Page 19 of Henrietta

‘Oh good,’ Hetty said. ‘That sounds easy enough, at least.’

She did, however, understand the implication. It was confidence of which Trixie and Timothy spoke: as essential to a young lady’s wardrobe as her underclothes and far more difficult to attain. The Allertons were some of the most assured persons Hetty had ever met and, as far as Hetty knew, they had been born knowing how to strike up a conversation – as Trixie was doing just now, extending a friendly overture to a young lady entering the stairway from one of the upper circle boxes, as if it were the simplest, easiest thing in the world.

‘But it must be possible to learn,’ she said, rather helplessly.

Professor Clithero had insisted this often, to his own students and Hetty herself, once he had taken over her education. While his curriculum – literature rather than music, history in place of embroidery, linguistics over etiquette – might have been unusual, not once had Hetty been given reason to suppose this refrain to be untrue. It was always possible to learn, if one had the correct materials, the correct tutor – only how, without a governess to aid her, was Hetty to do so?

‘I wonder how courtesans learn such things,’ she wondered out loud, more to herself than to Timothy. ‘Or even those lovely opera dancers we saw tonight – I understand they are often the mistresses of gentlemen, as well—’

‘Shouldn’t talk about such things, Hetty!’ Timothy interrupted, looking cautiously about them. ‘Besides, what on earth do dancers have to say to anything?’

‘Well, they presumably learn their craft, as any other industry.’

‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know,’ Timothy insisted.

‘Oh, please don’t be so prim, Timothy,’ Hetty begged. ‘Someone must teach them how to converse, to entertain, the art of self-possession.’

Timothy might not be the swiftest of intellectuals, but he had a ready instinct for self-preservation. ‘Not suggesting I perform this service for you, I hope?’

It was not a bad idea, truly. ‘Well …’

He glared at her. ‘Not the sort of thing one asks a fellow, Hetty. Not the thing.’

‘You were so helpful with my clothes!’

‘Fashion! Not flirting. Egad, Hetty, I am not that sort of gentlemen.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Ensconced in their conversation, Hetty had not noticed Arthur squeezing his way through the crowd to reach them. It was the only time in Hetty’s recollection that she could remember ever not being pleased to see him.

‘Nothing!’ she yelped, trying to silence Timothy with a glare.

‘Arthur’s the better man to ask,’ Timothy said, not silenced in the least.

‘Ask about what?’

‘Nothing,’ Hetty insisted.

‘Silly chit has some notion of learning to flirt,’ Timothy said. ‘All this for some glorified Frenchman, Hetty! It is a nonsense – and frankly—’

‘There is the carriage.’ Arthur – perceiving Hetty’s rising distress – cut across Timothy. ‘Timothy, you escort Mama and Trixie; Hetty and I shall follow in a hackney.’

Whatever gratefulness Hetty felt for Arthur’s intercession was temporary, however, for though his approach might be more cautious than his brother’s, he evidently had no intention of allowing the subject to drop.

‘Did you enjoy yourself this evening?’ he wondered once they had settled into the hackney and drawn off.

‘Oh, yes, certainly.’

‘You seemed somewhat distressed,’ he noted, ‘receiving our visitors into the box.’

‘Did I?’ Hetty occupied herself with peering out of the window. ‘It is a shame, Arthur, that you did not see the Illuminations, for they were quite magnificent – it felt as if the whole city were lit up in celebration, though Wellington’s house was the most—’

‘I wish you would confide in me,’ Arthur put in quietly. Hetty ceased her gabbling at once. ‘You can trust me,’ he told her.

Backed thoroughly into a corner, Hetty opted for an offensive strike. ‘As you trust me?’

Arthur was startled. ‘Certainly.’