Chapter 35
Etta played out her ill-fated conversation with Max a million ways: all the things she could – should – have said.
She longed to tell someone what had happened between her and Max and as she stood next to Clarissa Best in a ballroom a week later, she was sorely tempted.
Clarissa had been a good friend to Etta so far, but she had not one shred of gossip to her name.
She knew her timid friend would be way beyond outraged by even the hint of a midnight tryst.
So instead, Etta and Clarissa were giggling over a particularly dreadful hat – green, orange and purple – when Lady Best kicked off.
Time and time again, Lady Best would drag her daughter to a ball, then nearly as soon again leave as she insulted or was insulted by someone or other.
Being insulted seemed to be Lady Best’s favourite occupation: she was marvellous at it.
Her imperious tones cut through even the noise of the busy ballroom.
‘Why, Mrs Blackwell, I do declare! I have seldom been forced to witness such boldness as this!’ Her tone ascended in pitch like a roller coaster cranking up a particularly unpleasant track.
‘To sully the Best name in such a manner as this! The audacity! Clarissa, let us go at once!’
‘Oh no, not again,’ Clarissa cringed. ‘Etta, I’m so sorry.’
Etta grimaced. ‘Leaving me on my own again, are you? Abandoning me to my terrible fate?’
Clarissa looked guilty as sin. ‘Oh, Etta. I’m so, so sorry …’
Etta bit her lip awkwardly, inwardly appalled that her friend hadn’t realised she was joking. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m just having a laugh. Come on, let’s do a discreet circuit to your mother and you can drop me off with Max’s sister, Lizzie, and that other preggers lady next to her.’
A slightly turned-about Clarissa blinked and nodded, curtseying to Lizzie, then departing to follow her mother’s imperious (and very loud) exit.
‘Evening, Lizzie. How are you doing?’
Lizzie sighed. ‘Oh, you know. Still terribly, terribly pregnant.’
‘I suppose it must really suck to have to stay sober at a party as boring as this one.’
Her friend looked at her quizzically. ‘Sober? Do you know, I do prefer not to drink alcohol. But how did you know?’
Etta blinked, taking another drink off a passing tray, then blinked once again as Lizzie’s heavily pregnant companion took one for herself. Etta watched as the woman downed what she absolutely one hundred per cent knew to be fortified champagne.
It felt like every time she thought she was used to 1817, she was brought back down to earth. She paused, weighing up what to say next.
‘I had read, lately, in … in a magazine? A periodical … I read that it was, um, safer, for pregnant women not to drink. Alcohol, I mean.’
Mrs Something-or-other – was it Henley? Who knew? – eyed her up while rubbing her belly smugly, almost resting her glass on her bump. ‘You mean, in case one imbibes too freely and falls?’
Etta took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘No, I mean, that it can cause the baby to be born with foetal alco— sorry, um, intellectual difficulties. Of the mind.’
Mrs Henley – it was definitely Henley – scoffed. ‘But what else must one drink, dear? Lemonade? Milk? How dull! And besides, I’ve already delivered Henley of a son. What more could one want?’
Etta bit her lip. She saw Lizzie watching her sympathetically, and they shared a Look.
Etta took another glass of champagne, then excused herself.
She needed a break from all this … 1800s stuff.
She wanted to find Max. She was long, long overdue a conversation with him.
But right now, there were other pressing matters to consider.
Like her bladder, which was full of champagne and telling her very loudly to make a quick exit.
A crowd was gathering in one corner of the ballroom – right in front, in fact, of the most direct route to the ladies’ loos. She ambled over tipsily, somewhat dreading the amount of time it would take her to free herself from her skirts.
The effete Mr Smythe was the centre of the crowd, Etta saw, as she fought her way through to the chamber pots. He was clutching a pair of gloves and seething with anger, Miss Marley hanging from one elbow, looking equally furious.
‘Sir, I demand satisfaction! Your insult to myself and Miss Marley will not stand!’ he declared pompously.
The impeccably dressed blonde man Smythe was facing off against looked slightly pale, but louche nonetheless.
‘Dearest Smythe. All I said was that you and she are made for one another, being much of the same character,’ he replied, gesturing between Smythe and Maria Marley. ‘What could be wrong with that?’
‘That character which I believe you have been impugning in every club in the city?’ raged Smythe.
‘Look, Smythe, if you must traipse around being Friday-faced—’
Maria Marley had turned as puce as her hair ribbons. ‘SMYTHE!’ she shrieked. ‘You heard him, Smythe! Insulting the two of us. And in front of everyone here present!’
Etta had had enough. She’d never get herself to the bogs if this continued, even if intervening would probably save the idiotically weak and ultimately very drunken Smythe’s life.
Smythe pushed out his chest like a pigeon, raising his gloves as if to strike. ‘Swords or pistols then, Lord Bramley?’
‘Rocks!’ called Etta, holding out her fist. Every eye in the house swivelled towards Etta as her voice rang out. She swayed slightly as she tried again. ‘No, no, not rocks, then? Urgh … Paper!’ She flattened out her hand.
Silence prevailed. Smythe and Maria were visibly stunned, as was their opponent. Smiling, the other man – Lord Bramley – seized his opportunity, stepping forward with his fingers spread.
‘Scissors beats paper, I believe!’
‘Oh, I swear I’m terrible at these things,’ said Etta. ‘Shall we play again? I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but I do usually win.’
Maria Marley just really couldn’t help herself. ‘Probably because people let you win, Mad Hetty Bainbridge.’
‘Probably,’ Etta replied, ‘but I win myself so much pocket money that I really couldn’t care less.’
Chuckles arose from the crowd and Maria snapped out of her rage and visibly shrank back as though slapped.
‘Come, Smythe. These people are beneath our notice.’
‘Or above,’ chimed in Lord Bramley, winning himself an elbow in his ribs from Etta.
‘I don’t know who you are, but I need you alive,’ Etta whispered. ‘The enemy of my enemy, etcetera.’
The gentleman turned to her, smiling cheekily ‘Miss Bainbridge, please do not labour under the impression I could not deal with one such as Smythe.’
‘You must excuse me. The only thing I’m labouring under is the weight of my bladder. Good evening, sir.’
Her new chum choked back laughter and though somewhere in her vicinity, she also heard the distinctive tones of Max Stanhope, the call of the wild was too much: she made her escape and when she returned, he was nowhere to be found.