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 inThe 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.”
