Page 20 of Henrietta

‘Something ails you,’ she pressed him, ‘and I do not believe it is only the matter of the diamonds. Ever since you returned – no, that is not correct, for all was well, at first.’ She had not given it much thought at the time, too taken up with her own plans and stratagems, but now she considered the matter: ‘It was only after Thimbleby’s visit that some disquiet began to weigh upon you.’ She furrowed her brows, regarding him. ‘Is your mama in a very bad scrape?’

Arthur hesitated. He had resolved to keep this secret entirely to himself. It was nothing to do with Hetty; it was not her burden to shoulder. He was on the point of refusing to speak of the matter, when she spoke again: ‘Arthur.’

These two syllables were the entire sum of her persuasion, and yet it was more effective than any histrionics could have been. Arthur found he no longer had the resolve to withhold the truth from her. ‘I recollect there is some brandy in my father’s study,’ he said as they reached Berkeley Square. ‘We can speak more there.’

This suspicion was proved true enough, though once they had reached this location, Arthur was reminded that brandy was not an appropriate drink to offer Hetty and called instead for some ratafia to be brought up. If Dawson thought there was anything strange in such a nightcap, in such a room, he gave no indication of it in his expression, and Arthur did not think he would have much cared either way. After the difficulties of speaking with his mother, Hetty’s rapt attention was a welcome balm to the worries burning in his mind, and as he concluded his tale of what, exactly, had occurred during their meeting with Thimbleby, Hetty tried to hide her horror.

‘That must have been a terrible shock,’ she observed.

‘A surprise, certainly,’ Arthur said lightly. ‘Though’ – he made himself give a chuckle he did not feel – ‘I wish you might have heard some of the things Mama was saying – truly the greatest absurdities. When she uttered the words “higgledy piggledy” I thought Thimbleby would swallow his own tongue.’

Hetty smiled. ‘I can just imagine it.’ Then, after a pause, she added: ‘I am very sorry.’

She would have liked to express her sympathy in full, but Arthur cut across her. ‘One must forge on, which I shall do, as soon as I have a better grasp of it all.’ He looked at the tower of papers, which still stood, malignant and incomprehensible. ‘Though Papa’s cursed reports might as well be Ancient Greek for all the sense they make to me.’

Hetty looked towards the desk, too. From here, seated in one of the distressed chairs before the fire, she could just make out the familiar lines of a chart of accounts. Her fingers immediately began to itch.

‘I hope you do not mind keeping such a secret,’ Arthur went on.

‘You may trust me,’ Hetty assured him, trying not to seem too pleased by this confidence. ‘Only – you do not intend to tell Timothy or Trixie?’

Arthur shook his head. Timothy and Trixie were, to his mind, still children. ‘It is not their concern.’

‘Do you not think—’

Arthur waved this away. ‘My mind is made up on the matter.’

Hetty subsided, unconvinced. Then, after a pause, she said quietly: ‘I should be happy to – to give you whatever money you need.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘I could not use you in such a way.’

‘A loan, then?’

Arthur held up a hand to forestall her. ‘It would not be right. You have already done too much.’

Hetty bit back any further arguments she might make, perceiving the obstinacy upon his face. ‘Could I at least – perhaps I might look at the papers?’

Arthur cast her a quizzical glance. ‘It does not make for enjoyable reading. I myself can barely …’

He did not finish the sentence, hardly able to admit – even to Hetty – the extent of his deficiencies.

‘I used to do all my father’s bookkeeping,’ Hetty reminded him. ‘Your father may well have used a different system but … I might be able to help.’

Approaching the desk rather reluctantly, he lifted a single stack of papers upon the table, gripping them between his hands.

Hetty reached out to grasp them. Arthur did not let go.

‘Arthur? Am I meant to … fight you for them?’

‘Why did you ask Timothy to teach you how to flirt?’

‘I was asking Timothy about conversation!’ Hetty hurried to correct him. ‘Charm – cutting a dash – not flirting!’

As soon as the words had escaped her, she regretted them. Arthur hummed thoughtfully.

‘This is on account of the Belgian, I perceive?’

Oh Lord. This blasted Belgian again! Hetty cursed herself for ever going along with such a foolish untruth – but what was she to say to extricate herself from this tangle? She would rather die than confess the truth: premature declarations of love were not dashing; she did not need Timothy to explain that to her.