“I don’t believe so, aunt.”
“Well. Then. Fancy.” Her aunt fell silent.
Unable to continue weaving a web of lies, Hetty fell silent.
Aunt Emily wandered over to her desk. She picked up a pen and prodded her topknot with the end while studying the papers on the desktop. “This morning in anticipation of your visit, I penned a short verse in iambic pentameter. AnOde to Spring. Would you care to read it?” She held it out to her.
Hetty put down her teacup. Having just arrived, stiff and weary, and consumed with exhilaration at the sight of the big, bustling city, she’d never felt so little enthusiasm for rhyme. But she took the proffered page and read it.
“It’s wonderful, Aunt Emily. I love the way you’ve rhymed ‘tree’, with ‘free’ and linked ‘spring’ with ‘wing’. There is a deep sense of freedom when spring first sends up those green shoots after a long winter,” she said warmly, when she’d finished, although she found it too flowery for her taste. Somehow, the idea of spending her days penning verse had lost its attraction, although she was sure it would return, after the excitement of being here had died down. She wondered again why Aunt Emily had never married. Might the loss of a lover be the cause of filling her life with poetry, literature, and art? She must find a tactful way to ask her. Eustace had hinted at a mysterious man in her aunt’s past, but he’d been hazy on the details and her father had never mentioned it.
Her aunt tucked the poem into a book. “Stand up, Hetty, and turn around. Let me have a look at you.”
Hetty obligingly stood and completed a slow turn, drawing a frown from Aunt Emily. “Your dress is woefully outmoded. That shade of green was seasons ago. And sleeves are fuller this year.”
Her aunt’s interest in fashion was surprising because it seemed so out of character. “Papa has been economizing. And there’s not much of a choice of fabrics in Digswell. And if I order a gown from a catalogue, it’s not always a good fit.”
“My brother, dear as he is to me, is entirely too parsimonious.” She tsked. “For goodness’ sake, you are about to marry into the aristocracy.” She crossed the room to sort through a stack of magazines. “The sooner we do something about your wardrobe, the better.”
Her aunt selected a copy of theLa Belle Assembleemagazine. She handed it Hetty. “This has just arrived. See what appeals. We shall require a French modiste. Paris fashion has taken London by storm this year.”
Hetty guiltily admired the elegant gowns featured on every page. Might she have an outfit like one of these? Perhaps two would be more practical. She would get years of wear out of them in Digswell. She was struck by a ball gown with a stiff, ruffled collar. Extremely tall ostrich feathers decorated the lady’s headdress. “I do like this.”
Her aunt looked at the page. “Mm? One must not go overboard, perhaps.”
“What about this sea green turban?”
“We shall discuss it with the dressmaker. She will know what is suitable for every occasion. Fortunately, you have an excellent figure.” Aunt Emily pulled the bell to summon a servant. “You must tell me everything. I cannot wait to hear how this engagement came about.”
Hetty bent her head to hide her hot cheeks. “It happened quite fast, Aunt. Lord Fortescue finds himself in need of a fiancée.”
Her aunt sighed. “It’s not a love match?”
“More of a business arrangement.”
“But, you said he wasn’t in need of money.” Aunt Emily’s eyes widened. “If that were the case, Lord Fortescue would choose a lord’s daughter.”
“Yes, but it’s a matter of urgency.”
Her aunt’s eyes became owlish. “Urgency? I don’t understand, dear. Then what? Is he seriously ill?” Her face took on a tragic cast. “Surely you aren’t to be a young widow?”
Hetty twisted her handkerchief. She couldn’t produce a convincing lie to save her life, and her aunt’s understanding seemed a good deal sharper than her father’s. Or were men just easier to fool?
“Hetty?” Aunt Emily’s voice lowered accusingly. “There is a story here. I wish to learn it.” She sat down and folded her arms. “Tell all, if you please.”
Hetty sipped a glass of water. Her throat was horribly dry. She’d been pleading her case for over an hour. A study of her aunt’s face revealed there was still more to be said. “You have made a very bad mistake, indulging him in this, my dear. Your father has been remiss, but men… well, they have little commonsense.”
“But, Aunt…”
Her aunt held up a hand. “What will occur when the engagement ends? Tell me that.”
“I’ll return home.”To live with my dreams. She would become an oddity in Digswell she supposed. A whiff of scandal would follow her about, which might help make her poetry more popular.
“It must be something from the baron’s past,” her aunt said with conviction. “I don’t know him well, but I can’t believe Mr. Fennimore capable of such a thing.” She shook her head. “I understand your need to protect this man, but I can’t see that it should be you. It’s not wise.” Her brows drew together. “If your father knew the truth—”
“Oh, please don’t tell him, Aunt. I promise to when it’s at an end. I doubt it will be for very long, and I don’t want Papa upset unnecessarily. I have gained a good deal from this. After all, I’m here with you in London.”
“I’ve a good mind to speak to this Lord Fortescue. He has placed you in an invidious position.”
