Chapter Seven
Henrietta and her father arrived home from the park to be greeted at the door by Aunt Gabrielle. A letter fluttered in her hand. “This comes not from Philippe, but a trusted servant. Philippe has escaped the tumbrel, traveling safely through the barricades dressed as a pig farmer.” She fumbled for her handkerchief. “He was in Paris when he heard a rumor that an émigré army was to be formed in England. He considered he’d be more useful here, so he set out for the Channel. His servant last saw him riding for Le Havre. But he has since lost contact. Here!” She thrust the letter at Henrietta’s father, her voice hoarse. “Philippe should be on English soil by now.”
Her father looked unconvinced. He took her aunt’s letter and walked down the corridor with his arm around her. Henrietta wiped away tears. She prayed her uncle was on his way home. She dreaded that her father might go to France.
After changing her habit for a gown of cream brocade, Henrietta sorted through the calling cards on the silver tray on the console table in the hall. She hoped Mr. Hartley might have dropped his card in on the way to the park, but was disappointed not to find it. Among the callers, she found Mr. Foxwell’s card. She remembered him from Almack’s because he had made her laugh.
Her aunt appeared to have regained some of her composure at luncheon. Her father had disappeared on business. As she ate her fricassee, Aunt Gabrielle said, “You made a great impression last night, ma fille. Several calling cards arrived this morning. We shall be receiving visitors at two o’clock.”
“Yes, Aunt. I saw them.” She didn’t find Christian’s card, which left her strangely unsettled.
“Did anyone among them take your fancy?”
Henrietta longed to see her aunt restored to her jovial self. She regretted not being able to mention at least one young man who’d made a strong impression on her. “I enjoyed Mr. Foxwell’s company.”
“Oh, yes, and closer in age to you,” Aunt Gabrielle said.
Henrietta flushed at her aunt’s perspicacity. “But I don’t wish to marry him.”
When her aunt moved on to discuss who would attend Lady Henworth’s card party that evening, Henrietta pushed thoughts of the unsuitable Christian Hartley from her mind. Not even an ungrateful niece could spoil her aunt’s mood since now that she was convinced Uncle Phillipe would arrive at any moment.
The first of the afternoon callers arrived—a widow, Lady Montague and her daughter, Irene. Lady Montague continued to crane her neck to peer at the door.
She enquired more than once after Henrietta’s father.
He soon appeared, having changed into dark breeches and a shoulder hugging bottle-green coat, with a silky white cravat at his throat. Lady Montague tittered as he kissed her hand. “Charmed.” He smiled at the ladies, but Henrietta wasn’t fooled. She twisted a curl around her finger, wondering when he would disappear to visit Mademoiselle Garnier again. She found her question answered when her father bowed and left them to call on a friend. Lady Montague gathered up her shawl and reticule soon after. Before leaving, she issued an invitation for her father, her aunt and Henrietta to join them at the theatre on Friday evening.
Lord Bixby, the boyishly slender man she’d danced with at Almack’s Assembly rooms, arrived with Mr. Foxwell. Henrietta doubted Lord Bixby was much older than herself. She immediately dismissed him as too green by half. Although she had enjoyed dancing with Mr. Foxwell, the fact was he lacked grace. A tall, lanky man, he folded himself into a Chippendale chair, as though he didn’t know what to do with his legs. But when her aunt left the room for a moment, Foxwell became far more interesting when he explained about the party he was arranging for Friday evening. They were to attend a masked ball at Vauxhall Gardens.
Lord Bixby reluctantly declined.
“Masks and dominos? It sounds like great fun!” Henrietta had visions of a mysterious black mask edged in silver, hiding the upper half her face, and a matching cape-like domino lined in purple satin.
“If your aunt agrees,” Mr. Foxwell said, as they rose to leave. “You are both most welcome to join my party.”
A half-dozen more people called, and invitations filled the calendar for August and part of September. “I have no intention of going to Vauxhall Gardens,” Aunt Gabrielle said when the door closed on the last of them. The drawing room was quiet again, but for the snuffling of the sleeping dogs. “Not only do I heartily dislike Vauxhall, it is no place for a gently reared young woman.”
“Who does go there, Aunt?”
Aunt Gabrielle frowned. “Not those of our set.”
Henrietta, who’d become sleepy sitting so close to the fire, sat up. “You mean rakes go there?”
Aunt Gabrielle’s lips firmed. “Indeed!”
“Shall we go to the theatre?” She wondered if Mr. Hartley would be at Vauxhall Gardens. It sounded like a place he would frequent.
Aunt Gabrielle’s hand hovered over a plate of sweetmeats. She selected a marzipan. “My literary group meets here on Friday.”
“I do wish to go. Might I go to the theatre without you?”
“I don’t see why not. I shall ask Lady Montague to escort you.”
“Is that necessary? I could meet them at the theatre.”
Aunt Gabrielle popped sugarplum in her mouth. She waved her hand. “Very well. Your maid can escort you.”
Henrietta clapped her hands, waking the dogs. “Wonderful.”
