Rebel Heiress (10 page)

Had a quick glance gone to the chair on which, last night, Henrietta had thrown her old dress? She could not be sure. She had already decided not to mention its burning, but to act as if nothing was amiss — as, indeed, was very likely the case. So she merely returned her stepmother's compliments and asked if her father was up yet.

‘Why, to tell truth, my dear, I do not know. I hope you do not think me so out of fashion as to share a bedchamber with my husband. But we can find out easily enough.' She rang the bell and told Rose to ask whether my lord was stirring yet.

Learning that he was indeed up and had just sent for his breakfast, Henrietta excused herself and went to join him. ‘You do not mind?' she asked timidly as she entered the breakfast room.

‘Mind! Damme, it's the best thing that's happened to me in years!' He gave her a hearty kiss and seated her beside him. ‘I shall expect you every morning at this time to pour my tea and tell me your news. And first, tell me how you think you will like living here?'

Henrietta deduced correctly that this was a tactful way of asking how she expected to get on with her stepmother and answered in a hearty affirmative which he greeted with gruff
approval, and a compliment on her appearance. ‘No doubt about it,' he said, ‘you can't fault my lady's taste in dress. You'll not go wrong if you listen to her, my dear. And that reminds me, I have business to discuss with you.'

Henrietta's heart sank. Was he going to ask to see her papers after all? But to her relief he was merely anxious to fix the size of the allowance he intended to give her. It seemed to her an immense sum, but he laughed and told her she would get through it quickly enough. ‘With my lady for adviser, you will hardly find yourself devoted to economy. And that puts me in mind of something else. I have one request to make of you: This allowance is for your own use, my dear, and I shall not question what you do with it, but I should much prefer that you make no loans to anyone.'

‘Loans? But why should I? I have no acquaintance in London, you know, Father.'

‘You will, soon enough. But that was not exactly what I had in mind.' He seemed relieved to be interrupted by a footman, who requested Miss Marchmont's presence in the morning room, where Lady Marchmont awaited her.

‘Ha!' Her father laughed a shade wryly. ‘Go, my dear, the world of fashion awaits you. And remember, I shall be here when you tire of it.'

‘Indeed, sir, it frightens me already.' Henrietta screwed up her courage, kissed him quickly and left him. She had not thanked him nearly enough for the munificent allowance, but consoled herself with the thought that there was already between them an understanding that made words unnecessary.

Her stepmother was in the morning room talking animatedly to Mr. Brummel. She was dressed now in a morning gown of lilac-sprigged muslin that took years off her age. For Mr. Brummel's benefit, she was all surprise and delight over Henrietta's arrival. There was no hint of yesterday's doubts and questions. Smiling at Mr. Brummel, Henrietta decided that she had been unjust in her suspicions. The near burning of her papers had been merely an accident. Full of contrition for her doubts, she exerted herself to return Lady Marchmont's affectionate speeches, and was disconcerted, presently, to find Mr. Brummel's sharp grey eye fixed somewhat quizzically upon her.

‘So the prodigal has been welcomed as a prodigal should be,'
he said. ‘It quite restores one's faith in human nature, Lady Marchmont.' Then, apparently changing the subject. ‘I hear Lord Beaufrage is returned to town.'

‘Yes. Is it not delightful? He is come just in time to welcome his new sister. He and dear Henrietta are to be such friends.'

‘Are they indeed?' What was going on behind that shrewd, impassive face? ‘But, Miss Marchmont, I am come to claim a debt. You promised, yesterday, when I was so fortunate as to be of assistance to you, that you would tell me the whole story of your adventures.'

Henrietta looked at her stepmother in some doubt, wishing she had thought in advance of consulting her about the propriety of this. But she was saved the necessity of replying by the appearance of another group of visitors. Lady Marchmont had been right. All of London seemed to have heard of her arrival and to have come, on one pretext or another, to have a look at her.

Mr. Brummel waited at her side for a minute or two, then, as she was constantly interrupted by her stepmother's bringing someone else to be introduced, gave it up. ‘We shall talk again, you and I?' He took her hand in farewell. ‘You owe me a debt of honour, and they must always be paid. And, meanwhile, remember that you must count on me as your friend.'

‘Did you hear that?' said a gushing young lady after he had left. ‘Mr. Brummel's friend. Indeed, you are the luckiest creature in London.'

‘Why?' asked Henrietta, puzzled. ‘He is most delightful, it is true, and has already been a friend indeed to me, but I do not quite understand —'

‘Not understand!' the other interrupted her. ‘Only listen, Mama, here is Miss Marchmont who does not understand why she is so lucky to have made a friend of Mr. Brummel.'

Her mother, a formidable dowager in purple satin and a turban, considered Henrietta with kindly scorn. ‘You must remember, my love, that Miss Marchmont has much to learn about London society.'

The morning seemed to go on forever. Henrietta talked, laughed, was questioned, was introduced over and over again to more and more gushing women and quizzing young men, and found herself increasingly furious at their air of patronage. So far as they were concerned, she was, she could see, little better than a barbarian. They giggled behind their hands over
any little difference in her speech and congratulated her stepmother over and over again on her appearance. ‘So much better than one might have expected,' she heard one dear old dowager remark in clarion tones, and heard with repressed fury, Lady Marchmont's laughing reply.

At last, with a final fluttering of ribbons and wafting of snuff and perfume, they were all gone. Lady Marchmont sighed luxuriously. ‘A most successful beginning, my dear. I think we are safe enough for Almack's. But of course you will not know what I am talking of.'

‘On the contrary,' Henrietta said. ‘I was well aware when Lady Cowper was so kind to me that she is one of the patronesses. You think, then, that I shall receive my voucher?'

‘I am sure of it. But how come you to be so knowledgeable about London life, child? Surely you did not see the fashionable journals in that New England wilderness of yours?'

‘Oh, sometimes.' Henrietta felt reluctant to tell Lady Marchmont about the lighthearted coaching she had received from the officers of the
Faithful
.

‘Ah well, so much the better.' Lady Marchmont rose to her feet and drifted to the window. ‘What a beautiful day. I think perhaps I will go for a ride in the park and blow away the cobwebs of all this talk. What a pity that you do not ride, my love.'

‘Not ride? But of course I do.'

‘Oh, how delightful.' She did not sound at all delighted. ‘Then, naturally, you must accompany me. How could I have been so stupid as not to have thought of it yesterday so we could order a habit for you. But, for today, I am sure there will be no objection to your borrowing one of mine. And we must see if Cedric can escort us.'

Cedric was only too delighted to do so, and Henrietta presently found herself riding sedately through the park at his side while her stepmother rode on ahead in the midst of a laughing group of young officers. Watching her turn to flirt first with this one, then with that, Henrietta found herself wondering, not for the first time, just what kind of a woman her father had married.

To Henrietta's well-concealed relief, Lady Cowper did indeed send the coveted voucher for Almack's and she was able to make her debut there the following week, ravishing, Cedric told her, in silver gauze over white satin. Mr. Brummel danced with her, and a Royal Personage was heard to enquire who she was.
The Mirror of Fashion
called her The Boston Beauty and
La Belle Assemblée
hailed her as The American Heiress. Her success in society was assured.

She plunged into her new life with an enthusiasm that amused and amazed Lady Marchmont and her son. But Cedric was her devoted slave and she even persuaded him to rise somewhat earlier than his accustomed hour of noon in order that she might take advantage of the unfashionable morning hours to explore the sights of London. Laughing and protesting that he had not worked so hard since he left Eton, he nevertheless acted as her guide as she plunged further and further into the heart of London, insisting one day that she be taken up the dome of St. Paul's, the next that they visit the menagerie at the Royal Exchange. If she sometimes wished for a more congenial companion, or found herself dreaming of an encounter in a country lane and a pair of piercing blue eyes, she kept these thoughts to herself, bore with Cedric's inevitable boasting and bets, and congratulated herself on his faithful attendance.

Meanwhile, the season was in full swing and she was in the thick of it. She attended a breakfast at the Duke of Devonshire's Chiswick house and refused an offer of marriage in the conservatory. She went to the opera and refused another offer in the lobby. She went to the play and to a succession of balls, each one more crowded than the last; and all the time Cedric, who seemd to have given up all thought of returning to Brighton, remained her squire, while his mother was constantly surrounded by a fluctuating group of officers and young men about town. Henrietta, brought up in a sterner society, could not help but be shocked at the way she flirted with them,
though she had to admit to herself that it all seemed quite impartial: None of them was more of a favourite than the rest. There was, after all, safety in numbers. Besides, they all sooner or later proposed to her. She was not The American Heiress for nothing.

As for Lord Marchmont, he and his wife hardly ever seemed to meet except when they entertained in their house, when he always put in an appearance but tended to talk almost entirely to his political associates. If he noticed Lady Marchmont's flirtations, he gave no sign of it, and when they were together she was all pretty deference to him and all affection for Henrietta. Indeed, they were in appearance a perfect model of a family, and Henrietta was puzzled to find that her only moments of real ease were the breakfasts she made a point of sharing with her father. She might not creep into bed until four in the morning; she was always up at eleven to pour his tea and hear how things had gone the day before in the House of Lords. He made no secret of his surprise at her understanding of English politics and delighted her by making her his confidante and often his secretary. She knew that she had done much to help him resign himself to his failure to achieve supreme office. Instead of being First Minister himself, he was rapidly becoming Lord Liverpool's right-hand man, as he had been Mr. Perceval's, and many of his most successful speeches were rehearsed to her over the breakfast table. His wife, it seemed, cared nothing for politics, or rather cared only, as she did for so many things, in terms of society. She would exclaim as loudly as anyone at the iniquity of the Whigs or the shameless manoeuvrings of Mr. Brougham, but it was in exactly the same tone in which she would condemn a social climber or an ill-made dress.

And there was worse than that. Henrietta learned a bitter lesson when she happened to mention to her stepmother on their morning ride that her father intended to take a particularly strong line in the House about the question of supplies to the army in Spain. To her horror, she later heard Lady Marchmont broadcasting this information to her callers, among them a few notable Whig ladies. Fortunately, Lord Marchmont had not yet left for the House. Henrietta excused herself, hurried to his study and told him, almost in tears what had happened. There had not been time for her to think what an unpleasant accusation she was bringing against her stepmother
as well as against herself and it was only as she told her story that she realised this. But her father merely smiled and thanked her.

‘You have learned a useful lesson, my dear. In politics, trust no one.'

She swallowed a sob. ‘You mean you will not talk to me anymore. Oh, I know it serves me right…'

‘I meant nothing of the kind. I said you had learned a useful lesson and I know you will remember it. As for today's business, put it out of your mind. You have given me warning. I shall get Harrowby to make the speech instead of me and the gossips will be confounded. Now, had you not best return to your guests? I have no doubt you have enough of them. But first tell me, my dear, are you happy here?'

‘Happy?' She thought it over for a minute. ‘I am happy when I am with you, Father, but to tell truth I am beginning to find this business of society a little tedious: One seems to have the same conversation so often and to do the same things so regularly. I wish it was possible for an elegant female to
do
anything.'

He smiled at her very kindly. ‘I was afraid you might find it so. But do not despair. It will not be for long. When you are married, you will be able to make a life of your own. In the meantime, remember that you are indeed doing something: You are being the greatest possible comfort and help to me. I do not think I had realised, before you came, how lonely I was.'

From that time on, Henrietta's understanding with her father was closer than ever. But Lady Marchmont was furious.

‘I thought you said my lord was to speak in the House yesterday,' she scolded over the morning paper next day. ‘A pretty fool you have made me look to the world. It was Harrowby, you see, who spoke about supplies for Spain. What gave you the idea that it was to be my lord?'

Henrietta, who was learning rapidly, merely smiled and excused herself. She must, she said, have mistaken something her father had said. From then on, she never referred to their breakfast-table conversations. But she received another shock when Madame Bégué sent in her bill, which was for more than the whole of her first quarter's allowance. She took it at once to her stepmother, who was busy examining satins and gauzes.