CHAPTER VIII #2
Resolving this smoothly, they progressed through the suite of rooms where Arthur abruptly developed a fascination with the new piece of art hanging upon the wall.
There, while pretending to admire the brushwork, or the colours, or whatever one admired about oil paintings, he conveyed to Hetty his vision for the evening.
His experience that morning had not discouraged him from repeating the exercise – only this time with a crucial difference.
‘Before you speak, you must take a breath – as so.’
He gave a great slow inhale to illustrate his point.
‘I should look rather odd, don’t you think?’ Hetty worried.
‘Breathing cannot be thought odd. Try it: though it may seem foolish, I assure you nothing is as effective for calming the mind.’
‘You speak as one who knows,’ Hetty noted.
Arthur shrugged. ‘I am not a stranger to such agitations myself. It behoves one, in – ah – tense situations, to know how to find calm.’
Hetty’s eyes traced his face, trying to see through the studied lightness which shielded his expression. ‘Is this what you did?’
He nodded his assent. ‘Whilst imagining myself on the top of Belcourt’s highest hill – you know the one, in the deer park – looking down at the expanse around me. One cannot feel trapped in such a scene, you see.’
Hetty found it rather humbling that he should have learnt such tricks in warfare, and that she should need them in the ballroom, but when she voiced this to Arthur, he only smiled. ‘A battleground of a different sort, perhaps. Shall we begin?’
Hetty assented reluctantly. Despite his assurances, she felt Arthur’s promises to be too ludicrous to uphold, and yet for once she need not have worried.
Certainly, once they turned to penetrate the room properly, they were so accosted by persons that Hetty felt a little dizzied by it: Arthur having just come from the Peninsula made him first in consequence; ladies and gentlemen alike were all atwitter to hear of his experiences in the war.
Arthur was more than happy to oblige, except – Hetty noted – those expressing curiosity about his injury, or the battle that caused it, who invariably found themselves redirected by an amusing description of the worst camp-fare he had eaten whilst away.
It was as splendid a display of gymnastics as one might pay five shillings for at Astley’s Amphitheatre.
By comparison, Hetty’s conversational achievements were not nearly as impressive, though she felt there was an improvement.
The intake of breath was, at the beginning, more hindrance than help: worrying that this additional step was very obvious, she would find her face becoming flame-red at the most commonplace of comments being directed at her, and more than one person inwardly thought that poor Miss Clithero was shyer than ever.
As promised, however, Arthur was always there, ever-ready to assist, intervening with some conversational sleight of hand to smooth the moment over, or divert the conversation down another path.
‘You cannot do this all evening,’ Hetty told him after they had bid Lady Staveley farewell. ‘Your mama must be wishing to play matchmaker for you.’ She tried to make her voice casual, casting him a sidelong glance under her eyelashes.
Arthur waved this concern away. ‘Until my affairs are in order, I’m in no position to court anyone. Come, there are the Morgans – the Major and I fought together in Spain and I have not yet met his wife.’
Over the following hours, Hetty found herself settling into a rhythm of sorts.
For now she was more used to it, taking a breath before speaking did seem to offer a moment’s reprieve, a pause that could arrest her usual upswing of nerves.
Moreover, there was some relief to be found in having the expectation of wit and charm removed entirely from her: now that she was habituated to using Lady Allerton’s phrases properly, she could see that her ladyship had not recommended them idly.
None of the persons she spoke to that evening were likely to think her even mildly interesting, but still, there were few moments that evening where a well-placed ‘Is that so?’ did not suit: whether listening to Mrs Morgan’s amusing account of a recent, disastrous dinner party she had hosted; nodding along to Lady Cavendish’s murmured assertion that the engagement of Princess Charlotte of Wales to the Prince of Orange was not said to be prospering; or attending to Lord Fenton’s overly long description of his recent visit to Hampton Court.
‘It might have been quicker to have made the trip ourselves,’ Hetty murmured when finally they escaped from his grasp. ‘Or at least less fatiguing.’
There was something about the soporific drone of the fellow which made one’s eyelids exceptionally heavy. Arthur cast her an assessing sort of glance.
‘I am spent,’ he admitted – though there was curiously not the smallest trace of fatigue upon his face. ‘I think I shall conclude the evening here. Do you remain, or do you wish to join me?’
Hetty visibly brightened. ‘I shall join you!’
Asking a nearby Timothy to let Lady Allerton know of their departure, Arthur led Hetty towards the atrium.
Hetty was just feeling a rush of elation to have the night’s perils behind her when the crowd parted a little, and Arthur found himself beckoned by Lady Allerton.
Beside her was standing Lady Potherby and her illustrious daughter: widely thought of as a diamond of the first water, Miss Potherby was just the sort of lady who would, Hetty thought, make a fine viscountess.
One would not need to teach her anything; she probably erupted from the womb issuing witticisms and drawing up table plans.
‘We are summoned,’ Arthur noted.
‘You are summoned,’ Hetty corrected. ‘I shall go and fetch my cloak.’
She had no desire to witness such an introduction, and so she made for the cloakroom alone.
But in the ante-chamber, with other ladies fussing around their toilette, she still felt itchy and jittery – and remaining there, too, was impossible.
She would go and wait in the carriage – it would take several minutes for Arthur to make the rest of his farewells, and however ill-advised it was, some cool air would surely make her feel better.
Throwing her cloak around her, Hetty went out on to the street alone.
There was a light drizzle in the air, and the footmen guarding the entrance were busied in ushering ladies and gentlemen to their carriages under umbrellas.
Hetty sent one of them to find the Allerton carriage, and drew in a blessed gasp of clean, cold air. Finally, she was alone.
‘Miss Clithero?’
She turned to see Major and Mrs Morgan, poised in the act of climbing into their hackney cab. ‘Do you need assistance?’ Major Morgan asked, perceiving Hetty’s lack of chaperonage.
‘They are just bringing the carriage round,’ Hetty explained. ‘Do not worry!’
‘We’ll wait with you,’ Mrs Morgan offered.
‘No, no, it’s all right,’ she hurried. ‘I wouldn’t wish you to keep your cab standing.’
The pair were not to be overborne, however.
They joined her on the pavement, cheerfully waving away all of Hetty’s protestations.
It was a piece of practical kindness that Hetty, even in her brief acquaintance of the couple, could already recognise as entirely characteristic – but one she, in that moment, could have done without.
‘Have you passed a pleasant evening?’
‘I – er – yes.’
Mrs Morgan was amused. ‘You do not sound sure.’
She was about to press Hetty on the issue, when a curricle came barrelling around the corner, turning so sharply through the puddles upon the floor that it almost doused them with water.
‘I say – careful!’ the Major cried indignantly.
The gentleman tossed them an apology over his shoulder but otherwise did not pause.
‘Very unbecoming conduct,’ Mrs Morgan disapproved. ‘Who is that fellow? Not a gentleman, certainly.’
‘It was Mr Crompton,’ Hetty said. ‘I did not see his face, but the terrible form is unmistakeable.’ They laughed. Hetty started. ‘I am sorry, that was rude,’ she added contritely.
‘It was entirely accurate – I’ve never seen such bad hands,’ Mrs Morgan said mischievously.
‘And on such a fine pair, too!’
‘I think she’s one of Petersham’s old bays, you know,’ Hetty divulged. ‘A better matched set you never did see.’
‘We tried to buy them!’ the Major told her eagerly.
Mrs Morgan leant toward Hetty confidingly: ‘He was mad as hellfire when Crompton beat him to the punch.’
It was as Major Morgan made a laughing rejoinder that the Allerton carriage at last drew up, and Arthur appeared on the street beside them, throwing his cloak over his shoulders.
‘I did not know Miss Clithero was such an admirable judge of horseflesh!’ the Major said, turning to him. ‘I shall have to bend her ear about Georgie’s new mare.’
They bid farewell, and Arthur climbed into the carriage rather thoughtfully.
‘Horses!’ he said, as one who has made a discovery. ‘Why did I not think of it before?’