Chapter Eight
In the carriage, Henrietta impressed on Molly not to say a word to anyone, about Vauxhall. Molly was to return home with the coach. She eyed Henrietta with a worried frown.
“I do hope you stay safe, Lady Henrietta. I shouldn’t want to have to tell your father what you’ve done. I’d fair die.”
“Goodness Molly, don’t fuss so. There is no reason why you should. Mr. Foxwell will take diligent care of me.”
Doubt filled her maid’s eyes as John Coachman, under instructions to deposit Henrietta at the theatre, pulled up the horses. Patrons gathered on the pavement. The groom opened the door and assisted her down. After assuring he and the coachman her party waited nearby, she turned and walked toward the entrance to the theatre.
After the carriage rattled its way down the street, she searched for a free hackney. She found one that had just pulled in to disgorge theatre goers.
Fearful that she’d find Irene and her mother staring after her, Henrietta gave swift instructions and climbed inside. There was no sign of them among the crowd on the pavement. The horse pulled out into the traffic while her heart thudded with excitement.
A sedan chair passed by, with a link boy lighting the way with his torch, leaving the smell of pitch in his wake. It seemed extravagant with barely a cloud. A full moon like a huge golden ball, hung suspended, turning the night light as day, and revealing soot-stained brick walls and refuse strewn cobbles. Cats yowled and chased each other down an alley.
Henrietta chafed at the slow trip. She wished she’d arranged to be met at a later hour. It would be well past nine by the time they arrived at Vauxhall Gardens. What if Mr. Foxwell had given up on her? At last, she alighted in Bridge Street and paid the driver. “Could you please return to fetch me at midnight?”
The jarvie touched his cap with his whip. “I’m off by then, miss.”
Mr. Foxwell would surely take her home, and if not, there was bound to be a vehicle for hire in such a busy place. But her stomach still clenched with anxiety as the jarvie drove away. What if Mr. Foxwell couldn’t be found?
A rumble of merriment came from the gardens. The moonlit river was awash with barges and small craft. Henrietta paid her guinea and entered through the turnstile.
The gothic-styled Grand Quadrangle was just as Mr. Foxwell had described it. Thousands of variegated lamps were festooned among the trees. A man’s voice rang out in a very fine rendition ofNymphs and Shepherdsaccompanied by an orchestra.
Henrietta searched for Foxwell, but couldn’t see him among the swirling, brightly colored dominos. The absence of a domino and mask made her conspicuous. She hovered beside a pillar watching people straggle along the paths, laughter erupting as each tried to guess whose face lay behind the masks. A juggler tossing balls walked past, followed by a crowd of admiring revelers.
She trembled with relief when the tall figure of Mr. Foxwell appeared in a crimson domino. His mask pushed up on his forehead. Henrietta darted out to greet him.
He bowed. “Lady Henrietta, I’m so pleased you came.” He gazed around for her aunt.
“I came alone.”
His eyebrows flew up to meet his mask. “Your aunt permitted you to come unescorted?” He handed Henrietta the lavender mask edged with silver and a matching domino which he carried over his arm.
“No, of course she didn’t,” she said, eager to don the disguise. “I wanted to come, but she wouldn’t allow it.”
“I say!” Mr. Foxwell’s Adam’s apple bobbed alarmingly. “Your father will run me through. And rightfully so.”
“Oh, but they don’t know I’m here,” Henrietta said with a grin. She gazed around. “I believe rakes and opera dances come here? Where is your party?”
He hesitated as if unsure what to do with her. Then he gave a shrug. “We go this way. You’d best stay close to me.”
A bell clanged. “What is that?”
“The bell draws people to view the Cascade,” Foxwell said. “It’s a water feature. The most popular display here.”
“Could we see it?”
Mr. Foxwell still had not recovered from finding her alone. He shook his head. “No time for that. It only lasts fifteen minutes,” he muttered.
He took her arm and said they were going to the Grove where the orchestra played. Beneath the colonnades, the boxes were filled with supper parties, Mr. Foxwell explained. His cool attitude thawed as they walked. Henrietta admired the massive Rotunda which she was told held a theatre for two thousand people. She wished her aunt had come with her, she might have enjoyed it more.
Giggling women and unsteady men bumped into her as they passed. Couples romped and groped at each other among the trees. Henrietta turned to stare and almost lost sight of Mr. Foxwell’s crimson domino. She had to run to catch up with him. They reached the Grove, a square enclosed by walks and the western wall of the gardens, and entered.
Mr. Foxwell escorted her to his supper box where half a dozen people she’d never met sat eating ham and tiny chickens, and drinking arrack punch and wine. The orchestra played a lively tune. Dancers performed the steps with more abandon than Henrietta thought possible as partners were switched and switched again. Men’s hands clutched where a gentleman’s hands should never go, on bottoms and ladies’ bosoms. There was a great deal of laughing.
Henrietta lowered her gaze to the glass of spicy strong punch she’d been given. She was glad of her mask; her cheeks were so hot. “They’re a rowdy lot tonight,” Mr. Foxwell said. His tone and expression inferred she was the one at fault.
