CHAPTER VIII
THE ensuing battle between Arthur and Trixie was no less fierce for it being entirely one-sided.
For, no sooner had Arthur understood that the entire balloon outing had been made under false pretences, in pursuit of a man he considered a deplorable rogue, than he had forbidden Trixie from seeking out the fellow’s company ever again.
Such high-handed treatment was greeted with outrage from Trixie, whose arguments lasted all the way home and fell – to her indignation – on entirely deaf ears.
‘I do not consent to your forbidding!’ she declared as they entered Berkeley Square.
‘That is not how being forbidden works, Trix,’ Arthur explained. ‘In this instance, I’m afraid I don’t give a fig for your opinion.’
With an almighty toss of her hair, Trixie left for her bedroom, where she was to stay for the remainder of the morning, declining Lady Allerton’s invitation to join her – now the rain had ceased – on some errands, and entirely ignoring Hetty’s enquiry as to whether there was anything she desired from Hatchard’s bookshop, an establishment which enjoyed Hetty’s custom on a near twice-weekly basis.
Observing this latter incivility with a frown, Arthur apologised to Hetty, observing in a low voice: ‘I fear she has been a great deal too indulged.’
Hetty, removing her bonnet, did not answer. She quite concurred that Trixie’s acquaintance with the Captain ought not to be promoted, but privately she felt that Arthur’s prohibition would likely serve only to increase Trixie’s intrigue in the fellow.
By the time the hour for morning visits had come around, however, Trixie had reappeared with her good mood quite restored, and was quite happy to be distracted by the long line of admirers calling upon the house in hope of seeing her.
Trixie had not, indeed, been wrong to describe herself as ‘all the rage’: her vivacity would have always seen to that had her face not.
Arthur, feeling it would be wise to verify that there were no other unsuitable persons amongst the sundry gentleman dancing attendance upon his sister, seated himself in the drawing room, while Hetty made her excuses to Lady Allerton – confessing to feeling indisposed – and took the opportunity to slip away upstairs.
It was there, in the study, that Arthur found her hours later. It being Wednesday, their attendance that evening was expected – as it was every week during the Season – at Almack’s, but while Trixie had long ago gone upstairs to prepare, Hetty was still wearing her simple cambric morning gown.
‘Unless the lady patronesses have drastically altered their standards, I should think you may need to change your dress,’ he observed.
Hetty raised her head for the first time in several hours. ‘I have not yet decided if I will join you tonight,’ she admitted. ‘I might be ill.’
‘Oh yes? Not infectious, I hope.’
‘Nothing so unladylike,’ she assured him. ‘Perhaps a migraine?’
‘A famous notion,’ he agreed. ‘Even better if you can pronounce it the French way, for further elegance.’
She promised to take the suggestion under consideration. Then, sighing: ‘I will come, of course. I know you wish to continue our exercise.’
‘I do not wish to make you miserable, Hetty. We need not persist if—’
‘I must persist,’ Hetty said obstinately.
‘All this for one gentleman,’ he noted.
‘It is not just for him,’ she said. ‘It is for me, too. I have spent so long as a wallflower. I do not wish to be one any more.’ She let out a gust of breath. ‘Though when I think of Almack’s, I feel far less certain. It requires a great deal of chatter.’
Arthur tapped the table with his knuckle thoughtfully. ‘What if – if I could promise not to leave your side for a moment, would you feel easier then?’
‘You cannot possibly fulfil such a claim.’
‘Would you?’ Arthur pressed.
A refusal was on the tip of Hetty’s tongue, but she was forestalled by a resounding crash from floors below.
‘What on earth …?’ Arthur said with a start.
They hurried down to the ground floor together. There, in the entrance hall, they found a great deal of commotion, as several footmen and two delivery boys were in the midst of heaving a very large mahogany desk in through the doors – overseen by a frowning Dawson and a beaming Lady Allerton.
‘I hope I did not disturb you, darlings,’ trilled her ladyship. ‘I am sorry. Dawson did try to have them bring it in through the back, but the door wasn’t large enough.’
‘What is going on, Mama?’ Arthur said. ‘Where has this … desk come from?’
‘Well, my dear.’ Lady Allerton lowered her voice and leant in confidentially. ‘After our conversation this morning, I felt I must do something to help. I went shopping immediately.’
Surely she was jesting. ‘This is a new desk?’
‘It is all in the effort to become better organised,’ Lady Allerton explained. ‘This desk is far larger than my current bureau, and between the two of them, I shall be able to spread all the bills spread out.’
Arthur stared at the enormous, gleaming, undeniably expensive piece of furniture making its slow progress across the entrance hall. ‘It looks like mahogany.’ He looked up at his mama pleadingly. ‘Please tell me it is not mahogany.’
‘I couldn’t have anything in light wood for the parlour, Arthur!’ Lady Allerton said indignantly. ‘It would look all wrong. Do be reasonable. ‘
‘Be reasonable,’ Arthur echoed. He wondered if this was how a nervous breakdown felt, as he pressed a shaking hand to his forehead.
‘Be reasonable. Of course – well, of course you should have bought a new desk. It makes sense to me now I am being reasonable. In fact—’ A bubble of hysterical laughter made its way up his throat.
‘Why stop there?’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Why only two desks – why not more? You could have a desk for each room of the house, Mama! One desk for clothes and horses, one for household bills and expenses – perhaps even one to account for all the desks you keep buying!’
Lady Allerton let out a peal of laughter. ‘Oh, Arthur, you are terrible. Dawson, perhaps we ought to try it by the window first?’
Dawson waved a beckoning hand to the delivery boys, who braced themselves and heaved it back into the air.
Arthur had visions of himself lying prostrate before the desk upon the floor, blocking its progress with his own body – and even took one step forward, before Hetty’s hand upon his arm prevented him.
‘Not now,’ she advised. ‘We ought to change for Almack’s.’
If one had not before heard of Almack’s, one would scarcely divine its significance from appearance alone.
Constructed in the Palladian style, its exterior was elegant rather than ostentatious, and while the suite of rooms within were well proportioned, well lit and well decorated, they were also less spacious in size and more modest in furnishing than many of the ballrooms upon Grosvenor Square.
The refreshments on offer – tea, lemonade, cakes without icing and thinly buttered bread – would certainly have been thought meagre at another event.
Yet despite these unassuming features, Almack’s was universally considered the zenith of the fashionable world.
Rank alone was no guarantee of entry; acceptance within these hallowed walls was to elevate oneself to the pinnacle of Society, while a single misstep in conduct could see one cast downwards for a whole Season.
Naturally, therefore, to one such as Hetty, Almack’s had long ago assumed the proportions of a nightmare and she would always begin to feel queasy just as soon as the carriage drew up on King Street.
This night was no exception, and as they climbed the stone stairs up to the ballroom, and saw the milling crowd gathered below, Hetty’s hands became a little clammy in her gloves.
Beside Hetty, Timothy had let out a quiet gasp.
‘Mr Brummell!’ He put a half-trembling hand up to his neckcloth.
The unrivalled arbiter of taste, Mr Brummell was both angel and tormentor for all aspirants to fashion, his smiles or frowns consigning men and women alike to either happiness or despair.
Trixie gave Timothy a teasing nudge in the ribs. ‘Shall we go and speak with him?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Timothy hissed.
‘Your friends are not so shy,’ Arthur noted, nodding to where Corky was hovering at the edges of Mr Brummell’s tête-à-tête with Lord Alvanley.
Timothy gave a scathing sniff. ‘I would not lower myself.’
He affected an aloof aspect which involved throwing his nose into the air as if trying to avoid some rancid scent, causing Trixie to giggle so badly that Lady Allerton, usually the most indulgent of parents, threw a repressing glare at her as she swept them forward to greet the lady patronesses.
All were in attendance that evening, save for the Countess Lieven, who – as wife to the Russian ambassador – was busy with preparations for the royal visitors.
‘I shall be directly by your side,’ Arthur assured Hetty. ‘As I promised.’
She cast him a cynical look. ‘The lady patronesses will have you dancing all evening.’
‘Not if – as I have already warned Mama – my wounded leg is giving me some difficulty.’
He affected a pained expression and explained, when it was his turn to greet Lady Sefton, that she would have to forgive his absence from the dance floor that evening, for he still felt his wound a little, but that she was not to worry over his entertainment, for Miss Clithero was going to see him safely about the room.
‘A better nursemaid you could not ask for, I am sure,’ Lady Sefton said warmly – secretly relieved that this removed from her from the task of sourcing a partner for Miss Clithero, whose shyness rendered this a little difficult.
‘See – the work of a trice,’ he murmured, as they made their way into the room.
Hetty was impressed despite herself at this neat solution, though, watching his progress, advised: ‘You are limping with the wrong leg.’
‘So I am!’