CHAPTER XII
THOUGH the future ramifications of that evening at the Argyll Rooms would eventually prove calamitous, for now Hetty could only see its advantages.
It was not the catalyst for an overnight transformation, as such things surely only existed on the stage, but it was a distinct turning point: the freedom she had found that night might not be easily replicated without a mask, but neither was the knowledge of what she was capable easily forgotten.
In the following days, as London was thrown into tumult by the arrival of the foreign royals – with hordes of persons lining the streets to catch a glimpse of the Tsar – Hetty was awash with fresh determination.
Each day, she rode in the park with the Morgans, and each day Arthur added a new person to their midst for Hetty to practise upon.
Quite soon, Hetty had half a dozen extra persons she might speak comfortably to at each event.
The Morgans of course, but also Colonel Davenport, who – once she had progressed past merely repeating the final word of each of his sentences – she had discovered had family in Vienna, and could easily be prompted to share memories of that fair city.
There was Mrs Morgan’s sister, too, and a handful of Arthur’s friends from his regiment, who could each be depended upon to run on for twenty minutes if one asked them which horse they favoured at Newmarket this week.
No one would call her a diamond, but at Lady Sefton’s ball she was conscious of never having felt more confident at an assembly, though there must have two hundred persons crammed into the ballroom, which had been decorated entirely in pink calico, hundreds of yards of material hanging from the ceiling to form the likeness of a huge tent.
‘It’s very novel,’ Lady Allerton observed, looking about herself with no evidence of pleasure.
Her ladyship had never before felt the slightest ounce of envy towards other hostesses, knowing her assemblies to be so vastly superior to them all, and yet she was conscious now of a feeling of unease.
‘I certainly do not think pink calico is the right choice. I feel as if I am trapped within a – within some kind of …’
‘Organ?’ Hetty wondered, for this had occurred to her as well.
Lady Allerton shuddered. ‘Hetty, I am not certain you ought to speak of organs.’
‘It’s the pink, I think,’ Arthur decided. ‘It’s disconcertingly flesh-like.’
‘Nor flesh!’
Arthur laughed. His spirits, that night, were just as high as Hetty’s, for it had been a most fruitful week.
The racing stables at Newmarket had already been sold, their Brighton property was on the market – Lady Allerton was an enthusiastic advocate for this scheme, feeling salt air to be very drying to the skin – the dower house had been let, and – though it had hurt him to do so – he had instructed his groom to dispose of his beloved bays, keeping only one pair of horses for his curricle.
In another Season, Arthur would have hesitated to take so many measures so quickly, fearful it would constitute a proclamation of their troubles; but in this Season he felt secure that there was so much else occupying the ton that no one would pay attention to his affairs.
Even before the arrival of the Tsar, his sister the Grandduchess had set tongues a-wagging: it having been generally supposed that a match would be planned between her and one of the Prince Regent’s ducal brothers, she had scandalised Society by displaying near-open contempt for these gentlemen.
This was, Arthur supposed, the reason so many noble European families had sent their sons to join the Peace Celebrations that year, to see if they might succeed where the English had failed.
Now, as Lady Allerton surveyed the crowds around her, she noted with mingled pleasure and dismay how many of the faces were unknown to her – pleasure, for it promised an enjoyable evening ahead, and dismay, for Lady Sefton’s triumph only upped the ante for all other hostesses.
She forced herself to banish such envious thoughts, however, declaring: ‘I think I will request an introduction from Lady Davenport for this niece and nephew of hers. Her sister married one of the Belgian nobles of Brabant, you know – thankfully the family managed to hang on to most of their land. I cannot see the Marquis, but that must be Mademoiselle Isabelle de Nicolet, over there beside her.’
She gestured across to where a ravishing young female – dressed in unrelieved white satin, veiled by a drapery of silver net – was holding court amongst an adoring crowd of gentleman.
Amongst them, Hetty noted with a little concern, were several of those persons who usually formed the centre of Trixie’s court.
She jolted back to attention to find Lady Allerton sweeping away towards Mademoiselle de Nicolet, Arthur following obediently behind, and Timothy acquiescing as though he was bestowing some great favour, muttering: ‘Mr Brummell is not led by the flock.’
Trixie, tossing her head as if to rid herself of an irksome fly, did not follow at all, for at that moment Lord Devereux stole her away for the first dance, while Hetty did her best to tuck herself in her ladyship’s wake and follow along.
Except this was no ordinary feat in such a crush of persons, and Hetty only had to allow Miss Corcott to pass by her to be separated from the Allertons.
As she hastened to catch them up, a gentlemen moving in the opposite direction had the misfortune to step upon the hem of her gown as it whisked past. Hetty, brought abruptly to a halt, would have fallen had not his hasty intervention prevented it.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I beg your pardon, I did not mean—’ Recollecting her manners, Hetty dipped into a curtsey. ‘How do you do?’
He bowed in return, and – with a faint accent that proclaimed him one of London’s European newcomers – entirely refused her apology. ‘The fault was mine, entirely.’
‘Oh, well …’
He made no move to quit her presence, but regarded her expectantly and Hetty – colour and heartrate rising – groped about for what next to say. ‘Do you – do you think so?’
The words came to her just in the nick of time. God bless Lady Allerton.
‘Oh, assuredly. I was too distracted admiring the wonderful decorations.’
‘It is such a fine – evening,’ Hetty said.
The stranger replied: ‘One cannot help but wonder how they achieved it.’
With a prickle of amusement, Hetty realised she was on the cusp of using all of Lady Allerton’s phrases in a row.
‘How marvellous!’ she exclaimed. Suddenly awash with triumph, a peal of delighted laughter escaped her mouth.
The gentleman, who had not been expecting this, started – and Hetty pressed a contrite hand to her mouth to contain herself.
‘Is there something amusing?’ He looked down upon himself. ‘Is it my coat? Have I committed some grand British faux pas?’
‘Oh no, I did not – I am not laughing at you!’
‘There can be such a thing as too many tassels, you see.’
Blushing, Hetty made her excuses, curtseyed a farewell and fled.
At least, in a crush such as this, she was unlikely to see him again, for it proved a difficult enough task to locate the Allertons.
Arthur, finally, she spotted leading this Mademoiselle de Nicolet character on to the dance floor – his excuses about his wounded leg could not be sustained now he had been glimpsed upon horseback quite so frequently – and nearby, Trixie was also dancing.
Hetty was scanning the crowds for Lady Allerton or Timothy when she spotted Mr Hargan, who had finally plucked up the courage to approach her.
This feat had not seemed so very impressive until he was sufficiently near to Miss Clithero to notice just how very fine she was looking that evening.
Had Hetty known this was the reason Mr Hargan drew to a complete halt a full ten steps away from her, she would certainly have been flattered – and relieved to know, indeed, that someone had noticed this first outing of a diaphanous gown of green sarsnet.
She did not know, however, and instead only regarded him – standing at a distance which might have been purposely calculated to convey the greatest possible awkwardness – with some dismay.
Feeling she had not the social grace to rescue them from this blunder, she wavered uncertainly – until she caught sight of Sir Marcus Kirkham, oiling his way across the floor towards her, a certain expectancy in his eyes that told her he intended to ask her to dance.
Ordinarily, Hetty would have resigned herself to the fate. It was, however, the new waltz they were preparing for, and the thought of having Sir Marcus’s arms all about her was abruptly too abhorrent to withstand.
‘Mr Hargan?’ Mr Hargan, in the midst of admiring the chandelier above, was rather startled by Hetty’s peremptory summons.
‘Y-yes?’ he said, fighting the urge to retreat as she hastened towards him. ‘Oh, Miss, Miss—’
Incomprehensibly, he found he could not remember her name.
‘Clithero,’ Hetty prompted as his face turned puce with mortification. ‘Shall we take a turn of the room?’
Mr Hargan agreed with some relief, and if he was disconcerted by the speed of the march Miss Clithero initiated, he made no comment on it.
Hetty, stealing a glance over her shoulder, only slowed when she had lost sight of Sir Marcus.
She breathed a sigh of relief, and then cast Mr Hargan a winning smile which almost had him colliding with a waiter.
‘Careful!’ she advised, holding back laughter.
It struck her that she did not really know much about Mr Hargan, though he had been courting her – if one could call it that – for several months now and, before that, had been a consistent enough friend to Timothy that he had been a familiar fixture at their parties and events.
‘Why do you put yourself through it all?’’ she asked. Mr Hargan turned to regard her with more surprise than comprehension, and she clarified: ‘Is it your mother who makes you dance attendance upon me?’