Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Hetty sat in the corner of the room as her mother moved around the space, huffing as she packed her trunk. The older lady's chin wobbled with disbelief as she carefully folded the gowns, and Hetty could see that her hands were shaking.

"My poor daughter," she breathed, pausing to look at Hetty. "To think that he has done this to you! The shame of it!"

Hetty's heart twisted. She didn't know whether she felt better that her parents were finally here. They had arrived just this morning, two days after she had sent her letter to them, informing them of her dire situation. They had swept into the house, taking control.

At first, she had been relieved. But now, it was as if their presence was underlining it was real. Her shame, and the scandal, that she was about to be enveloped in.

Her father had been curt, as was his habit, and immediately sprang into practical action. He was out in Derrington now, arranging for the sale of all the household furniture. He had already been to see Mr Baldwin, the solicitor, to confirm the sale of the house. He had been tight-lipped with anger when he had returned from that meeting.

And now, her mother was helping Hetty pack her clothes. They were taking her back to Hillsworth House, their country estate, first thing in the morning. They had informed her that it was happening, and she hadn't put up any argument. She felt that she was simply riding a wave, a passive thing, being swept away by circumstances beyond her control.

Her mother mumbled under her breath, returning to the packing. She held up a gown in her arms, her lips thinning.

"Part of your trousseau," she said, shaking her head. "Along with so many of these new gowns. How can it be that only weeks ago we were at the dressmakers getting these made." She paused, staring at Hetty again. "You were so happy. I was so happy, thinking of my only daughter, married at last. And now, it is a whole sorry mess. I do not know what to make of it at all."

Hetty took a deep breath. "I do not know what to make of it either, Mama. It is far worse for me than it is for you." Her heart started to pound in her chest, and she felt a sick wave of shame wash over her. "I am ruined now. Frank has abandoned me. I have no home of my own. How do you think I feel? I am disgraced."

"Oh, Hetty," said her mother, tears springing into her eyes. "I did not mean to be insensitive, my dearest. I just feel so affronted, on your behalf." She sighed deeply. "We were all hoodwinked by Frank Blackmore. He comes from a good family, and there was no indication he was the rake he turned out to be. How could any of us have known that this would happen?"

"No one could," whispered Hetty. "Frank could charm the birds off the trees. He pretended he was sincere in the regard that he had for me. He pretended that he respected me and sincerely wanted me as his wife."

"It is no reflection on you, Hetty," said her mother fiercely. "You are a credit to your father and I. Frank Blackmore did not deserve you." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Just between us, I argued with your father at the beginning of your engagement that we could have done better for you. You had many suitors, after all, some who were better placed than Mr Blackmore. But your father insisted that he was the best suitor, and now look at what has happened …"

Hetty felt tears spring into her eyes again, but she bit her lip, determined not to cry. She had cried so much in the last few days she was weary of it. It didn't help. It didn't help her situation. No amount of tears was going to change the fact that she was deserted, without a home, forced to crawl back to her parents with her tail between her legs.

This was never supposed to happen to her. She was five and twenty; she had waited so long for a suitable suitor. Her mother was right – since her debut, gentlemen had flocked around her, but she had been cautious, not wanting to rush into anything. It wasn't the possibility of love that had consumed her – she had never been particularly romantic, and besides, there had only been one brief encounter with a gentleman, years ago, that had ever made her heart quicken. She had accepted that perhaps she was just not meant for romantic love; perhaps she was just too practical for such an emotion.

Frank Blackmore had been different. For starters, he wooed her gradually, seeming to sense her caution. And while she had never fallen wildly in love with him, she had respected him, thinking that he was a fine gentleman.

She had believed that he would protect her and provide for her. And there had been a small voice in the back of her mind that had whispered to her that she wasn't getting any younger. That if she was too fussy, she might just end up on the shelf.

And so, she had taken the plunge. And look where it had got her. A deserted wife, with nothing. She did not know how she was going to bear it.

***

It was a subdued dinner that night. They all sat around the new dining table, which would soon belong to someone else, picking at the roasted beef that the cook had prepared.

Hetty suddenly realised that she had to deal with the staff, as well. She needed to tell them that their services were no longer required, that they should seek other positions. She could feel a slight ache begin to throb in her temples. She would do it first thing tomorrow morning.

She glanced at her father, who was sitting at the head of the table, a grim look on his face. He stabbed viciously at his meat.

"If I see that man again," he suddenly announced in a booming voice, which caused both Hetty and her mother to jump, "I am going to challenge him to a duel. I want to run a blade through his black heart."

"Husband," said her mother, looking shocked. "There is no need for such language!"

"Is there not?" asked her father, frowning as he stared at her. "The man abandoned our daughter the day after her wedding. He sold their home from beneath her. I think they are two very good reasons for colourful language regarding the scoundrel."

Hetty stared at her father. "Papa, I understand how frustrated you are," she said in a trembling voice. "I am sorry that you have been put in this position. That this shame has been put upon you …"

"Henrietta," he said, raising his voice again. "I do not want to hear you talk like that! The shame is that man's alone. You are innocent in all of this. Do not ever feel that you are in any way responsible for this debacle."

Hetty hung her head so that he could not see the tears, which suddenly stung her eyes. She couldn't ask for more supportive parents. And yet, even though her father was vehement in his denial that this was in any way her fault, a small kernel of doubt was lodged firmly in her chest, and she could not get rid of it.

Was there something deficit in her that had caused Frank to act in such a brutal way? Had she said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing, to make this happen? If she had been a different woman, might this not have occurred? She had thought that he admired her greatly, that he respected her, even if he wasn't passionately in love with her. But he had treated her worse than he would treat a stray dog that had just wandered onto his doorstep.

Perhaps it was her fault, in some way that she could not understand.

"The trunks are all packed," said her mother, picking up her wine glass. "Everything is in order. We will be ready to leave first thing in the morning." She paused, gazing around the dining room with sad eyes. "That it has come to this. The solicitor was quite adamant that there was no way to reverse the sale of the house, even in these extraordinary circumstances?"

Her father shook his head, grimly. "The scoundrel was clever," he said bitterly. "He has done everything by the book. As soon as he had secured Hetty's dowry, he went ahead with the sale. It is all legally binding, and there is no recourse. Frank Blackmore had the right to sell this house, without Hetty's consent, of course. That is the law of the land."

Her mother sighed heavily. "Well, I doubt that Hetty would want to live here alone anyway after what has happened." She turned to her daughter. "It is best that you come home, my dearest. We can protect you from the full force of the scandal, which shall inevitably come, once word gets out as to what has happened here."

"Of course it is for the best that Hetty returns to us," said her father, irritably. "There is no question of that. But it still makes my blood boil that he has got away with this. That he has sailed off into the sunset with Hetty's dowry as well as the money from this house." He turned to Hetty, staring at her with intense eyes. "He never hinted at anything that foreshadowed this? Any mention of someone that might have spurred him on to do such a drastic thing?"

Hetty's blood ran cold. "What do you mean, Papa?"

Her father's mouth twisted. "I am not sure exactly. But rest assured, I shall be making enquiries as to where he is and what he is doing now. I shall find the rat and find out what he is up to. There is more to this story than meets the eye."

There was a strained silence in the room, as they all contemplated what had driven Frank Blackmore to such extreme actions.

"He did not say anything much in the note he left me," said Hetty, in a trembling voice. "Only that he had been having doubts about the marriage in the months leading up to it. He claimed that his decision to flee was spontaneous, that he simply could not go ahead with it."

"Poppycock," growled her father. "We all understand that this was a calculated act. The sale of the house prior to the wedding proves it. He made very sure that he had secured your dowry and that the marriage certificate was signed before he acted, making anything that was yours legally his own. This was no spur of the moment choice. He could have backed out of the engagement at any point, but he chose not to."

"I shall never speak to the Blackmore family again," declared her mother, in a high, thready voice. "They are dead to us now. To think that one of their members acted in this detestable way. His mother will die of the shame of it. We are not the only ones who will suffer from that man's actions."

"I do not wish to associate with them, either," said her father thoughtfully. "However, they may be useful, right now. As soon as we return to Hillsworth House, I shall be calling on them. Mrs Blackmore might know something about him that we do not. I shall press on her that it is in her benefit, as well as our own, to confess if there is anything about that man they have been hiding."

"Such as?" asked her mother with wide eyes.

Her father sighed deeply. "Who knows, wife? He might be hiding any number of things. Perhaps he is a degenerate gambler or drinker. Perhaps he needed a large sum of money for dark purposes. It is possible."

Hetty felt her heart thump painfully in her chest. She had never considered such things, but then, why would she? Frank Blackmore had appeared to be a perfectly respectable gentleman. And she was a young lady, who was sheltered from the seedy parts of life that her father had just spoken of. She had read her share of Gothic novels but believed that it could not be true, that people in real life could be so degenerate.

She had been sheltered and cossetted, but that was expected, for a young lady of her class. It was not unusual, in the least. It might have continued that way for the rest of her life if this had not happened to her.

She almost wished that it was true. That he was a degenerate, in some manner, and it would dissolve this kernel of doubt that this was somehow her fault. That if she had just been more charming, more beautiful, or more gifted, he would not have done this to her. He would not have rejected her in such a brutal manner. He would not have made her a laughingstock, an object of pity, in this appalling way.

She repeated the vow to herself. This would never happen to her again. No man would ever get the chance to humiliate her like this in the future.

***

The next day, she climbed into the carriage, settling herself beside her mother. Her trunks, containing all of her personal items, had been tied to it half an hour ago. She was ready, at last, to leave it all behind.

She gazed out at the townhouse, with a yearning, heavy heart. She knew that she would never see it again, or if she did, only as she passed by. She tried to imagine herself passing it at some future point, and how she would feel. Would she have to avert her eyes, the pain still as strong as it was, now? Or would the passage of time heal her fully, and she would be able to gaze upon it without a flicker of emotion?

Her eyes stung with tears as she stared at it. A two-storey sandstone house, with long windows. A high wrought-iron fence. A manicured front garden, with a line of rose bushes flanking the path towards the front door. Her new home that had been snatched from her before she had even had a chance to become familiar with it.

She heard the crack of the coachman's whip, and they were away, the wheels slowly turning. Resolutely, she turned to the front, not looking back.

It had only been a few days ago that she had been a blushing bride, tripping down the aisle in her ivory wedding dress, a train of gossamer trailing behind her. Frank had stood at the altar, gazing at her approvingly as she had made her way slowly towards him. She had never imagined, in her wildest dreams, what was about to happen. How the dream was about to come crashing down around her.

She was still Mrs Frank Blackmore, but in name only. How could she claim to be a married lady? Because she had exchanged vows and signed a piece of paper? Frank had not even lain with her on their wedding night. She was still a maiden, as innocent as ever. In all respects, she was still Miss Henrietta Arnold. But the world did not see her that way any longer.

As the carriage turned the corner, heading out of Derrington, she contemplated what lay ahead of her. Back to her old life, as a dependent in her parents' home, withering away, year by year. She suddenly knew that she could not endure it, but equally, what alternative was there?

She was a married woman. Divorce was out of the question. She could never marry again. She had entered a strange nether world, where she was neither married nor single. What was to become of her?

She bit her lip so hard that she almost drew blood. She must secure her future, in some way. She just had to think it through as to how that was going to be possible.

There were so few options open to women. If she were a man, she could take off, seek her fortune somewhere else, leave the past behind her. But that was not possible for a lady of her class. She was bound as surely as if she were a bird in a gilded cage.