Chapter Six
Henrietta’s first important dance was at Almack’s Assembly rooms, the Palladian-styled building in King Street known as the Seventh Heaven of the Fashionable World. The ballroom was crowded as the ton performed a Scottish reel beneath the multi-tiered chandeliers. The air stuffy with hot bodies, perfume, and dozens of candles. Ambitious mamas kept a sharp eye, anxious for their daughters to present well and ensnare a prosperous husband.
Henrietta was grateful to find her aunt less sharp-eyed than most. She held Henrietta on a loose rein, merely nodding and smiling when she took to the dance floor with the man of her choice. She was fast learning the complicated rules that must be upheld to keep her from disfavor. She had been instructed to appear docile and modest, something not natural to her. When the Marquess of Ramsbotham, a man of middle years, came to claim her hand for a second dance, she offered him her prettiest smile and told him she was otherwise engaged.
He bowed and left her, but not before she saw reproach in his eyes. She had an overwhelming desire to poke her tongue out at his broad back clad in gold silk taffeta, but with admirable restraint she turned with a bright smile to greet her next partner, a thin young man who lacked the Marquess’s presence, but had a nice smile. Neither sparked the remotest interest. In the semicircular balcony above, the orchestra struck up a lively tune for a country dance, and she lost herself in the steps.
“A jeune fille should be simply dressed,” her aunt had said earlier that evening. “The pale silk with the pearls, and rosebuds in your hair, is the perfect foil for your innocence and fresh beauty.”
Henrietta did not consider herself an innocent. Although she had not experienced love in the full sense, she had grown up in the country, and was confident she understood the mating dance. Some of her partners were unashamed flirts. In their powdered wigs, silks, and satins, they showed her a fine leg. No one touched her heart, however, and when they returned to her aunt’s mansion at the end of the evening, the image of Mr. Hartley refused to fade from her mind.
She searched and had not found him in the ballroom or the supper room where the rather uninspiring fare of bread and butter and small cakes was served along with tea and lemonade. Almack’s had failed to live up to her expectations. It would not be to Mr. Hartley’s taste either, she suspected. Where might she meet him again?
As she blew out her candle and pounded her pillow into an agreeable shape, she suddenly understood his reference. What a slow-top she was. He rode in the park every morning, he had told her so. And he passed by this very window on his return. Tomorrow, she would happen to be on the balcony at around the time she had last seen him. His irresistibly wicked gaze made her cheeks burn. If he should climb up to her balcony, would she throw water over him? She was no longer sure.
The next morning as soon as she woke, Henrietta leapt from her bed. The city’s churches tolled the hour of nine of the clock. She donned her dressing gown and sipped the cup of hot chocolate the kitchen maid had brought her. Once alone, Henrietta stepped out onto the narrow balcony. A beautiful sunny morning greeted her, and her spirits soared. The street was as busy as ever with people strolling about, and carriages traveling up and down. London was so exciting. She finished her chocolate, a breeze playing with the hem of her gown, cooling her legs. There was no sign of Mr. Hartley. She shivered slightly.
A merchant pulled his cart up below her to make a delivery to the house. He stood hands akimbo and ogled her openly. Annoyed and embarrassed, she stepped back inside her chamber again to find Molly waiting. “I’ll wear the blue brocade, Molly,” she said grumpily. Mr. Hartley was not an ardent suitor. That was clear, but really, why should she care? Today she was to go with her father to hire a suitable horse for her to ride in the park that afternoon. He promised to do so before he returned to the country.
Henrietta quickly dressed and hurried to the breakfast room. She found Aunt Gabrielle there drinking coffee.
“Good morning, Hetta. You slept well?”
“I did. Thank you, aunt.” Henrietta had never known a bad night in her life. “Has Papa gone riding?”
“No, perhaps he’s still abed.”
“I’ll go up. I want to see him.” She turned to the maid. “Is my father’s valet attending him?”
The maid bobbed. “No, Miss. His lordship’s bed has not been slept in, Lady Henrietta.”
“Did he not come home last night?” Henrietta put her hand to her mouth. “I hope he hasn’t met with an accident.”
A knowing gleam lit in aunt’s eyes. “Don’t be alarmed, child. I am sure he is perfectly well. Your father is entitled to a life of his own, is he not?”
Henrietta gasped. “He has never….” She paused, rendered silent by the prospect of her father taking on the appearance of a lover. Her aunt’s sympathetic smile made Henrietta defensive. “Papa said Mademoiselle Verity looks like Mama. Do you think so?”
“The shape of her face, perhaps and her coloring.” Aunt Gabrielle looked thoughtful. “But in every other way she is nothing like my sister. I doubt your father’s interest lies in that direction.”
Henrietta spread butter onto a roll warm from the oven. “What direction is that?”
“I always hoped he would marry again. But I doubt he considers it with Mademoiselle Verity.”
The door opened, and her father entered, fresh from his barber. “Good morning, my two favorite ladies.”
“Papa, where…” Henrietta began. She faltered when Aunt Gabrielle gave a quick shake of her head.
“Mm?” He rubbed his hands together. “I’ll have baked eggs this morning, Trotter.” He drank from his coffee cup. “What is it, my dear?”
“Are you planning to hire a horse for me, today?”
“I am. We’ll choose one at the park stables. We shall join others in their pursuit of a canter in Rotten Row late this afternoon.” He shook his head. “It’s not like the country, Hetta, you can’t gallop in the Row. Please remember that when I’m no longer in Town.”
“Do you plan to return home soon, Anthony?” Aunt Gabrielle asked.
The footman appeared and removed the cover on a dish of eggs and ham.
Her father shook his head. “Not immediately. There is something which holds me here in London for a while.”
He sawed into a piece of ham and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Has word come from Philippe?”
Deep creases rumpled Aunt Gabrielle’s brow. “No. Not yet.”
“Where is Uncle Philippe?” Henrietta asked, replacing her cup in its saucer.
Aunt Gabrielle shrugged. “He sent his last letter from his chateau in France.”
“Should he be there? I mean he’s an aristocrat and I’ve heard—”
“Hush, child.” Her father patted Aunt Gabrielle’s hand. “If we don’t receive a letter by the end of the week, plans must be made.”
Aunt Gabrielle put down a spoon with a clatter. “You haven’t decided to go to France, have you, Anthony?”
“Oh no, Papa. You cannot!” Henrietta cried, horrified.
He held up his hand to silence them. “Let’s leave it until the end of the week. Then we shall see.”
* * *
The roan mare her father had chosen for her had soft brown eyes. The weather was pleasant, the park filled with people promenading. Henrietta rode beside him across the park to Rotten Row where vehicles leisurely traveled along the South Carriage Way.
How she had missed riding. Henrietta was pleased with her new riding habit of a flattering moss green. Charlotte, as the horse was named, trotted along the track, obeying her instructions without protest and giving Henrietta plenty of time to search among the riders for Mr. Hartley, but there was no sign of him. A white horse approached them, ridden by a lady in a dainty sky-blue velvet habit with a tall hat atop her curls.
“Why, Lord Beaumont,” said Mademoiselle Garnier. “And Lady Henrietta. What a pleasant surprise.”
Her father raised his hat. “Delighted, mademoiselle. Lovely day for a ride. Would you care to join us?”
Her father looked at mademoiselle as if he couldn’t bear to look away. Was this meeting prearranged? Excluded, Henrietta was a little jealous.
Mademoiselle Garnier had far too charming a smile. “I do love your habit, Lady Henrietta.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle. Your costume is quite lovely with the wide lapels and caped shoulders. So very stylish. I expect it was made in France.”
“Oui.”
“I find it incredible that a country with so brutal a government can produce such delicate and beautiful things.”
“Henrietta!” Her father glared at her. “You speak out of turn.”
“Non. She is correct, Lord Beaumont. My country suffers a bloody Revolution. But do you know, Henrietta, there are many Englishmen who agree with the Girondins?”
“They say the guillotine chops off people’s heads. Innocent women and children too. I read about it in The Lady’s Magazine. How can they be so cruel?”
“The French people were starving, and something had to be done to change that.”
Henrietta reined her horse in beside her. “What if someone you loved had his head chopped off, because he didn’t support the Revolution?” She was curious. “Would you still believe in it then?”
“Henrietta!” Her father glowered. “Have your manners deserted you?”
Henrietta stared at the Frenchwoman. She had gone white, and her violet blue eyes looked stricken. She suffered a jolt of remorse. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. It was purely rhetorical.”
“Henrietta!” Lord Beaumont brought his mount alongside hers. “You will please ride ahead. I’ll speak to you later.”
Henrietta had never seen him look so fierce or fail to call her Hetta, his pet name for her. Tears of contrition stung her eyes. What had made her act that way? But she knew the answer. It wasn’t so much that her father was enamored of Verity Garnier, but her fear that he would rush to his brother-in-law’s aid in France. A very pretty couple they made with their heads close together, walking their horses.
Henrietta sniffed and rode on ahead of them. Now barred from their conversation, she became more than a little annoyed that her pleasant time in London had been tinged with disquiet.
“Lady Henrietta.”
Henrietta looked up from where she’d been lost in a brown study, straight into the smiling eyes of Mr. Hartley. He sat atop a tall chestnut, dressed in a navy-blue coat, fawn breeches, and gleaming black boots.
“Mr. Hartley,” she said faintly. She seemed to have lost her backbone, and no longer felt up to dealing with him.
“Surely you don’t ride alone?” He replaced his hat and gazed about, but her father and Mademoiselle Verity walked their horses a fair way behind her.
“Papa rides with Mademoiselle Garnier.”
“May I accompany you?”
“It appears my horse might object,” Henrietta said, as Charlotte tried to nip Mr. Hartley’s horse.
“She is not very friendly.”
“She is extremely friendly, but quite choosy.”
“Surely she can find nothing wrong with Titan. His pedigree is as long as my arm.”
“Lineage does not always vouch for good behavior.”
A smile danced on his lips. “Does it not?”
“On the contrary, there are those that are very poorly behaved right here today.”
“There are?”
She flicked her crop. “Look at that man over there for example. He is a gentleman, is he not?”
“That’s the Marquis of Tavenstock.”
“Have you seen how he whips his horse?”
“Can’t say I have. But I do not approve of such cruelty.”
Henrietta flicked her crop again. “And another, there.”
“Lord Crompton?” He raised an eyebrow. “He holds no whip.”
“He rode on ahead of his companion. She is a trifle unsure of herself on a horse, I grant you. And the animal is also rather fat, but he should wait for her, don’t you agree?”
“That’s his new wife,” Mr. Hartley said, in a strangled voice. “She is the daughter of a wealthy nabob.”
Henrietta glanced back at the woman dressed in a clash of crimson and puce. “I don’t see how that matters. But these were merely examples, of course.”
Mr. Hartley chuckled. “Lady Henrietta, you are outrageous.”
Henrietta cocked her head at him. “I am?”
He steadied his mount, which disliked coming too close to Charlotte’s bared teeth. “But delightfully so.”
“Henrietta!”
Henrietta turned to see her father approach as Mademoiselle Verity rode away.
“Good day to you, Hartley.”
“Beaumont.”
“You must excuse us. We return home immediately.”
Mr. Hartley bowed. “It’s been a pleasure and an education, Lady Henrietta.”
They left Mr. Hartley behind to canter through the park. “Was I so very terrible, Papa?”
“You behaved abominably,” he said, “Have you forgotten your mother was born in France?”
“Of course not,” she said passionately. “It is only the Republic I despise, not the people.” Henrietta could never forget French blood ran in her veins.
“However, that’s not the reason for my haste. Your aunt sent me a message. A letter has come from Philippe.”
Henrietta gasped with relief. “Is he, all right?”
Her father’s expression offered little reassurance. “That’s what I need to learn.”
* * *
Verity rode to join the group of riders she came with, grouped together in conversation at the park gate. An unusual mix of people gathered within the shadow of the demimonde. Poets, writers, painters, musicians, actors, and courtesans, mingled with members of the aristocracy and even royalty. Some actresses did well for themselves. Many did not. Could she now live as they did? Her chest tightened. When this business was at an end, she would retire to the countryside of her beloved France with her father and hopefully be left in peace. But that lay far in the future.
She wished she could silence the heart-stopping panic she suffered for the men in her life. If she failed to deliver Anthony to Danton, she and her father would both go to the guillotine. She gave a heavy sigh as she trotted her horse up to the gate. Each moment she spent with Anthony only made her like him more. But for her father’s plight, she might stay in London and become his mistress. To remain close to him, she would truly consider it. A liaison of this kind was something the members of the theatre world understood; an arrangement to suit both parties. But even though she was now truly one of them, the very idea was abhorrent.
“Here at last is mademoiselle,” Mrs. Siddens called from her brougham, her eyes flashing beneath the brim of her strikingly tall hat. “We can now begin our party!”
She put a hand to her waist and leaned forward as Verity joined them. “Do tell, who was that extremely attractive man I saw you riding with?”
“Lord Beaumont.”
“The viscount?” She gave Verity a ribald wink. “Doing all right for yourself there, duckie.”