‘Dearest, you’ve looked awfully unwell since the ball. Positively ashen.’ Anne looked concernedly at her as she buttered a piece of toast, while Agnes nodded emphatically. ‘Did something happen?’
‘What could possibly have happened to Henrietta? You happen to other people, sweet, not the opposite.’ Lydia, radiant in a butter-coloured muslin, smiled at her with an optimism that Henrietta found absurdly touching. ‘If there are no gentlemen limping through Bath, or gibbering under blankets, we can be assured that none of them attempted anything more than a polite greeting.’
‘I wish I could ask Henry if any men have been limping or gibbering at his Club.’ Anne bit into the piece of toast with a neat crunch; Henrietta watched, dimly aware that she hadn’t had anything resembling an appetite since the champagne she had drunk at the ball. ‘Because I know the face of my sister as well as I know my own, and things look decidedly grim.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Lydia leaned in closer, regarding Henrietta with an irresistible mixture of sadness and mockery. ‘She means to tell us nothing whatsoever.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Henrietta rolled her eyes; her sisters always managed to soften her eventually, through a combination of sweetness and downright impertinence. ‘I am merely dispirited. Low. Melancholy.’
Those are the words of a woman who has spent a little too much time with her books.’ Anne delicately removed a crumb that had fallen to the tablecloth. ‘Be careful not to become too attached to them, dear.’
‘... Yes.’ Henrietta looked into her sister’s gentle, worried face, the seed of an idea forming. ‘Perhaps I have become too attached. Not attached enough for my attachment to become a—a cause for concern… but one could say too attached, yes.’ She idly played with the toast on her plate, wondering how to phrase it. ‘Given that I am… unused, to attachment… how does one learn again to live in a balanced fashion?’
‘Oh, typical Henrietta. Attached to books, rather than gentlemen.’ Lydia smiled; Henrietta attempted to smile back, even if the result was somewhat sour. ‘I have never suffered a similar bout of overly-enthusiastic scholarship, but plenty of brisk walks in rainy weather have cured more than one attachment to a mediocre gentleman.’ Lydia smiled wider. ‘Thank goodness.’
If only Lord Westlake were mediocre. Henrietta picked at her toast. ‘I am a little too inclined to catch chills in inclement weather.’
‘True. I hate to think of you confined to bed—you would be bored enough to cause all kinds of mischief.’ Lydia looked at Agnes, who smiled shyly in agreement. ‘But a change of scenery can be pleasant, even if the change one sees is nothing more than a rain-swept path by a hedge.’
A change of scenery. That was an idea; a day or two, perhaps a week, spent determinedly thinking of Other Things. Henrietta flicked idly through the calling cards of friends in her mind’s eye; too cold a house, too irritating a laugh, too many younger siblings, too much opportunity for daydreaming…
‘Oh.’ She put down her knife, cross with herself for not thinking of it sooner. ‘I suppose I could finally meet Olive.’
‘Goodness! Miss Whitstable?’ Lydia clapped her hands. ‘But that’s a marvellous idea! You will finally see one another in the flesh, instead of unnerving all and sundry with the paper alchemy you two perform.’
‘It’s hardly alchemy. We only correspond to deepen one another’s knowledge—she is far better at French than I, and I am far better at all forms of music.’ Henrietta nodded, her mind already firmly set. ‘Yes. I will go to Rowhaven. She will welcome my company—for a week, perhaps.’ She stood up dreamily, letting her napkin fall to the table. ‘I will begin packing directly.’
‘A lovely idea.’ Lydia stood too. ‘Do you know, it’s awfully odd that you mentioned—’
With a half-distracted nod, Henrietta left the room. The remaining sisters looked at one another, dumbfounded, before settling back into their usual breakfast attitude of sleep-fuddled musing.
‘Honestly. I do wish she wouldn’t simply glide from the room like a bat caught in a draught.’ Lydia rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair as Agnes began to eat. ‘I had barely managed to say half of my sentence. I was merely going to say that hearing the word Rowhaven was something of a pleasant coincidence—I spent at least half an hour at the ball in ecstasies over its gardens, with poor Lord Westlake in attendance.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Anne took another bite of toast. ‘That man can listen to ladies with the most remarkable patience.’
‘I believe it must be pure force of habit, where I am concerned. Lord knows he suffered through a tremendous amount of my rhapsodies in the tropics. But in truth, he seemed interested—after all, I believe some of the plants collected on the voyage were collected on the orders of the Whitstables. Lord Westlake was eager to learn the identity of at least some of his speculators. And of course, I rattled on about Olive and Henrietta, and their funny little friendship made up of ink and stamps.’ Lydia shrugged happily, picking up a pot of strawberry jam. ‘I vaguely remember him mentioning something about a visit. How nice it would be, if he and Henrietta found themselves at Rowhaven at the same time.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Anne murmured absently, placing her toast on her plate. ‘Very pleasant.’
There was a short, reflective period of silence. Then, in a sort of muffled rush, the air was alive with the sound of the sisters talking over one another.
‘But you cannot possibly think he—’
‘He’s terribly big, I really couldn’t ever see Henrietta next to someone so bearish—’
‘She dropped her fork when he came for dinner! I saw her! She had never dropped so much as a china tea-cup in her life before then!’
‘And she was so terribly particular about her gown before the ball.’ Anne pushed her plate to one side, her toast entirely forgotten. ‘My goodness.’
‘And now they are to meet at Rowhaven!’ Lydia’s eyes were wide with glee. ‘How marvellous!’
‘We do not know if they are to meet. And we could be completely wrong.’ Anne gave an elegant shrug. ‘For all we know, Henrietta has formed an attachment to an entirely different person.’
‘Oh, really.’ Lydia tutted. ‘And who? The Whitstables offer no-one eligible, unless Henrietta has decided to elope with a gardener or zoo-keeper. We Herefords have weathered our share of scandals, but an affair with a servant would be enough to close any number of doors against her. Henrietta would never be so foolish.’
Agnes blushed very deeply, looking down at her plate in silence. Her two sisters ignored her, continuing to discuss the matter at hand.
‘We really cannot be sure that Henrietta has not managed to somehow orchestrate this whole business. Suggesting Rowhaven as if by chance, when all along she has plotted this very outcome with Lord Westlake.’ Lydia narrowed her eyes. ‘Why, they could be at Gretna Green before the week is out.’
‘That would be more scandal than Henrietta would find comfortable.’ Anne mused, her hand at her chin. ‘Perhaps we should arrange a visit ourselves? Some sort of chaperone?’
‘Susan would never allow it. She has us all preparing seed-bundles and choosing varieties of rose—Andrew is being driven quite mad.’ Lydia laughed gently. ‘One absence from the garden can be excused, but another would invite extreme displeasure.’
‘You are quite right.’ Anne pulled her plate back to her with a short sigh. ‘I suppose there is nothing we can do, apart from wait. And hope, of course, that all of this is an idle collection of girlish fantasies.’
‘And write many letters to Rowhaven, of course. Or—well, goodness, she has only just left the room.’ Lydia looked appealingly at Agnes. ‘Perhaps we could stop her? Reason with her?’
‘Reason with Henrietta?’ Agnes looked at Lydia, aghast. ‘Have you ever attempted to do such a thing?’
‘No.’ Lydia sighed. ‘No-one sensible ever has.’
As the morning ripened into day, white handkerchiefs were seen fluttering from the Longwater drive. Henrietta, rolling placidly alo
ng in the carriage as it made its way to Rowhaven, allowed herself the luxury of a little self-satisfaction as her sisters waved goodbye.
Seeing Olive Whitstable was a fine idea, a really splendid one—and Olive, in her usual flurry of ink blots and exclamation marks, had shown as much excitement for the plan as Henrietta had. Yes, they had been perfectly happy for their friendship to flourish within envelopes alone—but perhaps they had always been destined to meet in person, and maybe a hastily-organised week on the sprawling Rowhaven estate had always been the time and place appointed by the Fates.
With one hand on her chin, she looked blankly out of the carriage window as the horses trotted through gently sloping countryside. She had never really considered her friendship with Olive at length, but the alternative was considering Richard Westlake… and oh, Lord, that was not an inspired idea. Especially because, the more she thought about him, the less sure of herself she became…
No. Not now. She concentrated on Olive; funny, brisk Olive, who had advertised in the Bath Reader two years previously for someone with an excellent knowledge of Roman glassware. Henrietta, armed with a book or two from the Longwater Library, had replied with a treatise on the fluting seen in vases found in Canosa—and thus a splendid friendship had been born.
Olive, from what Henrietta had gleaned from their largely academic letters, lived on the Rowhaven estate in something of a menagerie; her father, Oliver Whitstable, had a narrow and profound interest in zoology. After Henrietta had informed Olive of the voyage to the Neerhoven Isles, several unusual plants were immediately requested—including a tree whose seed-pods acted as a delicacy for a certain race of flightless bird, the exact name of which Henrietta could not remember. Seed-pods, in her book, counted as an excellent reason to visit the Whitstables in their natural environment.
With her head newly full of Olive’s letters, the storm in Henrietta’s heart subsided to a manageable drizzle. The hours spent in the carriage became, if not pleasant, then bearable. When she finally heard the crunch of gravel and saw the distant outbuildings that Olive had described with such detail in her letters, Henrietta felt an excitement that was entirely unconnected to the nonsense of previous weeks.
‘Miss Hereford!’ A delighted shout came on the breeze; as the carriage stopped, a young woman approached with an exuberantly waving hand. ‘Am I recognisable? I know I sketched myself in ever-so-many letters, but who knows if I managed to do myself justice?’
Henrietta found herself smiling as she took in the curly-haired, bright-eyed visage of Olive Whitstable. The girl was exactly as she had written—tall, eager, perhaps a little nervous. As she disembarked, Olive helping her, she noticed a grey-haired man standing a little way away. ‘You are accurate in every respect. Is that your father?’
‘Yes.’ A slight shadow of what looked like awkwardness passed over Olive’s face. ‘Father? Miss Hereford is here to see us!’
‘Miss Hereford.’ As Oliver Whitstable looked up, his arms uncomfortably folded, Henrietta noted the way his eyes did not meet hers. He did not seem rude, or absent—if anything, he seemed a little overwhelmed. Henrietta, watching him, was irresistibly reminded of Susan Colborne; there was the same cautiousness, as if he were wary of surprises. ‘Welcome. A Hereford—you are one of those Herefords. Another guest that Rowhaven must thank—Olive has informed me of your botanical interests.’
‘Yes.’ Henrietta smiled, slightly confused. ‘Anther plant-hunter?’
‘Oh, this is wildly exciting.’ Olive merrily clapped her hands, her curls bouncing, as Henrietta looked at her with mild concern. ‘But you planned it, yes? It cannot possibly be a coincidence!’
Henrietta smiled, the small trickle of unease in her chest swelling to a flood. ‘What precisely am I meant to have planned, Olive?’
‘Oh, you. You cunning thing—how nice to see the mind in your head is as devious as the mind in your letters.’ Olive looked at her father, who seemed to have become distracted by a small insect that had landed on the wheel of the carriage. ‘To have no new visitors for such a long time, and then have two at once? Why, it is as if neither of you could bear to not see the Neerhoven plants arrive at Rowhaven!’
The flood of unease became a roaring tempest. Henrietta kept her smile deliberately placid, even as her brain began to scream in earnest.
‘My dear. You are being a little more cunning than even I can fathom.’ She linked arms with her friend, determined to steady herself as her head spun. ‘When you speak of a visitor, and the Neerhoven Isles…’
‘But you continue to insist that such a meeting is coincidence?’ Olive looked at her, clearly delighted. ‘Why, this is even better!’
A tall, manly figure was striding over the lawn in front of the house. Henrietta shielded her eyes with her hand, already knowing who she would see, but barely prepared for the powerful, physical shock that rippled through her body upon recognition.
‘Our botanical benefactor. The inimitable Lord Westlake.’ Olive smiled at Henrietta. ‘He arrived naught but an hour or two ago, quite by surprise—he is eager to see where all of the plants he so painstakingly collected will be put to grow.’ She waved; Henrietta watched the figure wave back, becoming clearer and clearer as he grew closer. ‘And now you are here, to see all of them be planted!’ She sighed happily. ‘Oh, what a wonderful week this will be for the Whitstables. I believe father will rather enjoy the company… provided he is not overly exercised, of course.’
‘Do not worry, Olive.’ Henrietta spoke absently, patting her friend’s forearm as she watched Lord Westlake approach. ‘The baron and I shall be exemplary guests.’
‘Of that, I have no doubt. But father can be so particular.’ Olive turned to Henrietta, a slight note of awkwardness entering her voice. ‘This week will not be too taxing, will it? It will not leave him feeling unduly put—upon?’
Henrietta felt herself tremble as Lord Westlake drew still closer. A week hadn’t lessened the way her body felt in his presence; if anything, it had magnified the sense of fragility, of helplessness, when she looked at his broad, sun-browned body.
Would this week be taxing? This week would be hellish.
‘No.’ Her voice sounded hollow, even to herself. ‘We will have a perfectly lovely week, all together.’
‘Excellent. Come—you must wish to change and dress, before you meet our guest. Let us hurry to the house.’ Olive took her hand, smiling. ‘And I must show you the library, of course.’
‘Oh yes. The library.’ Henrietta tried terribly hard to focus on mounds of books; dry, dusty, comforting books, that were in no way connected to the virile magnificence of the approaching Lord Westlake. ‘Please—as soon as possible.’
‘Of course.’ Olive began leading her down the drive, away from Westlake. ‘After a splendid luncheon all together, naturally.’
‘Yes.’ Henrietta’s heart sank. ‘Naturally.’
Luncheon had the potential to be a tremendously awkward affair. Henrietta made sure to arrive at the table slightly early, taking the trouble to arrange her skirts and hair in their most becoming fashion, in an attempt to control the wild tempest that raged inside her.
He was here? Were her actions so easily predicted—he had to have spoken to Lydia, or Anne. Perhaps he had made a list of places she had been likely to visit… oh, the annoyance, the irritation, at being so easily read!
He had come for her. Oh, yes, he had come ostensibly for the plants, but he had really come for her. There was no time long enough, no space large enough, to contain the enormity of the thought; there had been no time in the flurry of welcoming and unpacking to be alone with her thoughts, her increasingly agitated thoughts… oh, all she had wanted was to escape from him.
Or had she?
She forced herself to remain composed as the Whitstables filed into the room, followed by a smirking Lord Westlake. As Henrietta rose, the servants hurrying to place an array of dishes on the splendidly set table, she caught the man’s eye without meaning to.
‘Of course, the gardeners will await instructions as to how and when to plant the various specimens delivered here. As eager as I am to oversee the planting, I will not be able to attend to your every need, Lord Westlake, Miss Hereford—although there will be a few unguarded hours in the afternoons in which we may look at the occasional monument, or enjoy a rare book from the library.’ Oliver Whitstable looked significantly at Westlake, as Henrietta looked on. ‘I am currently embarking on a slightly difficult area of scholarship, which is occupying a great deal of my time.’
‘Oh yes?’ Westlake seemed determined to be as polite as possible, which meant he didn’t notice the look of sudden panic in Olive’s eyes. Henrietta, unsure as to what would occur, sipped at her water. ‘And what area of scholarship is that?’
Oliver put a hand to his beard, stroking it thoughtfully. ‘Sexual intercourse.’
Henrietta abruptly choked on her water. She looked wide-eyed at Olive, trying desperately not to laugh as Westlake gamely attempted to reply.
‘... I see. Is… is that a common area of study?’
‘Not the way I’m attempting to do it.’ Oliver sighed. ‘It is an absolute nightmare, trying to arrange the harnesses.’
Henrietta, one hand gripping the table leg, thought she would swallow her own tongue. Richard’s eyes were wider than she had ever seen them; Olive, throwing down her fork with the air of a soldier cornered in battle, spoke with a gaiety that bordered upon desperation.
‘In large mammals. Isn’t that right, father? More specifically, the length of gestation required when certain large mammals bear young. We have an ibex, an enormous seal in the lake—and there is even a pair of elephants, now, and we expect great things from them.’
Dukes and Devilry Page 16
