CHAPTER XII #2
‘No one forces me,’ he assured her in some horror. Then, with a cough, and directing his gaze to his shoes, he clarified: ‘Admire you.’
‘Oh.’ Hetty was rather touched. ‘You do not have an interest in my fortune? I own, I assumed …’
It was a question she would not thought herself daring enough to ask – but, well, after all her practice these past days, Mr Hargan did not seem in the least frightening.
It was not often that the Honourable Robert Hargan – heir to an acreage of twenty thousand and an annual income of near the same – was in the position of having to explain his wealth to someone.
‘My – ah – lands serve me well enough,’ he ventured carefully.
‘Beautiful, indeed, and if there are the occasional issues with flooding, we—’
‘Flooding?’
‘Occasional,’ he stressed hastily, thinking of how his mother would berate him for not describing his home more persuasively. ‘Beautiful, though. Our greenhouses, in particular – second to none, I should say.’
Hetty gave a vague humming noise, her mind having returned to the problem of Belcourt, and Mr Hargan took this as encouragement to continue.
Botany and horticulture were two topics on which he was rarely encouraged to speak – a shame, for upon these areas he knew a great deal, and his natural enthusiasm warmed his countenance.
‘Our gardener is doing wonderful things with flowers, you know. Last time I was there he had successfully bred an entirely new variety of sweet william.’ He paused, adding shyly: ‘Perhaps I could bring you one, if you like? We have not named it yet – my father likes to jest that we shall do so after my bride, whoever she – that is, I’m not suggesting—’
Hetty was not attending, however. She was, in the mornings, still occupied in the task of deciphering the late Lord Allerton’s notes, most of which were focused on the topic of farming in waterlogged soil. ‘Which are your most successful crops?’
‘Wheat, still,’ Mr Hargan said, grateful to be rescued from this tangle, ‘though we have enjoyed great success with swede and mangel-wurzel—’
‘Mangel-wurzel!’ Hetty declared ecstatically. ‘So that was what it said!’
‘I am not sure …’
‘It is a crop, then?’
‘Yes, it is.’ He hesitated, torn between his mother’s edict that ‘No young lady is interested in crops!’ and the plain fascination upon Miss Clithero’s face.
‘It’s an interesting thing, actually,’ he ventured to explain. ‘It does very well in winter – but, oh, I think Lord Allerton is trying to catch your attention—’
‘Never mind him,’ Hetty said. ‘Carry on, this is marvellous.’
‘Is it?’ But Mr Hargan had clammed up once more. ‘Well, I …’
‘Will you call on me tomorrow? So that we might discuss this in more detail?’
Mr Hargan flushed pink with pleasure. ‘Of course.’
‘Wonderful,’ she said, so emphatically that Mr Hargan, when he walked away, did so as if he were upon clouds – as, too, did Hetty, as she hastened to Arthur’s side.
‘Arthur, he knows about mangel-wurzels! I have requested he visit us tomorrow to speak more on the subject – the timing could not be more fortuitous, for is not your meeting with Mr Thimbleby and Mr Holland arranged for tomorrow?’
‘It is,’ Arthur confirmed. Then, smiling, added: ‘There I was, ready to spring to your rescue, and you were interrogating him on modern farming practices.’
‘On the contrary, it was Mr Hargan who rescued me – for Sir Marcus was about to press me into a dance.’
‘You would have declined, of course.’
‘How could I? I had no good excuse!’
Arthur hummed thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps that ought to be our next step,’ he said. ‘Ridding oneself of unwanted admirers.’
She laughed. ‘Do you think that is necessary?’
‘But of course! Why, you have already ensnared Mr Hargan.’
Hetty turned her head to observe Mr Hargan and – finding him already looking her way – smiled at him. All without, she suddenly realised, blushing.
‘Are you flirting with him while speaking to me?’ Arthur checked. ‘Not good form, Hetty.’
Hetty turned her head. ‘I wasn’t!’ she insisted. ‘Just smiling – flirting is far too advanced for me yet.’
‘Not so, Hetty, not so,’ Arthur insisted.
Hetty apologised. ‘Perhaps there are three phrases of flirtation I might repeat in sequence?’
‘Alas, no, but that does not prevent our practising.’ Availing himself of the lemonade in her hand, Arthur took an invigorating gulp. ‘Let us pretend we have just been introduced. Perhaps, even, we have just shared a dance.’
‘Did I tread upon your feet?’
‘I do not remember,’ he said gallantly. ‘I was too busy being – lost in your gaze.’
Hetty laughed. ‘Is that so?’
‘I would offer you some refreshment.’ Arthur returned her lemonade glass back to her, and she gave a little curtsey of thanks. ‘I might compliment you on your dress.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down at her gown. ‘Timothy thought the colour would suit me.’
‘It does,’ he confirmed.
‘Truly?’
‘You have always looked very well in green – especially when you blush, as now.’
Hetty ducked her head, and Arthur laughed.
‘You might then say something nice to me,’ he prompted.
Hetty’s mind went blank.
‘Surely it cannot be so difficult.’
‘No, it is not – I just cannot—’
Her face felt as if it were on fire.
‘Perhaps my eyes are nice?’ he suggested.
‘Yes. Yes.’ She grasped on to this lifeline grateful. ‘Your eyes are – well, they are grey.’
His mouth curled. ‘Are they?’
‘Very grey,’ she embellished, face aflame.
‘How kind! You know, I do not believe I have ever been given – ah – such a compliment before.’
‘Can we stop?’ she requested. ‘This is – excruciating.’
Arthur heaved a sigh. ‘Not what one generally wishes to hear from one’s flirts. Perhaps I am losing my touch.’
Hetty advised him severely that he was being foolish. He begged her sincere pardon, then – after a pause – said: ‘I think it is time, Hetty.’
He spoke in a strange voice, as if he were telling a joke she ought to understand. She did not.
‘Time for what, pray?’
‘Time for you to speak to him. You have delayed long enough.’
‘To whom?’
He laughed. ‘Doing it too brown, now. You’ve done very well at pretending not to notice him, but I think the poor man’s ego must have suffered enough.’
What was he talking about? ‘Who are you …’
‘It was not so difficult to guess,’ he said apologetically.
As if in a dream – or more, perhaps, a nightmare – Hetty followed Arthur’s gaze across the room to where a young man stood laughing with a champagne flute in his hand.
He had a fair, handsome countenance and a decided air of fashion: his boots highly shined, his coat exquisitely moulded and his golden locks anointed with Russian oil.
He was, she realised, the gentleman who had stood upon her gown, and, apparently—
‘The European noble you knew as a child, the one with family in Vienna,’ Arthur supplied. ‘Young, titled, much-courted, and arriving so recently in the capital. There were not many gentleman who matched the description: in the end, it could only be the Marquis de Nicolet.’
Yes, she ought to have been more careful with her description.
‘Let us go together,’ Arthur said. ‘You might introduce me.’