Rebel Heiress (20 page)

They had no further chance to speak alone together before he left. The Miss Giddys saw to that. As soon as one of them decided that the poor young things must be left to their farewells, and tiptoed knowingly from the room, another would appear, as if by black magic. Rivers seized one brief opportunity to mutter: ‘I have told no one of what has passed. Do not you either.' His emphasis meant Lady Marchmont. Henrietta was grateful, and promised. Knowledge of their feigned engagement at least they shared alone. Lady Marchmont, she could see, was puzzled, and this, too, was some meagre, painful satisfaction.

Her stepmother must inevitably have expected the engagement to be broken off; to find it apparently continuing was a shock to her, and many times afterwards Henrietta was to see her walking warily round the subject, trying tentatively this way and that to peer through the mask of her reserve. The strain of this was particularly evident when one of Rivers' letters arrived for Henrietta. In each, he carefully sent his kind regards to Lady Marchmont, as if to emphasise the fact that he did not write to her. Each one was signed, simply, ‘Your Charles.' Beyond this, he did not plead with her, nor even refer to their pretence engagement, and she was grateful to him. Instead, he wrote entertaining, diary letters, making light of the dangers of the campaign, and stressing absurd details of his daily life: the wolf hunt when the hounds followed a cart-load of salt fish; the dressing down Lord Wellington had given one of his officers who put up an umbrella on the field of battle. Wellington was his constant theme, and combined with his note of admiration was the unmistakable one of ambition. ‘I mean to make myself noticed,' he wrote, and Henrietta sighed with relief. They were not the words of a man who meant to get killed.

In his first letter, he had begged for an answer. ‘I shall indulge myself by writing whenever I can; may I hope for an occasional word from you?' She was glad to think it within the terms of their agreement, and worked hard to compose answers that should tell him everything, and nothing. She told him of the autumn election and subsequent state opening of Parliament; she reported the Miss Giddys' gossip about the Prince Regent and his impossible wife. Where he signed himself ‘Your Charles,' she replied with ‘Yours, Henrietta.' Each letter was draughted and redraughted many times before it was finally fair-copied and sent; it was so hard to keep her anxiety for him from creeping in. The weather at the siege of Burgos was bad, he had told her; did he take proper care of himself? The question was angrily scratched out and a flippant comment substituted.

Her letters to her father were hardly easier to write, for in them she must keep up the pretence of her happy engagement. Her comfort was that in them at least she could talk freely about how much she missed Rivers, and show some of her loneliness and misery, while disguising their true reason. She longed for and yet dreaded her father's return, for how, to his face, would she be able to keep up a pretence of happiness? But time passed and the question did not arise. His letters came from further and further afield, and at last from St. Petersburg where he described the bitter winter, the problems of housekeeping in Russia the news of Bonaparte's disastrous retreat from Moscow. He was soon on the best of terms with the Czar and his ministers; they had urged him to join them in their forthcoming march against France and he had seen nothing for it but to agree. Lord Liverpool, meeting Henrietta at the opening of the new theatre in Drury Lane, took her aside to tell her how delighted Government was with what her father was achieving. This was her happiest moment in a dark and gloomy winter.

Public misfortunes exacerbated her private sorrow. After the triumphant news of Wellington's entry into Madrid came the damper of his retreat. The long, unsatisfactory and at last unsuccessful siege of Burgos roused her anxieties for Rivers, and it was small satisfaction to her that he was mentioned in despatches for his gallantry on the occasion. In her heart of hearts, she blamed herself for this. Was he after all fulfilling his promise to her and trying to get himself killed? This time, it
was true, he had come off without a scratch, but what of the future? Her bedroom fire, those cold winter nights, consumed many an attempt at a letter which should at the same time convey her complete unconcern for his safety, and beg him to take care of himself for her sake.

For the public, good news from America was some counterbalance to failure in Spain, but for Henrietta it was the last straw. How could she rejoice in the news of Wadsworth and Hull's surrender to the Canadians, or, worse still, at the burning of Niagara? A school friend of hers had married a minister in Niagara. What would her fate have been? Unfortunately, she met the Miss Giddys at the opera when the news was still fresh and sore in her mind. They began by offering their congratulations on Rivers' gallant conduct.

‘You must be very proud,' said Miss Giddy.

‘But somewhat concerned,' added Miss Letitia.

‘Mr. Rivers should remember,' put in Miss Patricia, ‘that he has more than himself to consider. Such foolhardy daring is very well in a single man.' And then, seeing Henrietta's heightened colour, she changed the subject. ‘What splendid news from America, is it not?'

‘You find the burning of a peaceful town splendid?'

‘I most certainly do.' Miss Letitia took up the challenge. ‘Those upstart colonials must be taught a lesson, and the sharper the better.'

Henrietta always saw red at this use of the word ‘colonial'. ‘The lesson does not seem to be succeeding so well by sea,' she said.

Miss Giddy bridled. ‘You refer to our recent losses, I collect. I have it on the best authority that they are due entirely to the mistaken gallantry of our captains. Dear Mr. Croker tells me that what the Americans call a frigate is practically a ship of the line. Naturally ours are no match for them, and they are to be instructed to keep clear of them in future.'

‘I take it,' said Henrietta drily, ‘that you do not find it entirely sporting of the Americans to have better ships than yours.'

‘Hoity-toity, Miss Marchmont.' Miss Giddy lost her temper. ‘It is as well your father is not here to listen to you talking so like a rebel. But I hear our carriage announced. Come, Letitia, come, Patricia.' And taking an arm of each, she swept them away with the curtest of farewell nods for Henrietta.

Conscience-stricken at what she had let herself be teased into saying, Henrietta derived little consolation from the fact that Lady Marchmont was close beside her and had heard the whole exchange. One of the worst things about that dismal winter was the fact that she had to go on living with Lady Marchmont. Indeed, in the black depression of a foggy February, she seriously began to consider defying the proprieties and setting up her own establishment. But Mr. Brummel, to whom she mentioned this project one night, disposed of it effectively and, oddly enough, on lines very similar to Rivers'. ‘What?' he said, ‘and have your father ruin his career by hurrying home to save your name for you?'

It was unanswerable. So Henrietta and her stepmother lived on together in a state of uneasy truce. Except when Rivers' letters arrived, they never mentioned him, nor, though Henrietta suspected that Lady Marchmont would have rather enjoyed an hysterical scene about it, had either she or Cedric ever referred to that fatal day at Marchmont. She and Henrietta made the minimal necessary public appearances together. For the rest, they lived in the same house as strangers. And Henrietta had grown sick of society. If she rode in the park, it was to see Lady Marchmont surrounded by her latest crowd of young officers on too long leave from Spain. If she went out in the evening, it again meant accompanying her stepmother, watching her flirt, and having all too ample time, herself, to reflect on the unhappy position of an engaged young lady without her fiancé, compared to that of a married woman without her husband. Lady Marchmont paid only the merest lip service to the idea that she missed her husband. It was obvious that she missed him very pleasantly. Henrietta, on the other hand, finding herself suddenly without the throng of charming fortune hunters who had been wont to hang on her every word and vie with each other for her favours, felt that she had the worst of all possible worlds. The fact of her engagement put her on the shelf, and only she knew what a bitter pretence it was.

No, society was no pleasure to her that winter, and, fleeing from it, she began to spend more and more time with Miss Gilbert in Russell Square, or, better still, with her sister Patience at her school in Shrovebridge. Henrietta had always loved children, and now, with all her plans for happiness in dust about her, often thought that when her father returned
she would persuade him to let her go into partnership with Miss Patience Gilbert. But time passed and still he did not return. Winter yielded to her first English spring, the grass was green again in Hyde Park and primroses bloomed in Kensington Gardens. Lambs frolicked beside their mothers in the Green Park and lovers walked arm in arm under its trees. But for Henrietta life stood still. Her father wrote from Berlin now. The Russians had taken the city in March, and he was hopeful of an early march against France. Perhaps, he said, the autumn would see him home.

It seemed centuries off to Henrietta, reading his letter in the privacy of her bedroom while the birds built under the eaves and spring rain pattered against the window. And meanwhile the London season had begun. Each morning the Row was fuller of riders showing themselves on their return to town, comparing notes on the winter, the hunting, and, of course, the news. The Miss Giddys had returned in full tide of volubility from the country house where they had succeeded in planting themselves for the winter, and renewed a systematic teasing of Henrietta, who was at a loss to understand what made them dislike her so. She was not wise enough yet in the ways of the world to realise that they merely expressed the dislike that their patroness, Lady Marchmont, concealed so skilfully.

On the surface, Lady Marchmont was all smiles as usual, but with the opening of the season, her demands on Henrietta began to increase. Through the long, dull winter, she had seemed glad enough to go her own way and let Henrietta go hers, but now, as the invitations began to pile up once more on the table in the hall, she began to press Henrietta to accompany her. And to make matters worse, Cedric had just returned from a round of hunting visits and seemed inclined to recommence his pursuit of Henrietta. Suddenly, one morning, it was all more than she could bear.

Lady Marchmont had looked up with a sigh of satisfaction from her letters. ‘Ah,' she said, ‘the invitation to Lady Liverpool's dinner. I had begun to fear that she had forgotten us. The Miss Giddys had their cards these three days past. Cedric, you will not be able to go to Brighton tomorrow. We must have your escort to Combe Wood on Friday. I do not intend to be lost and dragged in the mud like Madame de Staël. But what will you wear, Henrietta? You have not had a
new gown this age. Had you not best send for Madame Bégué: The new sleeve should suit you to a marvel.'

Henrietta looked up from her embroidery. ‘I thank you, ma'am, but I believe I will not go.'

‘Not go? What foolishness is this? Not go to Lord Liverpool's! Truly, Henrietta, sometimes you betray your upbringing. These country notions may do well enough in Boston, but I hope that now you are in London you will conduct yourself with more propriety. To refuse the First Minister, when your father is presently engaged on a dangerous mission for him! How do you think that will look in the eyes of the world? Indeed, I have been meaning to speak to you on this very subject for some time past. Miss Giddy, who is a true friend to us all, gave me the hint only the other day. There is beginning to be talk, Henrietta, about these odd notions of yours. Cedric tells me they call you The Rebel now at White's — and not kindly, either. The world is quick to sense a slight, and you have been absent from too many occasions of late. To cut Lady Porminster's rout for no better reason than a school prizegiving: It was bound to cause comment, and, which is what I most complain of, the gossip is as unfavourable to me as to you. Dear Miss Giddy warned me in no uncertain terms: the world is saying that you and I have quarrelled. It will be in the scandal sheets soon if you do not look about you, and then how long do you think it will be before it reaches your father — and Charles? I do not think that you and I can afford to have it said we are not friends, my dear. I am sure it is very high-minded of you to wish to live like a recluse while Charles is away, but, I must tell you, it is not at all the thing. Do you see Lady Wellington pining at home? Or me, for the matter of that? Who knows what I suffer in your father's absence? But I put a brave face on it for the world, and the world respects me for it. No, no, I shall send Lady Liverpool a grateful acceptance on your behalf as well as on my own, and you had best send for Madame Bégué at once. That muslin you wore to Lady Harrowby's last week was scarce fit to be seen.'

And with this clincher, she hurried out to the park, to conceal, as Henrietta bitterly thought, her grief at her husband's prolonged absence by an animated flirtation with four young men at once. Nevertheless, she left Henrietta with much to think about. For all its selfishness, there had been an obvious grain of truth in what she had said. It could not help but be
damaging to Lord Marchmont to have his daughter gossiped about in such terms. With a heavy heart, Henrietta decided that she had best pocket her pride and accompany her stepmother to Almack's that night to see if the world was indeed so little her friend.

Lady Marchmont's congratulations on this decision were hard to bear, and a cool reception from Mr. Willis, the guardian of the rooms, was disconcerting, but it was the Miss Giddys who showed her how the land lay. She found them on a sofa, drinking lemonade.

The eldest inclined her head slightly: ‘Dear Miss Marchmont,' she said, without conviction.