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‘Three?’ Hebe squeaked. ‘Whatever for?’
‘And two—no, three pairs of new slippers, a gauze scarf, some long gloves…’ Mrs Carlton finally registered her stepdaughter’s surprise. ‘Why, I will start with an invitation to a soirée next Tuesday evening, and your primrose silk really will no longer do for best. Then I will suggest to Mrs Forrester that the Major should be invited to her ball in ten days’ time: she will be only too glad to add another new man to her list and for that we must make every push to present you at your best.’
‘And the third gown?’ Hebe enquired faintly.
‘Just a day dress, something suitable for the promenade, I think. Major Beresford must see you to advantage in every setting.’ She paused and looked fixedly at Hebe. ‘And your hair. This time you must allow Monsieur Faubert to do something with it. Perhaps a new crop?’
‘No!’ Hebe clapped her hands to the sides of her head as if to ward off the threatening scissors. The refugee French coiffeur might find a willing subject in her stepmother, but she had no intention of letting him near her with scissors and hot tongs. ‘No, Mama, I do not want to cut off my hair.’ It might be an unsatisfactory brown, but Hebe secretly thought the mass of unruly curls were her only beauty. Although who else was going to admire their romantic tumble when she only let them loose at night in the privacy of her own bedchamber, she could not say.
‘Oh, very well then.’ Mrs Carlton was not going to waste her energy on a fruitless battle. ‘Maria, please see that all of Miss Hebe’s gowns are well aired and pressed and that she has sufficient silk stockings.’
As the maid began to gather up the gowns that had been tossed on to the bed, her brown eyes sparkling with vicarious excitement, Hebe said, ‘I suppose Major Beresford is unmarried, Mama.’
‘Oh, my goodness, never say such a thing!’ Mrs Carlton hurried from the room, her face a picture of alarm. ‘Thank goodness Sir Richard gave us an up-to-date copy of the Peerage last month…’ Her voice could be heard faintly as she disappeared into her own room. ‘Here it is. Now…Abbotsford, Avery, Bottley, Brandon…’
The little Maltese maid turned to Hebe, her arms full of muslins and Hebe’s two silk gowns. ‘Oh, Miss Hebe! You are going to marry that man who looks like a beautiful, fierce saint?’
‘Certainly not!’ Hebe retorted firmly. Fierce saint, indeed!
‘Beresford,’ came the echo of Mrs Carlton’s voice, gaining in volume as she walked back along the landing, reading aloud as she came. ‘Here we are. George Beresford, third Earl of Tasborough, married Emilia… Has issue eldest son William, Viscount Broadwood, also Major the Honourable Alexander Hugh Beresford. The major is not married, thank goodness.’
‘He may have been since that was published,’ Hebe said repressively. ‘Or he may be affianced to be married.’
‘We must find out,’ Mrs Carlton said firmly. ‘Off you go, Maria. Now, be careful not to scorch anything.’
‘Well, I am certainly not going to ask him,’ Hebe said, jumping off the bed and walking to the window where she lingered, looking out longingly. What a beautiful day for a walk. A proper walk, not the sort of dawdling stroll, pausing every few moments to gaze into a shop or gossip with an acquaintance, which Mrs Carlton favoured.
‘Goodness, no, that would be fatal,’ Mrs Carlton agreed, shocked at the very thought. ‘I will ask Sir Richard to ascertain the position. In fact, I will write a note at once. The sooner we know where we stand, the better, for Major Beresford will be sure to call in the next day or two.’
But three days passed without sight, or word, of the Major. Mrs Carlton was cast down, and inclined to be cross with Sir Richard who, when closely quizzed, would only say vaguely that he was sure Major Beresford was busy somewhere about the island.
Hebe, who was not at all surprised, maintained an air of utter indifference, which infuriated her stepmother and hid a little ache of regret. It had been ridiculous to entertain any sort of hope that Alex Beresford would want to pursue their brief acquaintance, but she had foolishly allowed herself to be carried away by Sara Carlton’s enthusiasm and led into the sort of daydreams which could only end in disappointment.
She felt she had some excuse, for the Major was, it had to be said, very attractive when he smiled. And it would utterly overthrow the conceit of every young lady of Hebe’s acquaintance if he showed any sign of interest in her, the Plain Jane of Valetta society.
On the fourth morning after Sir Richard had brought the Major for luncheon Hebe slipped out of the house while Mrs Carlton was still propped up against her pillows, yawning over her morning chocolate and fretfully complaining that her curl papers had been twisted too tight the night before and she had hardly slept a wink.
The Carlton ladies enjoyed a respectable competence thanks to the careful provision of Hebe’s late papa, who had received his fair share of naval prize money, and to Mrs Carlton’s own modest portion. But Mrs Carlton’s ideas of elegance, and the accompanying niceties of life which were essential to maintain that state, kept their budget under constant tension.
Hebe had become an essential part of their domestic economy, for she found it both easy and enjoyable to hunt for bargains in the markets, barter over purchases and keep the household s
upplied at a cost that no servant would have bothered to achieve. Mrs Carlton might bewail the necessity of Hebe’s daily expeditions with her big basket, but she could not deny the quality and quantity of the food that graced their table, bringing a smile of satisfaction to Sir Richard’s face or earning a look of envy from less-adept hostesses when she gave a dinner.
And Hebe, with her regrettable enthusiasm for making friends with anyone and everyone, was consequently an infallible source of the cheapest crochet lace work, the latest arrival of scented almond oil soap from the North African coast or the news of a wonderful dressmaker who could copy a London fashion plate at dagger-cheap prices.
So her marketing trips were tolerated and Mrs Carlton shut her eyes to the fact that a simple trip to buy tomatoes, lemons and lamb cutlets and to place an order for fresh flowers could last most of the morning.
That morning Hebe was early, for she was intent on fish for dinner. Sir Richard was coming and fish of any kind was his declared favourite dish. She made her way down through the streets, already busy, cutting confidently through back alleys and tiny squares and running lightly down the long flights of steps to emerge at last through the great encircling wall overlooking Barriera Wharf.
She stopped there, as she always did, to look out over the blue of the Grand Harbour to the Three Cities, as the small towns on the opposite shore were so grandly known. The jumble of houses, walls, watchtowers and church towers, all in golden stone, glowed in the morning light, divided by the long fingers of water which penetrated deeply between them. In Dockyard Creek she could see the tops of the forest of masts that marked the English frigates and sloops clustered there, and across the water came the shrill call of a bosun’s whistle, cutting cleanly through the competing noises.
The scene never failed to hold her for several minutes, but eventually she tore herself away and walked down the paved slope to the waterside where the main fish market was held.
But its stalls proved disappointing for once and, after buying some shallots, six lemons and a large bunch of herbs, she turned her steps along the harbour wall to stroll in the direction of the mouth of the harbour and the defending bulk of Fort St Elmo. Small fishermen often berthed alongside here under the towering protection of the cannon-battered St Lazarus curtain wall. Usually they only landed enough fish for their extended families’ needs, but occasionally there was something interesting that they would be willing to part with for a fair price.
But the long wharfside was almost deserted as she rounded the angle of the bastion. A few of the brightly coloured boats bobbed at the end of their mooring ropes, sails furled, empty, the painted eyes watching silently from each prow. Perhaps the weather out to sea had been unfavourable. Hebe supposed it would be sensible to go back and look at the meat stalls in the long covered alleyways where the butchers congregated, but it was early still and she was disinclined for the bustle of the streets and the smell of the newly butchered meat.
Settling her basket more comfortably in the crook of her arm she began to wander slowly along, feeling pleasantly invisible in her plain gown, her wide-brimmed straw hat in the local style and her handwoven shawl draped simply around her shoulders. She looked like any of the local girls out marketing, which was exactly the appearance she intended to give. Despite her desire to preserve appearances, even Mrs Carlton had to admit that, surprisingly, in this cosmopolitan harbour city with its naval ships, trading vessels and polyglot population, any respectable young woman could walk unattended in perfect safety, let alone Hebe who, besides having a grasp of several languages, was widely known and liked.
