Henrietta

PROLOGUE

THE night before the Honourable Arthur Allerton departed for the Peninsular War, his family gave a ball.

Given the lateness of the invitation (Lady Allerton having issued them only than a fortnight prior) and the earliness of the Season, a different family might expect a poor turnout, but that was not the Allerton way.

Indeed, by ten o’clock that evening, under the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling of their grand ballroom – alight with five dozen candles – no less than three hundred persons were gathered.

‘It is not quite the family dinner I requested,’ Arthur observed to Miss Henrietta Clithero as they turned about the dance floor together.

It was certainly not. In preparation for the occasion, every inch of the four-storey townhouse had been buffed and burnished to perfection, with special attention paid to the cavernous room at the back of the house, built by some long-dead Allerton for the precise purpose of impressing.

Tonight, impress it did: the guests had begun the evening with a repast of exquisite French delicacies and glasses of the finest champagne; they had supped and sipped to their hearts’ content and now were quite ready to dance – accompanied, naturally, by music from London’s most celebrated orchestra.

Even the weather was perfect. But then, it never rained on the night of an Allerton assembly. Lady Allerton simply would not stand for it.

‘Your mother could hardly have sent you off without a ball,’ Hetty reminded him, though abstractedly, for a great deal of her attention was focused upon minding her steps.

Arthur would not mind if she trod upon his foot – having, in their younger years, served as Hetty’s very first partner, he was certainly used enough to that – but this was not the memory of her with which she wished him to depart.

‘It would have been entirely out of character,’ Arthur agreed.

To Lady Allerton, a ball was the only correct response to birthdays, anniversaries, a young lady’s debut and even, for that matter, her eldest son joining the war against Napoleon.

From the atmosphere of frivolity all about them, one would think the Allertons were simply delighted that their eldest son was sailing out with the 11th Light Dragoons upon the morrow, for there was no sign in Berkeley Square of even the faintest nerves.

Across the room, her ladyship spun around the dance floor in the arms of yet another gentleman (each younger and more handsome than the last) while her husband (whose fondness for whist was as great as his fondness for his family) was sequestered in the card room.

The younger Mr Allerton was not in attendance (Hilary term at Oxford having not yet concluded) and nor was their youngest child, Miss Beatrix Allerton.

At sixteen years old, Trixie was too young to be attending such events, though Hetty had spotted her only moments ago peeking down at the festivities through the bannisters of the grand staircase.

‘I must admit Mama has outdone herself.’ Arthur looked round the hall appreciatively, and then down to Hetty with a smile. ‘Though do I detect your hand in the preparations as well?’

Hetty shook her head. ‘Hardly.’

She only wished she might do more to repay her ladyship’s kindnesses, which were too numerous to count.

Hetty had been spending her summers with the Allertons since her girlhood, a tradition begun at her father’s instigation: his attempt, despite the roving nature of their lifestyle, to give her a sense of connection to the British soil to which she owed her nationality.

Each June, Hetty and her father would make the long voyage to Belcourt, the Allertons’ country seat near the Kent coast, before returning in the autumn to whichever European university her father – celebrated professor of the classics – was placed.

Arthur hummed, unconvinced. ‘Yet I notice none of her more novel ideas for entertainment have made an appearance. How did you convince her out of the firework display?’

Lady Allerton’s taste was usually impeccable, but her desire to be always memorable could lead her into dangerous territory – almost literally, in this instance, with a special request to borrow the fire-master from Astley’s Amphitheatre – at which point, Hetty had felt honour bound to intervene.

Hetty bit back a smile. ‘All I did was try to recollect who had told me of Bonaparte’s famous fondness for such spectacles at his own celebrations.’

Arthur laughed. ‘Did you reach a conclusion?’

‘No,’ Hetty confessed, ‘but it served very well nonetheless.’

A Frenchwoman by birth, Lady Allerton was very vocal in her dislike of Napoleon, whose name she had refused to utter ever since hostilities between the two neighbouring countries had begun, referring to him only darkly as that horrid little man.

Hetty did not like to take advantage of her ladyship in this way but nor, she felt, was it wise to host a private fireworks display at a time when feathers were so much in vogue.

‘Helpful Hetty,’ Arthur accused her fondly.

Hetty did not roll her eyes – now her skirts had been let down, such behaviour was no longer becoming – but she would have liked to.

The title of ‘helpful Hetty’ had always seemed to her more insult than compliment.

‘Helpfulness is the very least I owe. Your family have done so much for me – this year more than ever.’

This spring, when her father had declared his intention to complete another tour of Italy and Greece, he had made the Allertons her guardians, with the request that they bring Hetty out into London Society – as if this were a simple favour to ask, and not a very grand undertaking, for Hetty, despite her summers with the Allertons, still had very little idea of how a young lady of quality ought to behave.

‘Hetty,’ Arthur chided. ‘How often must we tell you? You are quite part of the family, too.’

Hetty forced a smile. Arthur was not the only Allerton to intimate such things to her, but whereas her heart filled with joy whenever Trixie declared Hetty to be her sister in spirit if not in blood, hearing such sentiments from Arthur did not please her in the same way.

There would always be a part of Hetty that did not wish Arthur to consider her family – or, at least, not in the way he meant it.

As the music sounded its last note, they drew to a simultaneous halt, and Arthur made a show of peering warily around. ‘Let us take some lemonade before Mama implores me to dance with Miss Spalding.’

Hetty suspected that this suggestion was likely made more for her benefit than his: whatever Arthur was doing, whatever company he was in, he had the knack of enjoyment, and this was one of the reasons he was so universally liked.

It not being wise to inspect the teeth of a gifted horse, however, Hetty folded her arm into his without comment.

As Arthur navigated them to the refreshment table, expertly managing to avoid conversation with passing acquaintances whilst not being in the least rude, Hetty took a sidelong glance up at him.

She had become very adept at sneaking such glances.

She had never wished to be caught in admiration – mortifying!

– yet today, as ever, she could not resist the temptation.

The whole Allerton clan was dark-haired, grey-eyed and fine-featured, but Hetty had always felt – from the moment she had first walked into this house as a young girl – that Arthur was the handsomest of them all.

Hetty smoothed a hand down her side. She had dressed with great care that evening in a robe of white spider-gauze, adorned with delicate whirls of embroidered rosebuds that caught the light when she moved.

The whites and pastel hues traditional for debutantes did not show her to advantage, and she was still growing out her hair – from an ill-advised shearing that still weighed heavily upon her spirits – but nonetheless Hetty had felt tentatively pleased by her reflection that evening.

It was her finest and most expensive gown, originally bought for the Sefton ball that would close the Season, but Hetty had overruled her lady’s maid and Lady Allerton to wear it tonight.

She had, after all, few occasions left for Arthur to notice her.

Arthur’s eyes followed the movement of her hands.

‘A very fine dress,’ he told her, in the tone one might use to compliment a proud ten-year-old.

As they drew up to the buffet, he dropped her arm to take up two goblets of lemonade from a waiting attendant. Handing one of them to her, his eyes flickered over her shoulder and widened.

‘Quick, let us pretend we are deep in conversation.’ His voice was low and urgent.

‘Lord Fenton looks about to approach and if I have to spend more than a moment speaking to the fellow – well, Napoleon might save his bullets, for I vow I shall die of boredom before I set one foot upon the Continent.’

Hetty wished he would not speak in such a way. ‘Must you go?’

Arthur’s eyes, which had still been fixed watchfully upon Lord Fenton, flicked back to hers. ‘You know my feelings, Hetty.’

‘I do,’ said Hetty at once, for it had always been a matter of pride for her that she alone held his confidences.

It had been so between them since almost their first meeting.

While Trixie might have been Hetty’s more natural friend, or even Timothy, for their shared age, it had always been Arthur who had understood her best, and she him.

‘It is just that I shall miss you,’ she explained quietly.

Arthur dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘You won’t have time to miss me. It is your first Season! You will be far too busy being squired around town by a legion of admirers – how many gentlemen callers did you have today?’

Hetty’s cheeks pinked, but with embarrassment rather than pleasure. There had been three callers that afternoon, though none of their visits could have been called a success. ‘They are not here for me. Not truly.’