The Nonesuch

“As though Mama would! No, but wasn’t it? Tiffany will be as angry as a wasp!”

Knowing that it would be useless to expect Charlotte to refrain from exulting over her cousin, Ancilla held her peace. She was justified by the result: Tiffany received the news with indifference; for while Charlotte had been making the acquaintance of the Nonesuch she had met and dazzled Lord Lindeth.

Whether the encounter had been by accident or by her own design was a point she left undisclosed. She had refused to accompany her cousin and governess that morning, voting the object of the expedition slow work, and declaring that nothing would prevail upon her to sit bodkin in a carriage designed to carry no more than two persons. Instead, she had had her pretty bay mare saddled, and had ridden out alone, declining the escort of the groom expressly hired to attend her. Since there was nothing unusual about this he made no attempt to dissuade her from conduct unbefitting her years and station, merely remarking to Courtenay’s groom that one of these days, mark his words, Miss would be brought home with her neck broke, ramming her horses along the way she did, and thinking herself at home to a peg, which the lord knew she wasn’t.

The latter part of this criticism Tiffany would have much resented; but she would have been rather pleased than annoyed at the accusation of ramming her horses along, which she considered to be exactly the style to be expected of one who took pride in being a hard-goer. Accustomed, as a little girl, to career all over the countryside on her pony, she had not as yet learnt to accept chaperonage; and although she was willing to ride with Courtenay, or with Ancilla, she found the presence of her groom irksome, and dispensed with it whenever she could. On this occasion she had an excellent reason for doing so: the Squire had let fall the information that young Lord Lindeth was going to fish the stream that ran through the grounds of the Manor; and Tiffany, by no means reconciled to her exclusion from Mrs Mickleby’s dinner party, had every intention of making his acquaintance. Miss Trent might be right in thinking that the party would not suit her, but even less did it suit her to be the last lady of consequence in the neighbourhood to meet the distinguished newcomers. No more than her aunt did she doubt that Mrs Mickleby’s omission of her name from the elegant dinner-card sent to Mrs Underhill sprang from a jealous fear that her own two daughters would be cast into the shade by the appearance on the scene of an accredited beauty. Well! Mrs Mickleby, no doubt hopeful that Mary or Caroline would contrive to attract the interest of a titled gentleman, should discover that one at least of her exalted guests was in no mood to make either of these damsels the object of his gallantry. Lord Lindeth, if the beautiful Miss Wield could contrive it, was going to think the party very flat, when he looked in vain for her amongst the guests.

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.