“She sent a messenger,” she said, waving her hand as if Catherine was of no consequence. Mary fixed her eyes on Henrietta, appraising her, but there was a glint of glee in her eye that Henrietta didn’t comprehend.
Henrietta took this opportunity to study the woman before her. Catherine had said that, when she was young, Mary had been a reputed beauty, and Henrietta could see the remains of that glory in her person and bearing. Surely, she was somewhat faded now, her beauty no longer having the freshness of youth. What struck Henrietta most, though, was how similar her facial features were to her own.
When she had first seen Mary Forster in St. George’s, on the day of her brother’s wedding, she hadn’t been able to notice these parallels. The church had been dark and Henrietta had felt no recognition looking at the woman in front of her—especially since they had such divergent coloring. Now, she didn’t know how she had missed it. Yes, Mary Forster was very fair, with very light hair, but they had the same delicate features.
Henrietta had often lamented to Catherine that her eyes, nose, and mouth were so small and unremarkable. In recent years, in response to such comments, Catherine had teased her by saying that it was perverse to complain about a lack of beauty when she was regarded as one of the most desirable unmarried women of their world. Earlier, before her debut, Catherine would respond in a different manner. She would protest that her features were not unremarkable—but she would admit that her vivacity created a compelling contrast with the natural sweetness of her face. Henrietta had never known what she meant, only seeing in her doll-like features a rather boring prettiness. In Mary, Henrietta could finally see what Catherine had meant. There was something compelling about the simple prettiness of Mary’s features as combined with her active, vivid air. It made you want to watch her—to see what she could do next.
Shaking off these thoughts, Henrietta tried to attend to the matter at hand.
“I don’t understand why Catherine would be anxious. I wrote to her and John telling them that we were safe. Well, Trem was shot. But that was an accident.”
“So, the papers are right, then?” Mary said, a wide smile on her face. “I have to say, my girl, I had thought that nearly twenty-two years of Breminster breeding would have knocked the Forster out of you. But I see that it hasn’t.”
“The papers?” Trem broke in, his face paling.
Mary reached over to a side table heaped with sheaves of newsprint and threw a stack in Henrietta’s lap. “Read the society letters.”
Henrietta and Trem both studied the documents.
Very recently seen as the luckiest woman in London, Lady H kicked up quite the stir when she escaped London in the dead of night—perhaps to elude the very same fortunate betrothal that has made her the envy of all society. Lord T has, apparently, pursued the lady to her hiding place.
A certain Lady H, very recently engaged, was apparently found in her coachman’s embrace by Lord T. The coachman purportedly refused to let her go and shot Lord T. No word on whether he will survive the brush or not.
Lord T has apparently picked the wrong bride—his choice having a flighty temperament and a taste for the lower orders.
“Bollocks!” Henrietta swore, as she read each item. “How could they know these things?”
“How they always do,” Trem said. “The servants.”
“And who can blame them?” Mary Forster snapped. “Many of them are paid more for this intelligence than they would make in a year scrubbing chamber pots and tending chimneys. But it hardly matters.”
Trem rose his eyebrows in response. “Just providing an explanation.”
Mary disregarded him and turned to Henrietta.
“So, it is true?” Mary said, casting a suspicious gaze on Trem. “Do I need to have this gentleman escorted out?”
“No!” Henrietta said, alarmed that Mary would be under such a misapprehension. “I very much want to be engaged to him.”
“Of course, it is not true,” Trem thundered and then seemingly realizing he was addressing his future mother-in-law, softened his voice. “Her coachman is sixty if he is a day.”
“He shot Trem accidentally,” Henrietta clarified. “He thought he was a highwayman.”
“Why did you flee London, then, if not to escape him?” The older woman gestured towards Trem.
“I didn’t think it through,” Henrietta tried. “It is hard to explain.”
Instead of looking confused, however, Mary nodded.
“It may surprise you, but I didn’t become one of the most notorious women of my generation by thinking everything through. Although I must say that, Henrietta, while I am difficult to eclipse, you’ve certainly made progress towards doing so.” She cast another wary look at Trem. “So, this man, he is of your own choosing? I know he is a great friend of your brother’s.”
With her tone, Mary conveyed that she regarded this status as no recommendation.
“I’ve read about him in the scandal sheets for years.”
“Having been so maligned there yourself, you surely know how much truth they hold,” Trem bit back. Henrietta could tell he was trying to modulate his voice but was failing.
“Yes,” she countered. “Very much truth, I’ve found.”
