Page 31 of Henrietta

It felt like an age before they reached the Morgans and Colonel Davenport and once they did, Hetty felt herself quail a little. She did not speak for the first few minutes, listening instead to the Major tell a lively story about a recent mishap at a dinner hosted by the Lord Mayor.

‘… so then, of course, we arrive at Mansion House and are shown into the state room!’ Major Morgan paused for dramatic effect. ‘Where everyone is dressed as for Court. The Lady Mayoress was in a hoop dress.’

Trixie let out a peal of laughter. ‘What were you were wearing?’

‘I arrived in a round hat!’

‘At least it happened this week,’ Arthur consoled him. ‘With all the busyness of the coming days, some other gossip shall surely arise.’

‘Very true! Perhaps Princess Charlotte could choose this week to cry off,’ Mrs Morgan said. ‘That would provide us with serviceable cover.’

Trixie objected to this in the strongest of terms. ‘I cannot believe the rumours. There are so few adventures available to ladies like us,’ she expounded, losing no time to place herself on equal footing with the heir to the English throne, ‘if I were she I should leap at the chance to explore a foreign land – with a Prince, no less. Though,’ she added reflectively, ‘what if Prince Wilhelm has nose hair like our Prince?’

Arthur appeared much struck by this. ‘Very true – Davenport, can you confirm or deny the charge of nose hair?’

Colonel Davenport’s cousin, the Marquis de Nicolet, was known to be an intimate of the Prince of Orange, and they had been pressing him for titbits all morning.

‘I know nothing, I’m afraid,’ he said, to comical groans of disappointment from Arthur and the Major. ‘Though I do know that the royal procession has now reached Boulogne. They will sail as soon as the weather allows.’

Hetty mustered her courage. She had to try, at least – if she could not do so now, in such easy circumstances, then she might as well consign herself directly into the nunnery. Somehow, before Major Morgan opened his mouth to begin some other topic, she forced sound from her lungs and out into the air.

‘Who – who—’ For a moment, she thought she only be able to repeat this owlish refrain, but with an extreme effort, she managed to force the rest of the question past her lips. ‘Who is arriving?’

Major Morgan affected a double take. ‘Where have you been, Miss Clithero?’ he said. ‘The royal party! The Tsar, King Frederick, Prince Metternich – and Blücher, of course.’

Almost without her consent, Hetty heard herself speak again. ‘Blücher?’

‘Field-Marshal von Blücher, darling,’ Mrs Morgan explained kindly.

Trixie turned in her saddle to frown at Hetty. ‘Have you taken a tumble recently?’

It was an understandable question: throughout the spring of 1814 hardly a day had passed without some stirring news from the Continent bearing this man’s name.

‘I imagine he will have quite the reception at Dover,’ Colonel Davenport noted.

‘Dover?’ Hetty parroted again, and now Arthur turned his head to hide his smile as the Major patiently explained that this port town was, indeed, where the royal procession was expected to land.

Fortunately, before Hetty found herself asking the word ‘Land?’ they were at that moment interrupted by a barouche, holding two ladies who trilled out greetings to Mrs Morgan.

Under the cover of this distraction, Arthur drew alongside Hetty and murmured approvingly: ‘That was well done!’

‘Was it? I’m not sure I would count “Blücher?” as a proper question.’

‘There was a rising inflection!’ Arthur insisted, and Hetty felt equal parts patronised and reassured. ‘I think it a very effective trick.’

‘People are going to think me touched in the head,’ she complained, though she could not quite prevent a pleased smile from curling her lips. She might be speaking like a simpleton – but at least she was speaking.

It was on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to refute this, but he found his attention caught elsewhere. He too, was being beckoned. ‘Carry on,’ he urged Hetty. ‘You are doing famously. I shall return in a trice.’

Despite this apparent bolstering, Hetty could only watch him go with a sinking heart, all the triumph slipping away from her like water through fingers as he trotted over to the side of Mrs Ridley.

Mrs Ridley was a regular sight in Hyde Park, either astride her famous bay or driving her famous phaeton – she was an exceptional whip, because of course she was – but never had the sight of her magnificent form given Hetty less pleasure than today.

‘Who is she?’ Mrs Morgan, who had bid goodbye to her friends, had drawn alongside Hetty and had followed her gaze curiously.

‘She was Arthur’s—’ Hetty caught herself before she could finish the sentence. Young ladies of quality were not, after all, meant to know about mistresses, and while she might privately consider Mrs Ridley her (however unreciprocated) nemesis, she did not wish to tarnish her reputation in any permanent way. ‘Friend,’ she decided, after a telling pause.

Then, not wishing to watch any longer, she turned her horse. ‘We are being left behind,’ she told Mrs Morgan.