Page 3 of Henrietta

THE years since Arthur’s departure had not been easy: not for the country, nor for the Allertons. Yet by the last days of May in 1814 – two years later – the skies were clear and bright, there was a spirit of victory in the air and, best of all, Arthur was returning safely to England. It was a prospect that had Hetty smiling just to think of it, as she wound her mount through Hyde Park that morning, weaving through meandering pathways which had which had surely never before been so thronged with persons.

It had been so all month. In the wake of the Allied victory at Toulouse, the whole city had been set ablaze with activity, and the Season reinvigorated by a spirit of near unprecedented vivacity. Each morning, the post would bring with it a pile of fresh invitations to the Allerton breakfast table, so great in number that Lady Allerton could often be heard lamenting – though not with any noticeable displeasure – that she did not know how they were going to manage them all. There were balls, soirées, concert-parties, race-parties, routs, picnics and other al fresco occasions, each boasting more delicacies and delights than the last, as high society hostesses vied with one another for attendees.

It made for a demanding schedule that stood in stark contrast to the year prior: after the death of Lord Allerton, the Allertons and Hetty had observed a year of strict mourning in which their most public excursions were to the Summer Exhibition. The prospect of the crammed social calendar that lay ahead made Hetty feel tired when she even considered it. In contrast, Miss Trixie Allerton – riding alongside her – did not seem even the slightest fatigued, if one judged by the spirited squabble she was currently enjoying with Mr Timothy Allerton as they turned their mounts in the direction of home.

‘Dash it, Trixie, shouldn’t think any man will marry you if you carry on with such incivility!’ Timothy burst out as they turned on to Berkeley Square.

‘I am only being helpful!’ Trixie’s eyes sparkled at having finally induced her brother to lose his temper. ‘I assumed you would wish to know that your valet had made you resemble a poodle!’

With eighteen years to her age, five feet to her height and boundless liveliness to her character, Trixie was thought by the censorious to have been born for the express purpose of driving her family to madness.

Rendered briefly speechless by this comment, Timothy turned his coiffed head towards Hetty for support. Alas, Hetty was a beat too slow to hide the amusement in her expression.

Timothy’s mouth fell open. ‘You cannot agree with her!’

‘No, no,’ Hetty assured him, arranging her face into something more neutral. ‘How can it be, when Mr Brummell chooses just such a style for himself?’

‘Exactly so!’

‘Flummery!’ Trixie accused her roundly.

‘It is, perhaps …’ Hetty continued with care, ‘a touch more … sheepish than your usual mode. But only a touch!’

With a great deal of dignity, Timothy swung himself off his horse and passed the reins to his waiting groom, face like a thundercloud. Yet despite his expression, and the overwrought arrangement of his chestnut curls, Timothy was still beautiful to behold. From the brim of his beaver hat down to the soles of his dazzling Hessians, there was not a thread out of place upon his person.

‘My hair’, he said, with the air of one pushed to the very edge of his patience, ‘is dressed à la Brutus. Very few gentlemen have the patience to attempt it.’

Trixie sniffed. ‘Recollect what Papa used to say: any gentleman who spends above a moment dressing his hair is a confirmed jackanape.’

‘Dash it, Papa had barely a dozen hairs upon his head!’ Timothy said indignantly. ‘There was nothing to dress!’

Trixie let out a peal of laughter. The merriment was infectious, drawing a reluctant grin on to Timothy’s face, too, though Hetty busied herself with the task of dismounting rather than join in. However long she had now been part of the household, she was all too aware that there were some privileges one could only attain by blood, and jesting at the expense of the late Lord Allerton was one of them.

His lordship’s passing the previous year had been a shocking blow, one made particularly grievous by Arthur’s continued absence. Hetty had wondered whether his sudden succession to the viscountcy might bring him home early, but no. By the time the news eventually reached Arthur, he had accepted a position of one of General Graham’s junior aides-de-camp and, since the conflict in Spain had reached new heights of ferocity, and he could not – he wrote – abandon the war at such a juncture, news that the Allertons had taken with characteristic, if white-knuckled, cheer.

‘Of course he should remain,’ Lady Allerton had declared gaily. ‘It would shockingly dull for him here, with us all in black and utterly house-bound– he’s far better off at the front!’

Not until Arthur was wounded at Vitoria had the family’s determined optimism flickered. It took a week for a billet from Arthur’s commanding officer to reach London – reassuring them the wound was not as serious as they had feared – and in those dark days Hetty could barely remember a single word being spoken. But Arthur had healed and with Napoleon now defeated, he was at last set to return home in a sennight.

Hetty had been hardly able to think of anything else for weeks. The exchange of letters – on her side, weekly; on his, whenever his duties permitted it – were a very poor replacement for actually speaking with him, for hearing his voice, for trusting he was safe and well because she could see it with her own eyes …

For the hundredth time, as they climbed the stone steps of the Allertons’ London residence upon Berkeley Square, Hetty tried to banish the thoughts, for they would only serve to disorder her mind for the rest of the day – and there was much else for her to consider. Lady Allerton had decided to host a ball at the end of June, one grander and more glittering than any she had hosted before, and Hetty meanwhile was plotting the means by which she might dissuade her ladyship from the flights of fancy that would burden the occasion with excessive expense. The Allerton estate was plentiful, but Hetty had reason to believe Lady Allerton’s current rate of expenditure – increasing in perfect correlation to the intensity of the fighting upon the Continent – might be outstripping even their ample means.

‘There is an egregious lack of options for gentlemen when it comes to hair,’ Timothy was musing. ‘Someone really ought to do something about it – I could of course give the Windswept another attempt, but that is how Corky wears it, and I would rather scalp myself than copy him.’

Mr Corcott – or ‘Corky’ to the esteemed alumni of Balliol College – was Timothy’s closest friend and greatest rival.

‘Was the “Windswept” the one that made you resemble a—’

‘Were you not going to ask Timothy his opinion of your dress for Almack’s this week?’ Hetty interrupted, feeling that whatever Trixie was going compare Timothy to – be it animal, vegetable or mineral – was not likely to be flattering.

‘Oh yes!’ Despite her teasing, Trixie in fact placed a high value on Timothy’s sartorial opinion. ‘Timothy, I depend on your support against Mama – she would have me wear white satin, but do you not think I shall be appallingly dull?’

‘Only thing you can wear,’ Timothy said reasonably as they swept through the front doors and on to the marble floor of the entrance hall. ‘At least white suits you – unlike Hetty.’

‘Unkind,’ Hetty murmured.

Timothy cast Hetty a severe look. ‘You could try something else, you know. It would be quite acceptable – you are so much older now.’