Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Henrietta approached the cheval glass in her chamber, regarding the stranger reflected there.
The filmy white chemise de le reine that had felt scandalous in Alywen’s dress shop swirled around her in a sensual whisper, hinting at grace, elegance, and freedom of movement—the ideals of the independent woman.
“For once I can agree to the bosom friends,” Henrietta said, turning to study her profile. “All the same, I look undressed.”
Duprix arranged the subtle flounces of the sleeves and the drape of the skirt. “I shall put a bandeau in your hair and leave it unpowdered, as M’sieur Daring prefers. He likes for you to look like one of those girls on the Greek vase.”
“I am not dressing to please Darien,” Henrietta said.
But was she dressing to please herself? She hardly knew this girl in the mirror. She was not the innocent Darien had guarded while she repaired her gown in the Chapel Royal of St. James. She was not the same woman he had dressed for dinner at home, blindly focused on her reforming causes.
She felt different. Awakened. His kiss had taught her something about herself.
She had a child to take care of now.
And Darien had not called since their falling out at the Bicclesfield ball.
He was hardly likely to attend her debate.
If Uncle Pelton could not aid him in his cause, what more could he want with Henrietta?
He had drawn his masterful hands over her as if she were a musical instrument brought to life by his touch. And then he left.
Duprix unclenched crushed fabric from Henrietta’s fists. “Is Ma’mselle nervous?”
“Incredibly, yes. I’ve participated in debates before, but tonight—it matters very much that people listen.”
This debate meant more than a philosophical discussion, more than admittance into the Minerva Society. Her topic could influence the fate of the young girls above stairs, her beloved half-sisters, as well as the newest little one they had welcomed into their domain.
“Then it is well you look innocent and wise at the same time.” Duprix focused on Henrietta’s hair. “That is Lady Celeste’s babe, yes?”
No reason to prevaricate; all the servants must know already. “Yes.”
“What will M’sieur say when he knows you have taken her?”
What, indeed? She had sent a note informing him that she had located Celeste’s daughter, that she was safe. She had heard nothing from him in response.
She knew how her actions would look to Miss Pennyroyal and others. Lacking the personal charms to attract Lord Daring, Henrietta had spirited away his child to gain his attention.
“A sash or zone for the bodice?” Henrietta suggested, feeling exposed.
Duprix shook her head. “You may take a shawl, but M’sieur Daring was right. Your décolletage is your best feature.”
“And when I take an ague from the drafty lecture hall, you shall be called upon to nurse me. Cosmetics, Duprix?” She hesitated when the lady’s maid picked up a small jar and a brush. “That is too fast even for me.”
“If ma’mselle does not like it, I will wash it off,” Duprix promised.
With a few dabs, she darkened Henrietta’s brown eyelashes to black, added a brush of rouge that made her cheekbones leap out from her face, and with a touch of paint made her lips fuller and more expressive.
The maid stood back and surveyed her charge from head to toe. “Voilà. C’est bon.”
“Is that me?” Henrietta asked the mirror.
She didn’t want her Season, or Darien, or the Minerva Society, or being a knight’s daughter to take her away from what she knew and loved.
She liked being plain Henrietta Wardley-Hines, discussing radical ideas at bluestocking salons, pushing for unpopular reforms, experimenting with innovations on her properties.
She charted her path by the women she admired—her schoolteachers, Miss Gregoire.
Her mother. Lady Bessington. Thinkers like Olympe de Gouges and Wollstonecraft.
She would never give up the real pleasure and purpose of her life to be a toast at balls.
“What do you think of my topic?” Henrietta asked as Duprix dressed her hair with moonflowers and pearl pins. “Would it not be to the advantage of society to bestow education upon females as well as males?”
Duprix gave her Gallic shrug. “And what would it avail women, ma’mselle, to know what the men know? They will never respect us if we try to be little men, and we will lose the one advantage we have in being women.”
Not for the first time, Henrietta wondered how old Duprix was, and why she had left France, and what had etched those hard lines onto her face. Who had she left behind?
“What sort of knowledge do you mean? I do not see that women have any advantage.”
Duprix whistled softly. “If you do not know what I mean, ma’mselle, it is only because you have not been in the company of enough young men.” Her lips turned up at one corner. “I think M’sieur Daring will be happy to teach you.”
Darien wanted nothing more to do with her.
He had knifed her in the heart, shaken her very understanding of the world.
She had never questioned her father’s decisions.
He was a wise businessman and a kind employer, and his investments went to protect the peace and prosperity of the nation, to protect the world she knew.
A peace that came at the cost of lives, she now realized. British men had lost their lives in Mysore. And what of the people of Mysore, for that matter? How much of their blood had been shed to secure her peace and prosperity?
Her world felt riven to the core, the pieces drifting away from her, and she didn’t know where she should jump for safety. Or what to do to make things right.
“Do you think it is right, Duprix? What is happening in France?”
Duprix pulled a shawl from the clothespress. “I think the citizens are right to demand change. There were too many with too little, too few with too much. But I do not wish for liberation bought by blood.”
“Do you wish to go back?” The new French government had declared the émigrés traitors, their properties and assets forfeit.
“There is nothing in France for me to return to,” Duprix said, “and that will not change no matter how many constitutions are passed.”
Henrietta rose. The soft muslin fell about her like a cloud. One could nearly see the outlines of her figure, though she wore stays and a petticoat beneath. She felt scandalous. She felt ready to do something bold.
“I seem to have a knack for prying,” she said. “No doubt Darien will have my head when he knows what I’ve done.”
But she had done it anyway, just as she would go to this debate and argue her cause, just as she would keep knocking on doors to gather signatures and collect donations.
Just as she would keep giving funds to the causes she believed in, but she would be more thoughtful, in future, about the consequences.
Another way Lord Darien Bales had changed her, like it or not.
Duprix smiled, her eyes soft with warmth. “There is no one quite like you, mademoiselle.”
“That is what Charley says, though I do not think he means it kindly. Thank you, Duprix. I believe I am armed for the battle ahead.”
She stood on the brink of an enormous change, and if she stepped out in this dress, there would be no returning to the girl she had been and the safe world that girl had known. Henrietta could only hope her brave words to Duprix were true.
The Minerva Society typically met in a member’s home since women were not allowed in most coffee shops and clubs.
But for their debates and other public lectures, Lady Bessington rented rooms at the London Tavern, and as James turned the pair into Bishopsgate Street, Henrietta noted considerable traffic.
James squeezed her phaeton into a narrow space before the massive facade of the Tavern, and John the footman leapt down to make inquiries.
“The Corresponding Society is meetin’ at the Black Lion next door,” he reported, his eyes alight with interest. “Quite a rabble in there, Miss Hetty!”
“I would like to attend one of their meetings,” Henrietta said. “How vexing that they chose the same night as my debate.”
“I think they’re at your debate, miss.” Peter, the second footman, helped her down from the vehicle, and both men shielded her from the jostling crowd as they made their way to the doors of the building.
“Present your ticket!” cried the usher. “Tickets sent to all subscribers! Tickets available for purchase here!”
Henrietta clutched her notes as the crowd pushed her forward. Her hands sweated inside her evening gloves. She was to stand in front of this great mass. When the usher accosted her, she stared at him with throat tight and mind blank.
“Ticket!” he snapped. “Ev’run has to have a ticket, e’en the doxies!
” His scowl lifted into surprise. “Aye, is it you, Miss Wardley-Hines? Go on in, then.” He blinked as he regarded her outfit.
“Di’n recognize you in that rig, I grant you!
Apologies! Go on in, now, they’re waitin’ for ye, miss.
” He shook his head, and Henrietta heard him mutter as she passed.
“Looks like a Frenchie, to wit. Aye, now! Ticket from you, if you please.”
“You needn’t stay,” she told her footmen. “In fact you might quite prefer going next door for a pint.”
“We’re stayin’, Miss Hetty,” John said. “You’ll need a cool head about ye, from the looks o’ this crowd.”
“A pint sounds—” Peter began, and then started as if he’d been elbowed or kicked. He glared at his superior. “Aye, we’ll be ’ere. And pints later, then.”