CHAPTER XVII #2
It was the first time Hetty had ever – to her recollection – given Arthur a set-down, but as she turned her shoulder upon him, she decided that there could be no doubt that he had deserved it.
She passed, on her way back to Lady Allerton’s side, Timothy, who had managed – with the assistance of Mr Hargan and another friend, Mr Whitfield – to muscle to the front of the crowd of supplicants surrounding Mademoiselle de Nicolet, by brandishing a glass of lemonade at just the moment she had declared herself thirsty.
Having prepared a suave opening line, Timothy found himself instantly distracted, for Mademoiselle de Nicolet had complimented his hair before he had even drawn her attention to it.
‘Much obliged to you,’ he said, putting a hand bashfully up to the Allerton Flop. ‘It’s a new design, you know.’
Mademoiselle de Nicolet replied, ‘Indeed, I must say I think the Corcott Fall will become all the rage.’
Timothy’s chest could not have deflated more quickly if someone had sat upon him.
‘The – Corcott – Fall …’ he repeated as if each word weighed a stone.
Mr Hargan, hovering at Timothy’s elbow, wished it would not be thought ungentlemanly to step upon a lady’s toe.
‘Is that not what it is being called?’ Mademoiselle de Nicolet continued airily. ‘After our friend, Mr Corcott?
She nodded across the room, where Corky was standing, resplendent with locks arranged exactly in the manner of Timothy’s own. Timothy’s expression darkened and he muttered, more to himself than to them: ‘Thievery.’
‘Dash it, wouldn’t say that, Allerton,’ Mr Hargan began – but Timothy had already left their presence.
Mademoiselle de Nicolet looked up at Mr Hargan quizzically. ‘Have I said the wrong thing?’
‘Oh well …’ Mr Hargan began. ‘I do not – that is, difficult to say …’
‘As I observe.’ Mademoiselle de Nicolet watched him flounder with some amusement. ‘Mr Allerton has taken away the lemonades. When I was feeling so parched, too!’
Perceiving his excuse to leave, Mr Hargan began a disjointed offer to fetch her a lemonade, but Mr Whitfield was too quick.
Mr Hargan watched him leave so enviously that Mademoiselle de Nicolet said, rather acerbically: ‘Mr Hargan, this is the third time you have tried your best to flee my presence. May I ask what has given you such a revulsion of me?’
‘Oh, I am not – I could not—’
‘I saw you hide in the shrubbery when you saw me at Hampton Court this morning. What else would you call it?’
‘I – well – I was stooping to admire the hornbeam hedges!’
Mademoiselle de Nicolet raised her brows. ‘For five whole minutes? I myself admire a hornbeam hedge as much as the next person, but still, that seems excessive.’
Mr Hargan spluttered, then, with great difficulty, managed to say: ‘I did not wish to burden you with having to converse with me.’
‘How absurd!’ Mademoiselle de Nicolet let out a trill of laughter.
Mr Hargan rather thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard and was just mustering up the courage to enquire after her impressions of the gardens, when Mademoiselle de Nicolet had to excuse herself, being summoned by Lady Davenport, who was standing beside His Grace the Duke of Sussex.
Hargan watched her go, rather crestfallen.
Timothy’s pursuit of Corky had not, meanwhile, been very successful.
Catching sight of the stormy expression upon his friend’s face, Corky had deemed it sensible to keep on the move.
Bidding farewell to Miss Potherby, with whom he had been conversing, he had begun making a circuit of the room at the precise speed necessary to keep ahead of Timothy all the while.
Timothy, noting these deplorable tactics, quickened his footsteps (wishing that he had thought to put down Mademoiselle de Nicolet’s glass of lemonade), causing Corky to quicken his own, until they had begun a strange sort of walking chase around the dance floor, weaving in and out of the various persons positioned in their way.
Neither one of them was so uncouth as to descend into outright haste, but still, their behaviour could not help but attract some notice.
Even as the Tsar took to the floor with the German waltz – the first time this new iteration had been danced within these four walls – a few heads were turning away from this spectacle to observe the strange progress of the young Messrs Allerton and Corcott.
Lady Allerton, across the room, was too far away to catch her young son, so instead cast a glance over several heads to Hetty, who moved at once to intercept.
‘That is certainly very bad,’ Hetty agreed when Timothy had explained the situation to her. ‘But I wonder if tonight it might be better to seek the high ground and—’
‘I am tired of the high ground, Hetty!’ Timothy burst out. ‘I have been standing upon the high ground for weeks now, and it is getting awfully breezy—’
In the heat of his emotions, he had made to emphasise his point with a gesticulation – quite forgetting the lemonade still clasped in his hands, which immediately tipped on to the satin bodice of Hetty’s gown.
‘Dash it! Hetty, what a fool I am …’
Hetty regarded the rapidly increasing stain with some alarm.
Satin, sadly, was no friend to lemonade.
Timothy, to his credit, immediately understood the severity of the situation, and put all other considerations from his mind: offering to escort her home, he paused only briefly to request that Mrs Morgan inform her ladyship of their whereabouts before leading Hetty towards the door.
It was all elegantly done, as Hetty told Timothy later, though she felt some regret at leaving the party so early – which was, she realised, something of a first. This was a rather cheering thought, and even more so was Timothy’s assurance that – since they had left so discreetly – she might rejoin the assembly if she wished with no one much the wiser.
Thus, while Timothy waited below, Hetty climbed the stairs up to her chamber to change her dress, pausing briefly outside Trixie’s door, with the thought that she might look in on the patient.
It was so rare for Trixie to be laid up in such a way that, if she were still awake, Hetty thought she might be amused by the predicament that had befallen her.
‘Trixie?’ she called softly, pushing open the door.
The Trixie-shaped lump under the covers – which was all Hetty could make out in the light given by her candle – made no answer.
This was certainly understandable, given the lateness of the hour.
Yet, without quite knowing why, Hetty was abruptly overcome with a conviction that the room was empty.
In three quick paces, she had reached the bed and pulled the covers back, already knowing what she was going to find underneath – or rather, what she was not going to find.
It did not take long to work out where she might have gone. Trixie had spent a great deal of time perfecting the pillows under the blanket, but not tidying up after herself – and the casting about of loo masks upon her dressing table was rather telling.
‘Anne Boleyn,’ Timothy diagnosed darkly. ‘She’ll have made shoddy work of it if she didn’t have the help of her maid: the French hood is no easy feat.’
‘Timothy, that is the least of our worries! We do not even know where she has gone.’
‘It’ll be the Opera House, I should think. They’ve got a masquerade on this evening. Not at all the thing.’
It certainly was not. When Hetty thought of the trouble Trixie could fall into – had she truly gone alone? Hetty did not know if that was better or worse than the dubious character of any escort who might have agreed to take her on so ill advised an excursion.
Timothy turned questioning eyes to Hetty. ‘What ought we to do?
‘There is nothing else for it,’ Hetty said. ‘We shall have to fetch her ourselves.’