, with my goodwill!”

“You would hardly wish your wife to be employed as a teacher in a school!”

“No, certainly not, but if superintending the education of the young is your ambition I can provide you with plenty of material on which to exercise your talents,” he said cheerfully.

For a moment she could hardly believe her ears. She turned her head to stare at him; and then, as she saw the familiar glint in his eyes, wrath at his audacity surged up in her, and she gasped; “How dare you?”

The words were no sooner uttered than she regretted them; but she had at least the satisfaction of seeing the glint vanish from his eyes. It was succeeded by a look of astonishment. Sir Waldo pulled up his team. “I beg your pardon?” he said blankly.

Furiously blushing, she said: “I should not have said it. I didn’t intend—Pray forget it, sir!”

“Forget it! How could I possibly do so? What the devil did I say to make you rip up at me? You don’t even know what I was talking about, for I haven’t yet told you my dark secret! Do you remember that I promised I would do so?”

“I do remember,” she replied, in a stifled voice. “You said that you would make a clean breast of it, but it is unnecessary. I know what your—your dark secret is, Sir Waldo.”

“Do you indeed? Which of my cousins took it upon himself to enlighten you?” he asked grimly. “Laurie?”

“No, no! He has never mentioned it to me, I promise you! Don’t ask me more!”

“I need not. Julian, of course! I might have known it! If ever there was a prattle-box—! But I can’t for the life of me understand why—”

She broke in rather desperately on this. “Oh, pray—! He asked me particularly not to tell you! It was very wrong of me to have said what I did. He thought I knew—he meant no harm! I don’t think he dreamed that I should not look upon it as—as lightly as he does himself—as you do! You told me that you believed I had too liberal a mind to disapprove. You meant it as a compliment, but you were mistaken: my mind is not so liberal. I am aware that in certain circles—the circles to which you belong—such things are scarcely regarded. It is otherwise in my circle. And my family—oh, you would not understand, but you must believe that I could not marry a man whose—whose way of life fills me with repugnance!”

He had listened to the first part of this speech in frowning bewilderment, but by the time she reached the end of it the frown had cleared, and a look of intense amusement had taken its place. “So that’s it!” he said, a quiver of laughter in his voice. He set his team in motion again. “I’ll wring Julian’s neck for this! Of all the leaky, chuckleheaded rattles—! Just what did he tell you?”