The only problem with the party lay in the invitations. Lady Elstead sat with her quill poised above paper for a very long time before she could bear to inscribe one to the Right Honourable Earl and Countess of Pirbright, but thought that at least they would find themselves ‘otherwise engaged’. However, to everyone’s surprise, possibly even Lady Pirbright’s, they did come. The earl, to whom the reason for the estrangement between the ladies could never be revealed, dug in his dull and normally submissive heels, and declared the girl was a good match for their only son, and he would not have tongues wagging that suggested otherwise. Lady Pirbright might look as if she were sucking lemons and treading barefoot upon glass, but come she did, and was invited by Lady Elstead to stand beside her at the top of the stairs. Only in her own head did she admit that she would like to have pushed her down them.

Lady Vernham was, as far as Lord Henfield was concerned, as important a guest as the Pirbrights, although he told her that privately.

‘Without you, ma’am, none of this would have been possible.’

‘It does make it sound a feat of prestidigitation, Henfield, but I thank you for the sentiment. For my part I only hope that when Gorleston seeks to tie the knot, he does so with less soul-searching and wearing of hair shirts. In fact, it might be preferable if I only hear about it all when the decision is made. This Season has made me see that he is not so dim-witted as I had been led to believe in his early youth, and I actually trust him to go about the business like a young man of sense.’ This, from Lady Vernham, was praise indeed.

Mr Newbold was sent an invitation, but sent a handwritten note excusing himself upon being previously promised to a friend for racing at Newmarket.

It was thus nearly a fortnight later that Charles escorted ‘his Henry’ back to the Marches, and when he handed her down outside her father’s door she was wearied but blissfully happy. Sir John came out into the early evening sunlight, with a pointer pup dancing at his heels. He shook Charles’ hand enthusiastically, and clasped his daughter to his bosom, as the pup barked and bounced about them.

‘Thank goodness you are back, Henrietta.’

‘Papa?’

‘When you have washed, and eaten, you must start immediately.’

‘Start? What?’

‘Why, a new pair of slippers, my dear. There is not a soft item of footwear left in the house.’ He smiled at her, and then laughed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sophia Holloway describes herself as a ‘wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford, and also writes the Bradecote and Catchpoll medieval mysteries as Sarah Hawkswood.

@RegencySophia

sophiaholloway.co.uk