Page 14 of Henrietta

Hetty felt herself deflate. It was not quite the second glance that she had desired, for there was none of the same surprised appreciation of the day prior, only a frowning stare she did not understand. It had lasted a moment only, but as they walked together down to dinner – though Arthur was speaking as he normally did, and in a passable enough imitation of his usual cheer – she could not help but feel he was hiding some inner disquiet.

Had Arthur known the direction of Hetty’s thoughts, he might have advised her that disquiet was too soft a word. As they walked down to dinner, Arthur was conscious of feeling more vexed with his mother than he had all day. It was plain that she had not been exaggerating when she had spoken, the day before, of Hetty’s helpfulness, but Arthur was not inclined to think this heartwarming. Hetty speaking to the cook; Hetty directing the staff; Hetty pretending to sell the family diamonds …

She had been most shamefully used.

CHAPTER V.

JUDGING by the persons all about them, the Theatre Royal was set to be entirely full that evening. The entrance hall was teeming with ladies and gentlemen Hetty could instantly recognise – those glittering characters so infamous in their set – as well as those she could not. For cutting through the usual evening wear was the blue of a Dutch uniform, and the smart rifle-green of a Belgian dragoon, and – most striking still – a veritable river of the scarlet coats which had been growing in number each day.

‘Is he here?’ Trixie’s eyes were following Hetty’s through the crowds about them. Eyes landing upon a corpulent octogenarian, she asked, rather warily: ‘It’s not him, is it?’

‘Of whom do you speak?’

‘Your paramour,’ was Trixie’s prompt reply. ‘The Belgian noble you met in you youth, tragically torn from you by the cruelty of circumstance.’

The results of an active imagination – and a relatively dull day – had caused Trixie to not only settle on the nationality of Hetty’s fictional lover but to also add significant embellishment to his story.

‘Oh, do hush,’ Hetty begged her. The journey to the theatre had not been long, but it was certainly long enough for Hetty’s nerves to awaken. Whatever magic had overcome her in the calm of the modiste had by now entirely vanished, such that when the cloakroom attendant made to help her out of her cloak, she had to force herself not to hold fast. The room was warm, but she felt goose-pimpled, exposed and somehow a little unnatural. She smoothed down an imaginary wrinkle, looking about herself and trying to breathe deeply.

Unheeding of Hetty’s plea, Trixie peered about them once more. ‘Is it him?’

Hetty shushed her again, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Arthur, only to find his attention – blessedly – taken up with shaking hands. As his tailor had yet to complete his new evening dress, Arthur had arrayed himself, for one last occasion, in the dress uniform of one of General Graham’s aides-de-camp, and though Lady Allerton had voiced her opinion that his regimental colours had held far more panache, Hetty herself could find no fault in his appearance. Nothing could have been better than the set of his coat across his shoulders, disturbed only by its fringed sash, and as they made their way to their seats, he was hailed by more than a dozen persons, all of whom wished to wring his hand, enquire after his health and press him for details of his experience.

‘Struck down at Vitoria, is that right?’ Baron Rochdale demanded. ‘Was it as bloody as they say?’

‘I did not hear any complaints on that count,’ Arthur said lightly.

‘Oh, I am jealous,’ Trixie declared impetuously. ‘What an adventure you have had! I wish ladies could join up, I really do.’

Baron Rochdale let out a roar of laughter. A slight flush came to Trixie’s cheeks, and she raised her chin defiantly. ‘I think the Duke of Wellington would be very interested to hear my views!’

‘He certainly would,’ Arthur assured her gravely.

Trixie lowered her chin, mollified, and Arthur turned a little to catch the eye of Hetty, who was hovering just behind. Hetty tried to muster the courage to join in, to make some sort of pithy comment that would cause everyone to think her very witty … Instead, she dropped her eyes to her hands, pretending to adjust her gloves and lamenting her own cowardice.

It took them a further ten minutes to reach their box, but while the task of navigating through such a crush of persons had very much frayed Hetty’s mettle, Arthur’s mood had been greatly restored. Certainly, the barrage of questions about the war might become trying, but he did not begrudge anyone their interest – indeed, before he himself had left for the Continent, he had been guilty of just the same sort of curiosity – and it was the work of a moment to redirect conversation. Besides, it was strangely enlivening to do so. The past two days might have been humbling, discovering just exactly how lacking he was in any of the knowledge required for a role he had considered his birthright – but this at least, he could do.

It was pleasing, also, to be assured by their various acquaintances that he was in for a rare treat that evening. London, at the time of his departure, had been undergoing something of a theatrical slump, but this had been summarily concluded by the debut of Edmund Kean, whose turns as Shylock, Richard III and Hamlet had enraptured the entire city – and caused Trixie, briefly but fiercely, to consider a life on the stage. That night marked another outing of Kean’s Iago, but although Hetty would have assumed this play to entrance Trixie more than Hamlet, her attention – as the curtain rose – was caught more by the boxes opposite than the events upon the stage.

Arthur was intrigued. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘Not what – who,’ Trixie corrected. ‘I don’t recognise that gentleman.’

Arthur followed the direction of her gaze. ‘That is Captain Edgewood.’

He did not say his name with any particular pleasure. He had had no personal dealings with the fellow, who served in a different regiment, but he was well known to take pleasure from the darker pleasures Society had to offer a prepossessing gentleman: drinking, gambling and the breaking of hearts.

‘Do you know him? Will you introduce me, Arthur?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Not the sort of person one introduces to his sister,’ Timothy added, sparking Trixie’s curiosity only further.

‘Why not?’

Timothy cast about for an appropriate means of explaining this. Arthur, perceiving his struggle, said only: ‘He’s an adventurer.’

Trixie’s eyes went wide. ‘But how marvellous! I have always wanted to be an adventurer myself, you know.’