CHAPTER IX #2
Hetty mustered her courage. She had to try, at least – if she could not do so now, in such easy circumstances, then she might as well consign herself directly into the nunnery.
Somehow, before Major Morgan opened his mouth to begin some other topic, she forced sound from her lungs and out into the air.
‘Who – who—’ For a moment, she thought she only be able to repeat this owlish refrain, but with an extreme effort, she managed to force the rest of the question past her lips. ‘Who is arriving?’
Major Morgan affected a double take. ‘Where have you been, Miss Clithero?’ he said. ‘The royal party! The Tsar, King Frederick, Prince Metternich – and Blücher, of course.’
Almost without her consent, Hetty heard herself speak again. ‘Blücher?’
‘Field-Marshal von Blücher, darling,’ Mrs Morgan explained kindly.
Trixie turned in her saddle to frown at Hetty. ‘Have you taken a tumble recently?’
It was an understandable question: throughout the spring of 1814 hardly a day had passed without some stirring news from the Continent bearing this man’s name.
‘I imagine he will have quite the reception at Dover,’ Colonel Davenport noted.
‘Dover?’ Hetty parroted again, and now Arthur turned his head to hide his smile as the Major patiently explained that this port town was, indeed, where the royal procession was expected to land.
Fortunately, before Hetty found herself asking the word ‘Land?’ they were at that moment interrupted by a barouche, holding two ladies who trilled out greetings to Mrs Morgan.
Under the cover of this distraction, Arthur drew alongside Hetty and murmured approvingly: ‘That was well done!’
‘Was it? I’m not sure I would count “Blücher?” as a proper question.’
‘There was a rising inflection!’ Arthur insisted, and Hetty felt equal parts patronised and reassured. ‘I think it a very effective trick.’
‘People are going to think me touched in the head,’ she complained, though she could not quite prevent a pleased smile from curling her lips. She might be speaking like a simpleton – but at least she was speaking.
It was on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to refute this, but he found his attention caught elsewhere. He too, was being beckoned. ‘Carry on,’ he urged Hetty. ‘You are doing famously. I shall return in a trice.’
Despite this apparent bolstering, Hetty could only watch him go with a sinking heart, all the triumph slipping away from her like water through fingers as he trotted over to the side of Mrs Ridley.
Mrs Ridley was a regular sight in Hyde Park, either astride her famous bay or driving her famous phaeton – she was an exceptional whip, because of course she was – but never had the sight of her magnificent form given Hetty less pleasure than today.
‘Who is she?’ Mrs Morgan, who had bid goodbye to her friends, had drawn alongside Hetty and had followed her gaze curiously.
‘She was Arthur’s—’ Hetty caught herself before she could finish the sentence.
Young ladies of quality were not, after all, meant to know about mistresses, and while she might privately consider Mrs Ridley her (however unreciprocated) nemesis, she did not wish to tarnish her reputation in any permanent way.
‘Friend,’ she decided, after a telling pause.
Then, not wishing to watch any longer, she turned her horse. ‘We are being left behind,’ she told Mrs Morgan.
They urged their mounts onward and, when Hetty drew alongside Colonel Davenport, she mustered her courage and forced herself to speak.
‘Your mare is very fine, sir. What is her breeding?’
Arthur – had he been present – would have been very pleased with such progress. At that moment he was, however, too busy pressing Mrs Ridley’s hand in his.
‘You wretch!’ she was admonishing him. ‘I had to hear of your return from Mr Pinkerton, of all people.’
‘Not Pinkerton! Good God, however can I make it up to you?’
‘It will take you an age,’ she told him severely. ‘You may begin this Thursday – I am hosting a soirée: will you come?’
Arthur hesitated. There had once been a time when he would have leapt at the chance.
She had, in his younger years, put him through his paces – for all that she never intended to marry again, she accepted no less adoration and attendance from her admirers than any young lady in her first Season.
Back then, of course, he had been happy to give it, having nothing but time, and a yearning for adventure that he had been happy to lay entirely at her door.
But now … to expend an evening purely on his own pleasure, when he had promised his aid to Hetty, and his escort to Lady Allerton, felt rather selfish.
Moreover, Mrs Ridley’s evenings usually involved a fair bit of card play – he imagined the shame he should feel to add even a single guinea to Hetty’s neat ledger of accounts, and shook his head.
‘I cannot.’ He was not only talking about the soirée, and Mrs Ridley knew it. She was surprised, and rather amused, to find the refusal stung just a little, though she pushed this forcibly aside and instead heaved a dramatic sigh.
‘I suppose I shall have to find a way to carry on without you, however impossible as it seems.’
He grinned. ‘I have missed you,’ he told her impulsively. ‘Might I tarry with you a little, now? I should like to hear all your news.’
‘Oh, darling, I am already spoken for,’ she assured him. ‘I am waiting for Captain Edgewood – he is always late. I should not accept it, but he gives such pretty compliments one cannot help but forgive him.’
Arthur recoiled. ‘Good Lord, he isn’t your latest, is he? I thought your taste better than that!’
Mrs Ridley’s expression cooled. ‘Though it may surprise you, my lord,’ she said with sudden haughtiness, ‘I do not have an intimate relationship with every gentleman I ride with in the park.’
Perceiving he had offended her, Arthur tried to explain. ‘It was not my intent to suggest such a thing! Only I know him to be very convincing and—’
‘You know me to be easily convinced?’
‘Not you specifically; indeed, for a moment I worried he would ensnare my sister—’
‘But I am not your sister,’ Mrs Ridley reminded him with great froideur. ‘How I spend my time, and whom I spend it with, is none of your concern.’
Arthur felt abruptly out of patience to be so purposely misunderstood.
‘Forgive me,’ he said crisply, not having the time or the inclination to word a more fulsome apology, and though Mrs Ridley accepted it, she had withdrawn from him, and though they managed to exchange a few commonplaces more, there was none of the warm intimacy of their greetings, and Arthur bade her farewell at the first opportunity.
Mrs Ridley watched him go, more irked than she would have liked to admit.
She did not feel in the least ashamed of her life, for it was one of her choosing.
She lived in a pretty house in the best part of town, attended all the most lavish parties, and with the fullness of enjoyment pursued all the freedoms her widowhood afforded her.
Yet she was not infallible. However much she refused to feel shame, the effort of holding oneself firm against the stings of judgement – especially from one with whom she used to share such intimacy – took some effort, and Captain Edgewood, when he arrived, asked her what was ailing her.
She waved her hand, turning her horse in the opposite direction to the Allerton party. ‘A piece of impertinence from Allerton, no more.’
‘Shall I call him out?’ Edgewood asked. ‘You need only say the word and I shall avenge your honour in a trice.’
Mrs Ridley smiled. ‘I should like to have a duel fought in my honour, one of these days,’ she said thoughtfully.
Up ahead, she could still make up the shapes of Allerton and his companions.
They were all laughing and, despite herself, she felt a surge of renewed irritation.
She wished she might cause him some trifling discomfort, to answer for the agitation he had roused in her.
‘Perhaps you might flirt with the sister, a little,’ she suggested. ‘That plum is yours for the picking, I am told.’
‘You ask a great sacrifice of me,’ Captain Edgewood said gravely, recollecting – with a little effort – the vivacious creature who had presented herself to him at the theatre. ‘Very well, I accept.’
‘How kind you are,’ she said dryly, fully aware of the fleeting nature of Edgewood’s attention.
Whatever his protestations of loyalty to her, he would forget this task after – at most – a few days, but this might just be long enough to cause Allerton a little unease. Which, she felt, he justly deserved.
Mrs Ridley could not know that the Captain had, just this morning, endured an unpleasant conversation with his aunt whom he had – until very recently – depended upon to leave him a fortune. ‘A wealthy plum, is she?’
Mrs Ridley, busy dealing with a spirited start of her bay, did not note the new intrigue in his voice. ‘Allerton has twelve thousand acres to his name: he is not the type to be ungenerous.’
‘Is that so,’ Captain Edgewood said thoughtfully.