Page 33 of Henrietta

IT was a rare evening where no engagements were to be found in the diary, and they were all arranged in the drawing room. Lady Allerton was busy sorting through a pile of invitations, casting aside with some relish those she found undeserving; Trixie was engaged in building card-houses; Timothy was adjusting the folds of his cravat in the looking glass; while Arthur and Hetty were cosied in armchairs before the fire. It was a spot, Arthur decided as he closed his eyes and sank back into the chair, in which he intended spend eternity.

Hetty, when he voiced this, cast him a sidelong glance. ‘I should have thought you would make use of the free evening to visit Mrs Ridley.’

Arthur opened one eye to look towards his mother and sister. ‘Hushed tones, please, Hetty.’

Hetty begged his pardon, promising herself she would let the subject rest. Then, after a moment: ‘I just – I – assumed you would wish to recommence your acquaintance.’

‘Had circumstances been different I might indeed have dashed back to her waiting …’

‘Bosom?’ Hetty suggested, for this was an area in which Mrs Ridley was most blessed.

‘That is not what I was going to say! It is certainly not what you ought to say.’

He reached out to give her a playful cuff round the ear – as he would have done in their youth – before abruptly recollecting this was no longer appropriate.

‘I am not going to dash straight back to her waiting arms,’ he clarified. ‘Arms.’

Hetty tried not to look too pleased. Arthur closed his eyes again. There was a pleasant fatigue in his bones. He had spent a productive two hours with Thimbleby that afternoon, deciding which assets he might most swiftly dispose of. The land of Belcourt was, in the main part, entailed; the only parcel of land available to be sold was the deer park – untenable, of course – but that was thankfully not the only option available to him.

‘Did you consider selling the racing stables?’ Hetty asked.

Arthur nodded. ‘I did. We shall do so immediately.’

‘And perhaps … perhaps’, Hetty continued tentatively, ‘you also considered letting out the Brighton house, if you have no plans to remove there …?’

Arthur’s eyes remained closed, but the corners of his mouth upturned. ‘Do “I” have any other ideas?’

Hetty flushed, torn between pleasure and embarrassment to have been so transparent. ‘I do not mean to overstep.’

Arthur waved away her apology. ‘I am used now to knowing you might play my role in Society just as well as I.’

‘For that matter, you might play mine far better,’ she countered.

‘I had not considered setting my cap at a European noble,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘An interesting idea, certainly, though I fear the modiste would have to do a great deal of heavy lifting.’ He added, more seriously: ‘You did well today.’

‘It was an improvement,’ Hetty conceded. ‘Though I cannot conduct all of my conversations on horseback.’

‘Saddle sores,’ Arthur agreed. ‘I understand, though there are other ways to achieve the same ease one has when the mind is distracted on some other task. Dancing, for instance.’

Hetty wrinkled her nose. ‘Not all dances allow for conversation, with all the hopping about one has to do.’

‘There is the waltz – and especially the new German waltz. There is no hopping about in that.’

‘Oh, we do not dance the new waltz, Arthur!’ Hetty said, in a faux-scandalised tone. ‘Really!’

His brows flew up. ‘You do not? It is all the rage in Europe.’

Hetty shook her head. ‘Not yet in London. I know some hostesses permit it but your mother is not convinced.’

Lady Allerton was in general a very indulgent chaperone, but she had an occasional streak of stuffiness that was difficult to predict.

‘But that’s ridiculous! Mama!’

Lady Allerton raised her head from her invitation cards, a questioning look upon her face.

‘What is this I hear about you not permitting Hetty to learn the new waltz?’

Lady Allerton fluttered her hand of cards like a fan. ‘Oh Arthur, it seems positively indecent, you know.’