Chapter 27
Unfortunately Etta didn’t see Max again until she was at the latest fashionable exhibition at the British Museum – and when she did, as much as she’d been replaying their kiss every spare moment ever since she left him reeling in his carriage, she was hardly in the mood for difficult discussions.
She was convulsed in laughter over what was possibly the most bizarrely formed tiger she’d ever seen when she heard what was unmistakably Miss Marley’s pointed cough, only feet behind her.
‘Lord Stanhope, while I’m grateful for your escort, I fear not everyone is as appreciative of these marvels as we.’
Etta ignored the outraged Miss Marley and her obligatory tittering hanger-on, not even minding that they’d somehow snagged him as an escort – primarily because this tiger was almost too good to be true.
‘Max,’ she gasped, ‘is that …? What on earth have they done to that tiger?’
Miss Marley bristled beside him. ‘Miss Bainbridge. Of course. Well, as I’m sure you know, this exhibition is considered the best in the world. Although I imagine many people might struggle to understand the majesty and wonder of these awe-inspiring beasts.’
If Miss Marley was trying to have a dig, it was wide of the mark.
‘But look – look! Its face!’ Etta was clutching her stomach in laughter.
‘I fail to see the humour, Miss Bainbridge.’
‘Look, though! Max – ugh, Lord Stanhope, whatever – look, one eye’s looking at you and one’s looking at Mama, over there by the window. And why—’ Etta paused, gasping for breath, ‘why is its tongue hanging out?’
Miss Marley looked ready to explode with irritation, but Etta was too far gone to gather herself. She’d also just spotted the tiger’s tiny, splayed toes, which didn’t help things.
‘Miss Bainbridge, control yourself! Who are you to say you know the slightest thing about tigers?’
‘Well, clearly I know more than the absolute moron who stuffed this poor thing. Look how fat its tail is! Like a huge sausage … Oh my god, I can’t bear it. It’s too much.’
Etta turned her back to the tiger, mopping her eyes.
‘Miss Bainbridge, you should know that my brother has worked tirelessly with the museum to curate this exhibition,’ said Miss Marley icily.
Etta snorted. ‘He must be very disappointed, then.’
‘I didn’t realise you were a renowned tiger expert, Hetty.
Maybe that’s what you’ve been spending all that time in the country getting up to.
Learning about tigers, and not being a lunatic and an embarrassment to your family.
How wrong we were to assume you were locked in an attic wailing like a caged animal! ’
Wiping her eyes, Etta couldn’t miss Max’s sharp intake of breath. He wasn’t the only one. Miss Marley’s pale companion was also clearly appalled, but was the first to break the icy silence.
‘Maria, let us look at the next exhibit. Leave Miss Bainbridge to admire the tiger.’ And before either of them could say or do anything, she whisked Miss Marley away.
Etta let out a strangled choke from behind her handkerchief and Max automatically stepped towards her.
‘Miss Bainbridge, are you well? I’m sure Miss Marley didn’t mean to—’
‘Oh, I’m sure she did. I’d love to say I didn’t think she had it in her. But tell me, is that tiger truly as ludicrous as it was the first time I looked at it?’
‘You’re not upset?’
Etta let down her hanky, her wet eyes were accompanied by a wry smile.
‘Oh, upset at that horrid little cow? I don’t care for her opinion. Come on, let’s take a closer look at this – this tiger.’
Max looked puzzled, but his mouth flexed into a crooked smile as he looked at it again. ‘Yes. I can’t say I’ve seen one in the flesh, but I must say it’s not quite like the illustrations in my library.’
‘Oh, you’ve not seen one?’
He paused. ‘And you have?’
‘Henrietta?’ Etta’s mother’s voice rang out softly from behind them. She must have heard them talking. ‘How could you have seen one?’
Etta was lost for words. She stared helplessly at her mother and then back at Max. He finally took pity on her.
‘Illustrations, probably. In your family’s library.’
Etta felt a wave of relief. ‘Yes. Yes! Illustrations. Just like you. Because how could anyone like me have seen a tiger? I’d have to have been to a zoo, and I’ve only just got to London, right?’
Max’s mouth quirked. ‘Illustrations, Etta. The tiger at the Tower of London’s Menagerie died some years ago and was the only one in the country. You’re looking at him.’
‘This …?’
‘The very same. Although I can’t say I’m convinced that both of his ears were originally on that one side of his head. Most strange.’
He smiled at her stunned face, then turned and greeted Lady Bainbridge politely.
‘I do apologise, Lady Bainbridge, but I see Miss Marley has moved on. Since I agreed to escort her, I will go and join her and her companion – but I’m sure we will see one another again soon.’
‘I do hope so, Maximillian. You are always welcome at family dinners, you know,’ said Lady Bainbridge, smiling kindly.
And just like that, smiling charmingly back at them, he followed the odious Miss Marley and her cousin towards the antiquities section. And Etta was left standing with her mother, remembering when that delicious smile had been pressed against her lips.
‘He’s had to give up his rooms, you know, and move back in with his old man,’ said Charlie over breakfast, reading Etta’s mind.
‘Stanhope, I mean. Making him escort the likes of Maria Marley around town, too. I imagine the old tartar is worried about him getting leg-shackled to the likes of you.’ Charlie had eyed her nervously, seeming to weigh his next words unusually carefully.
‘Been mighty close with old Maximillian lately, haven’t you, sis?
Been hearing whispers that you’re spending rather more time together than is proper, I understand? ’
‘I think you’ll find you didn’t hear anything, brother dearest,’ said Etta nonchalantly.
Charlie looked as though he was taking the measure of her. ‘Don’t be concerned with what I heard. Just make sure Mama doesn’t hear, that’s all.’
She’d punched him on the arm and joined Clarissa for the morning.
As she followed Clarissa through the shopping thoroughfare, she couldn’t stop thinking about Max.
It was hard to know where they stood with each other.
She’d kissed Max’s face off in that carriage and here he was acting like it never happened.
Mind you, she’d not exactly been all over him at the museum either, and it wasn’t as though he could just ask for her phone number so he could WhatsApp her.
Romantic liaisons in 1817 were even more difficult to navigate than Tinder.
She needed to look interested, but not desperate. She trailed alongside Clarissa, tuning in and out to her constant stream of chatter, as she kept coming back to the question of how to engage Max again.
‘And of course, I can always embellish it with a monogram. That’ll make it a much nicer gift – it’ll take longer, but I could give it to her for Christmas, perhaps,’ Clarissa said.
She appeared to be waiting for Etta’s agreement. Listening to Clarissa tended to be a good idea – her kind and forgiving friend was always full of sage advice. If only Etta could bring herself to concentrate this morning.
‘A monogram? You mean, get her initials sewn on?’
‘Yes, Etta! Why, what else? But I shan’t get them sewn on. I will sew them on myself. It will make it more meaningful.’
Clarissa was holding a beautiful lace handkerchief.
Sewing delicate, regulated needlepoint samplers wasn’t Etta’s strong point – a fact which continually seemed to disappoint her very forgiving mother.
Etta still missed her Etsy store, for which she embroidered colourful and quirky woodland creatures.
She thought she’d been very subtle in incorporating the odd badger into her neat floral whitework, but sadly her mother spotted them immediately every time.
The worst thing was, her mother didn’t even make her remove them and start again.
She just sort of smiled sadly, patted Etta’s shoulder and said, ‘So amusing, dear, but perhaps not one to show to visitors’ in a slightly deflated manner.
Etta had, however, caught Charlie eyeing up her work when he thought nobody else was watching. She was quite certain she’d caught him chuckling over it and liked him all the better for it.
Clarissa had moved on to a new pile of hankies, rubbing the fine fabric between her fingers thoughtfully. Etta hadn’t really thought about Christmas yet, but she supposed, given she had no plans to go anywhere anytime soon, it made sense to start thinking about presents.
‘Clarissa, about Christmas. How many people do you give presents to?’ she asked.
‘Oh, my mother and father of course. Then my younger sisters, and I always send something to my uncle, who lives alone.’
‘So it’s okay, then, to send presents to men?’
‘Oh … Oh-kay?’
‘Fine, I mean. All right. Is it all right to send presents to male friends?’
Clarissa gasped. ‘You mean, to send a gift to a man to whom one is not related?’
She sounded almost like her mother, Etta thought, and bit back a smile.
‘I’m assuming not, then.’
‘Absolutely not, Etta! Goodness, no. Surely you must know that?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sorry, of course. I was quite forgetting myself. So, do you always sew initials?’
Clarissa blinked, still looking slightly shaken. ‘No, not I. I like to add a few flowers in satin stitch.’
‘What about woodland creatures?’
‘Goodness, that would be quite … unique.’
Etta sighed, knowing this was Clarissa Code for unacceptable. ‘Yes, I suppose so. Where do you buy your embroidery threads? I’ve been using my mother’s. I really should have some of my own.’
Back on safer ground, Clarissa recommended a shop around the corner and they set off, having both purchased handkerchiefs to monogram.
‘Is there anything else you might monogram? I need to be thinking about Christmas, too, and I don’t suppose I can buy everyone hankies.’
‘Oh yes. I like to embroider my uncle a pair of slippers every other year.’
‘But how do you know his size?’
‘I don’t. Gosh, I hadn’t thought about that. For all I know, he might have a pile of them somewhere.’
They both giggled at the thought. Etta proceeded to buy one skein of practically every colour of embroidery silks in the shop. The colours weren’t as vibrant as she used to prefer, but Etta was finding her tastes had changed since The Switch. Life was vibrant enough already.
Clarissa took her back to her own sprawling London mansion for tea – a cold, forbidding place, but without any sign of her mama. Clarissa grabbed her hand and towed Etta up to a more scruffy-looking room at the back, stuffed with worn armchairs, scuffed but serviceable tables and piles of sewing.
An older woman was sewing in the scarce light by the small window.
‘Nanny, could you go and ask for tea, please?’ Clarissa gave the older lady a hug, then welcomed Etta into a very comfortable armchair.
‘Mama would be horrified to know I brought you here,’ Clarissa continued. ‘But although it’s cold, it’s the most comfy room in the house. Mama likes to keep the place impeccable for visitors, but we seldom receive any unless Papa is home.’
Etta frowned. She knew why – there was no point denying it, because Lady Best was a downright awful woman disliked by nearly everyone – but she felt bad for her friend.
Clarissa didn’t seem concerned, though, and was clearly delighted to have her friend for tea.
They chatted about their purchases as Nanny brought in tea then retreated into a corner to finish her sewing in the gloom.
Clarissa lit a candle – it was a slightly stinky tallow one, unlike the sweet-smelling beeswax Lady Bainbridge preferred – and showed Etta some of her sewing.
It was impeccable – they spent a good half an hour discussing the neatness of her stitches.
As she looked through Clarissa’s stitch-perfect samplers, Etta reached for another biscuit, but the plate was empty. Clarissa was nibbling the last one thoughtfully, poring over an embroidery book.
Oh well. She liked a woman who knew what she wanted, even if it was the last bit of shortbread.