Page 27 of Henrietta

‘I hope I did not disturb you, darlings,’ trilled her ladyship. ‘I am sorry. Dawson did try to have them bring it in through the back, but the door wasn’t large enough.’

‘What is going on, Mama?’ Arthur said. ‘Where has this … desk come from?’

‘Well, my dear.’ Lady Allerton lowered her voice and leant in confidentially. ‘After our conversation this morning, I felt I must do something to help. I went shopping immediately.’

Surely she was jesting. ‘This is a new desk?’

‘It is all in the effort to become better organised,’ Lady Allerton explained. ‘This desk is far larger than my current bureau, and between the two of them, I shall be able to spread all the bills spread out.’

Arthur stared at the enormous, gleaming, undeniably expensive piece of furniture making its slow progress across the entrance hall. ‘It looks like mahogany.’ He looked up at his mama pleadingly. ‘Please tell me it is not mahogany.’

‘I couldn’t have anything in light wood for the parlour, Arthur!’ Lady Allerton said indignantly. ‘It would look all wrong. Do be reasonable. ‘

‘Be reasonable,’ Arthur echoed. He wondered if this was how a nervous breakdown felt, as he pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. ‘Be reasonable. Of course – well, of course you should have bought a new desk. It makes sense to me now I am being reasonable. In fact—’ A bubble of hysterical laughter made its way up his throat. ‘Why stop there?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Why only two desks – why not more? You could have a desk for each room of the house, Mama! One desk for clothes and horses, one for household bills and expenses – perhaps even one to account for all the desks you keep buying!’

Lady Allerton let out a peal of laughter. ‘Oh, Arthur, you are terrible. Dawson, perhaps we ought to try it by the window first?’

Dawson waved a beckoning hand to the delivery boys, who braced themselves and heaved it back into the air. Arthur had visions of himself lying prostrate before the desk upon the floor, blocking its progress with his own body – and even took one step forward, before Hetty’s hand upon his arm prevented him.

‘Not now,’ she advised. ‘We ought to change for Almack’s.’

If one had not before heard of Almack’s, one would scarcely divine its significance from appearance alone. Constructed in the Palladian style, its exterior was elegant rather than ostentatious, and while the suite of rooms within were well proportioned, well lit and well decorated, they were also less spacious in size and more modest in furnishing than many of the ballrooms upon Grosvenor Square. The refreshments on offer – tea, lemonade, cakes without icing and thinly buttered bread – would certainly have been thought meagre at another event. Yet despite these unassuming features, Almack’s was universally considered the zenith of the fashionable world. Rank alone was no guarantee of entry; acceptance within these hallowed walls was to elevate oneself to the pinnacle of Society, while a single misstep in conduct could see one cast downwards for a whole Season.

Naturally, therefore, to one such as Hetty, Almack’s had long ago assumed the proportions of a nightmare and she would always begin to feel queasy just as soon as the carriage drew up on King Street. This night was no exception, and as they climbed the stone stairs up to the ballroom, and saw the milling crowd gathered below, Hetty’s hands became a little clammy in her gloves.

Beside Hetty, Timothy had let out a quiet gasp. ‘Mr Brummell!’ He put a half-trembling hand up to his neckcloth. The unrivalled arbiter of taste, Mr Brummell was both angel and tormentor for all aspirants to fashion, his smiles or frowns consigning men and women alike to either happiness or despair.

Trixie gave Timothy a teasing nudge in the ribs. ‘Shall we go and speak with him?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Timothy hissed.

‘Your friends are not so shy,’ Arthur noted, nodding to where Corky was hovering at the edges of Mr Brummell’s tête-à-tête with Lord Alvanley.

Timothy gave a scathing sniff. ‘I would not lower myself.’

He affected an aloof aspect which involved throwing his nose into the air as if trying to avoid some rancid scent, causing Trixie to giggle so badly that Lady Allerton, usually the most indulgent of parents, threw a repressing glare at her as she swept them forward to greet the lady patronesses. All were in attendance that evening, save for the Countess Lieven, who – as wife to the Russian ambassador – was busy with preparations for the royal visitors.

‘I shall be directly by your side,’ Arthur assured Hetty. ‘As I promised.’

She cast him a cynical look. ‘The lady patronesses will have you dancing all evening.’

‘Not if – as I have already warned Mama – my wounded leg is giving me some difficulty.’

He affected a pained expression and explained, when it was his turn to greet Lady Sefton, that she would have to forgive his absence from the dance floor that evening, for he still felt his wound a little, but that she was not to worry over his entertainment, for Miss Clithero was going to see him safely about the room.

‘A better nursemaid you could not ask for, I am sure,’ Lady Sefton said warmly – secretly relieved that this removed from her from the task of sourcing a partner for Miss Clithero, whose shyness rendered this a little difficult.

‘See – the work of a trice,’ he murmured, as they made their way into the room.

Hetty was impressed despite herself at this neat solution, though, watching his progress, advised: ‘You are limping with the wrong leg.’

‘So I am!’

Resolving this smoothly, they progressed through the suite of rooms where Arthur abruptly developed a fascination with the new piece of art hanging upon the wall. There, while pretending to admire the brushwork, or the colours, or whatever one admired about oil paintings, he conveyed to Hetty his vision for the evening. His experience that morning had not discouraged him from repeating the exercise – only this time with a crucial difference.

‘Before you speak, you must take a breath – as so.’

He gave a great slow inhale to illustrate his point.