Page 9 of Henrietta

‘Mama, it has nothing to do with –’ Arthur stopped, and began again: ‘Hetty is very dear to me.’

In some senses Hetty was his closest confidante, however unconventional that might be. Certainly, there was much about a gentleman’s life one did not share with young ladies (though Arthur was all too frequently guilty of forgetting his rule in Hetty’s company) but that did not render their friendship any less treasured. Hetty was always ready with a listening ear if he wished to unburden himself, or a teasing comment if he needed to be jostled out of the doldrums; and whenever a member of his family did or said something particularly ridiculous (as was so often the case) it was her eyes he wished to meet to share the joke. Still, to contemplate being married to Hetty – the mere idea of it was downright peculiar.

‘I do not regard her in such a way.’

‘She would make the most excellent wife!’

‘I do not dispute it.’ Then, brows abruptly furrowing, Arthur asked: ‘Why hasn’t she married? She has been out three years now, has she not?’

‘This is only her second, true, Season,’ his mother corrected. ‘Last year, we were all in mourning.’

Still.

‘You have not communicated this proposition to her?’ Arthur checked. ‘She does not, in any way, believe herself promised to me?’

‘I would certainly not raise the subject before speaking with you first,’ Lady Allerton said hotly. ‘But I think you will find her perfectly amenable and—’

‘Mama, let me be very clear,’ Arthur said, as calmly as he was able. ‘I do not yet know how we are to extricate ourselves from this mess, but I will never countenance using Hetty in such a way.’

Lady Allerton opened her mouth to argue further, but Arthur – suddenly sure he could not withstand a moment more of this – raised his hand to forestall her.

‘I will not marry Hetty,’ he repeated, very firmly, very clearly, ‘and that is my final word.’

CHAPTER III.

THE Honourable Timothy Allerton might not be a traditional fairy godmother, but he was certainly an efficient one. The morning after Arthur’s return, he left his bachelor’s apartments on Duke Street to appear at Berkeley Square before the rest of the household had yet arisen, and yet – despite the earliness of the hour – he was still dressed impeccably in a coat of blue super-fine, dove-coloured pantaloons and shining Hessian boots. It was enough to make Hetty, though arrayed perfectly properly in a gown of French cambric, feel a little shabby – which was, after all, the purpose of today’s meeting.

‘Do you have the materials?’ Timothy asked, by way of greeting.

Hetty laid out four copies of La Belle Assemblée, in between the plates of fresh rolls and steaming pots of coffee. ‘I thought perhaps …’ she began, leafing through the pages, ‘perhaps these might suit …’

Timothy raised his quizzing glass. ‘No – No – Yes, but cerise detailing, not lilac. And no, certainly not.’ He fixed one horribly magnified eye upon Hetty, and pronounced, very firmly: ‘No flounces!’

Skimming judiciously through the rest of the prints, Timothy offered sundry opinions and morsels of advice that Hetty did her best to commit to memory. Timothy’s primary expertise might be masculine apparel, but – regardless of gender – his eye for cut and colour was second to none.

‘Now this’ – Timothy’s eyes gleamed whenever he landed on a page he approved on – ‘this, this, yes, and certainly this would be very fine!’

Hetty took in the final page rather dubiously. ‘Are you certain I have the wherewithal to … wear such an item?’

She traced one hesitant finger over the illustration. Were she to see this gown upon another lady, she would be full of admiration, for it was a dress that demanded it: a round robe of pale-blue satin, the sleeve unusually short, and back and bosom uncommonly exposed. It was just that Hetty was not in the habit of wearing clothes that demanded attention. Indeed, if she could match her own dress always to the exact shade of whatever wallpaper adorned that evening’s ballroom, she would have done so.

Timothy looked her over narrowly. ‘I thought you wanted to cut a dash?’

‘I do, but …’ Arthur’s inamoratas were always such beauties. If Hetty were to have any hope of competing with them, she needed a wardrobe of the very first elegance. In practice, however, this seemed rather terrifying, and she felt her conviction wavering.

‘“More is lost by indecision than wrong decision”,’ she quoted softly to herself as a reminder. It was one of her father’s oft-used refrains.

Timothy, recognising Hetty’s quoting voice, eyed her with a little misgiving. ‘Shakespeare?’

She shook her head. ‘Cicero.’

Though he had studied the classics at both school and university, Timothy’s recollection of the particulars was rather foggy. ‘Is he the fellow that kept on turning himself into a swan?’

‘That is Zeus.’ Hetty was suddenly smiling. ‘He only turned into a swan once, to seduce Leda—’

‘Sound like a rum touch to me,’ Timothy said firmly. ‘Not at all the thing, y’know, turning into animals.’

Hetty laughed. ‘It’s literature, Timothy—’