Page 56 of Henrietta

Mr Sherwood had, over the years, become used to dealing with Miss Clithero, first by letter and more latterly in person. While he did not have favourites when it came to his clients – and the size of Miss Clithero’s portfolio would, in any case, have guaranteed her excellent service – he was honest enough to admit to a soft spot for Miss Clithero, who always listened so seriously, and attended so diligently to him. Once Professor Clithero had ascertained that his daughter had a good head for numbers and business, he had summarily passed over as many duties to Hetty as possible, so that he might more easily devote himself to his research. This arrangement was certainly unusual, but Mr Sherwood’s experience with Miss Clithero had thus far given him no cause for concern. Then, of course, when she had come of age last year, the control of her mother’s fortune had fallen directly into Miss Clithero’s hands, and she and Mr Sherwood had dealt extremely well together.

In all his years of knowing her, however, Miss Clithero had never travelled herself into the City to visit him, and for a moment he was certain his secretary must be mistaken. Assured that no error had been made, he hastened to greet Miss Clithero, begging her and her maid to come into his private office – gulping only a little when the lady asked her maid to wait for her in the outer office.

‘You see, I have something of a private nature to discuss,’ Miss Clithero explained as he ushered her towards a chair, waiting for her to seat herself before he followed suit. ‘If now is a convenient moment?’

Mr Sherwood assured her that any moment was convenient and indeed, that he always stood ready to wait upon her at Berkeley Square had he but known that his services were required.

‘How could you have done, when I did not know myself?’ Hetty said, smiling – the nerves of others, as they always did, making her feel more confident rather than less. ‘The thing is, I have rather an unusual task: I should like to buy some land.’

Mr Sherwood did not think it so unusual a desire. ‘A good notion, and a fair time for such an investment. Shall I compile a list of suitable plots at present available?’

‘I have a specific plot in mind,’ she interrupted, rather apologetically. ‘In Kent.’

‘Well, that certainly makes my task easier,’ Mr Sherwood said. ‘You might inform me of the direction of this land, I shall make contact with the proprietor immediately.’

Hetty traced a gloved finger along the grain of her wooden chair, wondering anew if this scheme could be considered the first sign of nascent insanity, and then braced herself to meet Mr Sherwood’s eyes. The outcome justifies the deeds, she reminded herself.

‘Mr Sherwood, have you any great objection to secrecy?’

In quite another part of London, meanwhile, Arthur was standing in a well-proportioned drawing room, making small talk with Miss Drundell, a lady who could not hide – and indeed, did not attempt to hide – the fact that she found his presence rather objectionable. Her attempts at small-talk were lacklustre at best, and she did not seem to be attending to any of his answers, her eyes perpetually straying back to the volume whose reading Arthur had interrupted.

Miss Drundell, a second cousin to Mrs Ridley, was a confirmed recluse, but had agreed to act as her younger relative’s companion in exchange for unfettered access to London’s cultural offerings. It was a system that suited them both very well, though did not often result in a huge amount of chaperoning – for no sooner had Mrs Ridley arrived into the room than she had dismissed her.

‘Was she very rude to you?’ Mrs Ridley enquired. ‘Once she reaches the end of her novel, she will be a great deal more cheerful – one never can speak to her in the final third.’

‘Had I only known, I would of course have delayed my visit.’

They exchanged pleasantries as a maid brought in a tray of refreshments, but as the door closed, Mrs Ridley fell silent and regarded Arthur expectantly. ‘Well? I cannot think you called to ask after my family?’

With some relief, Arthur cut to the chase. ‘I came to deliver two apologies.’

Mrs Ridley raised her brows. ‘Oh yes?’

‘First for my impertinence that morning in Hyde Park. My defence is that I wished only to protect you from hurt and—’

Mrs Ridley’s hand forestalled him. ‘Having long forgotten the incident, I have no need of your apology.’ She smiled, adding: ‘I do appreciate it, however.’

The distinction between the two – needing and appreciating – struck him as rather characteristic of her. In their earlier acquaintance, she had appreciated a great deal from him – attention, compliments, diversions – but she had never needed him, as so many other persons in his life did. It was one of the reasons he had found her so attractive.

‘For what reason do you offer a second apology?’ Mrs Ridley prompted.

‘My impertinence this morning,’ Arthur confessed. ‘I wish to ask you a question.’

‘Oh?’ She was intrigued. ‘Go on.’

‘The Marquis de Nicolet …’ he began. ‘How well do you know the fellow?’

Mrs Ridley blinked. ‘That was impertinent.’

‘He is dangling after a young lady of my acquaintance.’

‘Miss Clithero? Yes, I saw them dance together last night.’ She regarded him consideringly for a while, deciding whether to answer. Then said, rather obliquely: ‘He is a new friend.’

Arthur considered his hands for a moment. ‘As you and I were once friends?’

Mrs Ridley took a sip of tea before answering. She had to dance a careful dance in Society – her status as a wealthy, well-connected widow gave her a great deal of licence, but, still, a lady’s reputation was a delicate thing. She was mindful of her wording, therefore, as she asked: ‘Does his being friends with me – in any capacity – preclude his being a good match for Miss Clithero?’

Her tone warned him to tread carefully. ‘I worry only as to his constancy. I cannot ascertain if his purported interest in her is of an enduring sort, or not.’