The Nonesuch

“Yes, it’s all very well to talk like that, my dear, but I’m sure it’s natural she should want a bit of gaiety, even though her Aunt Burford didn’t see fit to bring her out this year. What’s more, my dear—and I don’t scruple to own it, for well I know I can say what I choose to you, and no harm done!—if Tiffany was to find it too slow for her here there’s no saying but what she’d beg her uncle to fetch her away, which he would do, because it’s my belief he didn’t like sending her back to me above half—and no wonder!”

Ancilla hesitated for a moment; and then, raising her eyes to Mrs Underhill’s face, said, a little diffidently: “I understand you, ma’am—of course! but—but do you think that Mr Courtenay Underhill shows the least disposition to—to fix his interests with his cousin? And—could you be comfortable with her as your daughter-in-law?”

“No, but that’s no matter. It was the wish of both their fathers—and she’s young yet! I daresay she’ll grow to be more conformable,” said Mrs Underhill optimistically. Her mind reverted to the more immediate problem; after pondering deeply for a few moments, she said: “Twenty-four couples could stand up in my drawing-room, and very likely more, but the thing is there ain’tas many young persons in the district: not without I was to invite a set of company, like the Butterlaws, which I wouldn’t for my life do! It might be that Sir Waldo would as lief sit down to a rubber of whist, but then there’s this young lord of his! It has me quite in a worry to decide what to do for the best!”

“How would it be, ma’am, if you were to make no decision, but to leave it to chance? Then, if you thought your guests would like to get up a set or two, I can play the music for them.”

But Mrs Underhill would have none of this. “If I give a dance, I’ll hire the musicians from Harrogate, like I did at Christmas,” she declared. “There’s never been anything nip-cheese about my parties, and nor there ever will be! What’s more, I won’t have you demean yourself, as if you was of no more account than that fubsy-faced creature that was here before you came to us! No: you’ll take your place at the table, and help me to entertain my guests, like you were one of the family, which I’m sure I often feel you are, so kind and obliging as you’ve always been to me, my dear!”

Ancilla blushed rosily, but shook her head. “Thank you! You are a great deal too good, ma’am. But it would never do! Only think how Mrs Mickleby would stare! Charlotte and I will eat our dinners in the schoolroom, and I’ll bring her down to the drawing-room afterwards, as a good governess should.”

“Now, don’t you talk flummery to me!” begged Mrs Underhill. “You was hired to be a governess-companion to Tiffany, and that’s a very different matter, for all you’ve been so kind as to teach my Charlotte. And very grateful I am to you, I promise you.”

“I don’t feel I deserve any gratitude!” said Ancilla ruefully. “I haven’t succeeded in teaching her very much.”

“Oh, well!” said Mrs Underhill tolerantly. “I don’t hold with keeping girls cooped up in the schoolroom; and to my way of thinking they don’t need to have their heads stuffed full of learning. You teach her to be pretty-behaved, and you’ll hear no complaints from me! And as for the Squire’s wife, let her stare! Not that I think she would, for she’s always very civil to you, on account of your uncle being a General. In fact, it wouldn’t have astonished me if she’d invited you to her party.” She stopped, the most pressing problem of all evoked by her own words. “That party! Oh, dear, whatever’s to be done, Miss Trent? Tiffany will be as mad as Bedlam when she knows she’s not to go! Such a dust as she’ll raise! I own it puts me in a quake only to think of it!”

“She’s bound to fly into a passion,” admitted Ancilla, “but I believe I may be able to reconcile her. In a very improper way, of course, but it is never of the least use to appeal to her sense of what is right, because I don’t think she has any—or any regard for the sensibilities of others either.”