Page 10 of Henrietta

‘It’s devilishly bad ton is what it is!’ Timothy heaved a sigh, and pushed the fashion print back towards her. ‘Should try not to think of this Cicero, if you can manage it,’ he advised. ‘All the gowns in the world can’t help a bluestocking.’

‘Goodness, what has you here so early, Timothy?’

Hetty jerked her head towards the door, smile falling away at the sound of Trixie’s voice. Blast. Trixie did not usually rise before ten o’clock, but then, it had not been a late evening. Despite the excitement of Arthur’s initial appearance – and Lady Allerton’s prompt cancellation of all prior engagements – it had been a quieter dinner than anticipated, for it seemed the demands of his journey had caught up with Arthur. Though he had joined in with conversation with apparent cheer, it had seemed to cost him some effort and he had excused himself to bed at the earliest opportunity. It was behaviour most unlike him, and had this been another morning, Hetty should have dedicated some time to investigating the matter, most likely on a bracing ride – if she did not have other, more pressing tasks to attend to.

‘I’m assisting Hetty,’ Timothy explained, before Hetty could conjure up a plausible excuse. ‘She is shopping today.’

Hetty wished she might shush him. She had no desire to discuss the matter with anyone else. The afternoon prior, he had responded to her request with enthusiasm and a welcome lack of curiosity – his own high regard for fashion meant he considered her quest a perfectly natural one – but Trixie was far likelier to probe. True enough, Trixie levelled a suspicious stare at Hetty and demanded: ‘What has prompted this turn? You detest shopping.’

This was true enough. Hetty could not easily think of anything less enjoyable than standing in front of a well-lit mirror, staring at all one’s inadequacies, and listening to Mrs Butterworth, Lady Allerton’s famously outspoken modiste, ponder how best to conceal her various flaws. It was incomprehensible to Hetty that anyone should actively enjoy this feminine penance, and it was her habit to give enthusiastic consent to the very first dress she tried, just to conclude the experience. With the result, of course, that very few of the dresses in her wardrobe could be said to truly suit her.

‘Wishes to replenish her wardrobe.’ Timothy was rather irritated by this excess of curiosity. ‘Natural enough, Trixie, not sure why you are acting as if it is some grand mystery or—’

Trixie cut across him. ‘You’re so dense, Timothy. She’s obviously trying to impress someone.’

Hetty’s heart half stopped. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She affected an airy tone. ‘Now, Timothy, what about this—’

It was too late. Timothy was already turning enquiring eyes towards his sister. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A lady does not suddenly change her wardrobe for no reason,’ Trixie explained with exaggerated patience. Then, turning to Hetty, she asked impishly: ‘I am correct, aren’t I? Who is it?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Even Hetty could hear the strain in her voice. ‘I merely – merely wished for a change.’

She looked desperately towards the door, hoping fervently that Arthur was too tired from his travels to rise any time soon.

Trixie gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. ‘Oh, why be coy – you may trust us, you know.’

‘There’s no one—’

‘It is not me, is it?’ Timothy was suddenly horror-struck. ‘Because – fond of you, Hetty, you know I am, but—’

‘It’s not you!’ Hetty yelped, before realising, from the smug smile curling Trixie’s mouth, that this was tantamount to an admission.

‘Some European noble?’ Trixie wondered. ‘They’re arriving in London by the dozen.’

‘No.’

‘They are, Hetty,’ Timothy said fairly. ‘No point denying it.’

‘Yes, and you will certainly know some of them already,’ Trixie continued eagerly. ‘From all your time in Rome – or Vienna – or Germany. Perhaps he is someone you met in your youth? One of your father’s students?’

‘An attachment from youth,’ Timothy pronounced with all the air of one finally in understanding. ‘But why did you not say so, Hetty? No cause for embarrassment, you know.’

How on earth was Hetty to move them off this topic? The pair of them were like terriers tussling over a bone.

‘Unless he’s someone we know …’ Trixie’s brows were beginning to furrow, and it was these terrifyingly prescient words that led Hetty to say, half-panicked:

‘Very well! Yes, he is a – a European noble. That I met in my youth. Arriving in London any day now. Yes, so you see.’

To her own ears, her parroting sounded desperately unconvincing, but Trixie leant back in her chair, satisfied. ‘I hope he’s Austrian. Then, when you’re married, I shall visit you and Grandpère in Vienna, and become very glamorous and international.’

Eager to be rid of this conversation, Hetty rose, beginning to stack up the prints into a pile.

‘Shall I accompany you?’ Trixie offered.

Hetty shook her head desperately. ‘Recollect that you have that breakfast party!’

‘Why do you think I have risen so early?’ Trixie retorted, brandishing a bread roll at her. ‘There is never enough to eat at Lady Thornton’s parties – but you are meant to be coming, too!’