Letters to a Wallflower

Chapter 3

Ben kept his distance from Helen, but he did not stay away.

For the next several days, he made it a point to attend the same tonnish events that she did. He did not approach her, but he watched and listened and tried to piece it all together.

There was much to sift through. Everyone who hadn’t seen their meeting in Isleworth had heard about it. He suffered some teasing about making better use of his cane and about water lily neckcloths, but more seriously, it seemed people had taken sides and it appeared the ton was split down the middle. He was met with either frowns and stern stares or sympathy and encouragement.

Either way, many people proved eager to share their perspective on the last two years. Ben began to understand what a difficult time Helen had endured while he’d been gone. He heard stories of isolation, mockery and ridicule. Even Will—her own brother, damn him—had largely left her to face her misery alone. He’d been in Town the past couple of Seasons while Helen had acted as Lady Britwell’s companion, and he”d barely acknowledged her.

But something had changed between the last Season and this one. Helen had changed, he heard over and over. She’d gone from a mousy wallflower to a pretty, vivacious, sought-after young lady.

Not that everyone approved of the difference. There were hold-outs, those who still disapproved of her and avoided her company. She didn’t appear to be bothered by it. He watched her ignore the obvious slights and delight in the company of those who greeted her warmly.

“I don’t understand all the fuss,” Ben told Elliot Ward one evening. Alongside Will Crawford and Ben, Ward had been the third of the happy, unruly trio of friends that had run rampant over their corner of Hertfordshire. But tonight, he and Ben had just witnessed Miss Ventry lift her nose at Helen’s approach. The young lady had turned her shoulder and very obviously whispered something to her friend.

“They were merely letters, for heaven’s sake,” Ben said. “How could they inspire such animosity?”

“Have you read them?” asked Ward.

“No.” Ben allowed his exasperation to show. “As I’ve told you and everyone who will listen. I never saw them, received them, or showed them to any newspaperman.” As he watched, Helen moved past Miss Ventry’s group and approached a girl standing alone next to a pillar. The young lady ducked her head and moved half behind the structure, as if to give way, but Helen stopped and spoke to her. In a moment, they were laughing and Helen was drawing the girl out and taking her along to another group of young people.

Ben nodded in approval. Good for her.

“Yes, yes. But if you had seen the bits of the letters they printed . . .” Ward sighed. “They were laden with emotion, Ben. Full of admiration, wistfulness and longing. All expressed with feeling and passion. Like something out of an Italian opera. Not what is expected of a well-bred English girl.”

“Yet hardly a cardinal sin,” Ben protested.

“Not by itself, perhaps. But each letter excerpt was printed with a scathing lecture, bemoaning and warning against hoydenish, forward behavior.” Ward pursed his lips. “The timing of it didn’t help. It came just after Prinny’s official ascendancy to the Regency. There was so much worry about the king and anger over the Prince Regent’s proliferate spending—not to mention gossip over his flirts and mistresses. There were rumblings over the wars and from the disaffected workers in the north and politicking over the Catholic Emancipation. People everywhere were uneasy about the direction of the country and of Society itself.” He ducked his head. “I’m ashamed that I didn’t do more to help Helen. I didn’t cut her. But neither did I champion her. I quizzed her occasionally, trying to make her smile, but she never really responded.” He paused. “Honestly, I was shocked. I never suspected that she carried such a flame for you. Did you?”

“Never,” Ben replied. But Ward’s words made him realize he needed to read those letters for himself. He frowned. “Wait. Which paper printed it all? I think Bernard mentioned it, but I was so caught up with the shock of learning I was involved in a scandal I had never heard of, it didn’t register.”

His friend hesitated. “The Prattler.”

Ben stiffened. “You all allowed that girl’s life to be destroyed because of an opinion in the London Town Prattler? The newspaper that reported Napoleon himself snuck into London and scrambled the king’s brains?”

Ward had the grace to look ashamed.

With a huff of exasperation, Ben turned and left the gathering, pausing to get his bearings and head out toward Fleet Street.

As expected, the offices of the Prattler were open, as the staff rushed to get the next edition to print. Also as expected, the first clerk Ben encountered in the unkempt place was open to bribery. It took a gold sovereign to obtain copies of the relevant papers and two more to take home the original letters, dug out from where they had been filed away in the detritus of a former editor’s office. Clutching it all, Ben headed home toward Mayfair.

No one was home in his father’s house, thank goodness. Ben went to the study and stood over a plush chair near the window. Setting the newspapers and letters down on a table, he looked between them, weighing his options.

The letters first. He would read Helen’s words first, without outside interpretation. He started to settle in, but paused and went to lock the door before he took them up.

Several minutes later, he was glad he’d taken the precaution. Helen’s letters were . . . moving. More than just a declaration of her feelings for him, they must have become a sort of journal, for they touched on her thoughts of other things as well—her family, friends and acquaintances in the local village, her hopes for her debut in London and her wishes for the future.

He found himself flushing more than once over the bits concerning him. Partly because her descriptions of her schoolgirl crush were honest and heartfelt and raw, but also because he’d been so completely unaware of them.

Ben had spent a great deal of time in Major Crawford’s home. He and Will Crawford and Elliot Ward had been the best of friends. Will’s home was comforting and welcoming in a hundred ways that his own had not been. Helen had been part of that. She’d been woven into his impressions of warmth and a homey atmosphere. She’d been a bit of a tomboy when he’d first started coming around. Always chasing after the three of them and gamely riding, climbing and racing at their heels. She’d grown into a young lady, inevitably, though she had still matched them for wit and laughter and endless games of chess. Being honest with himself, he admitted that he’d known she’d looked after them with a bit of envy—for their freedom and perhaps because of their closeness. But he’d never realized she’d singled him out for more.

He squirmed a little when he realized that she’d paid such close attention, she’d seen more than he thought he’d allowed to show. But he found that he liked the version of himself that she’d been attracted to—a thought that made him squirm again, when he realized how much her view of him must have changed.

Climbing out of the chair, he paced a little, eyeing the newspapers with trepidation. At last, he picked up the first one and began to read—only to toss it aside a moment later.

I watch the three of you and I see how your characters meld together. Will is all wild energy. Elliot is the creative force, always ready to direct the wildness and dreaming up new schemes. But you are the thinker, Ben. The quiet strategist who steps back to examine every angle, the one who makes the adventures and projects happen, the one who plots the path for the group to follow.

I lay awake at night and wonder what it would be like if you would really see me. How wonderful it might feel if you bent that formidable focus my way. I shiver at the thought of being the subject of such steady attention or even at the center of your thoughts, the way you are, of mine.

The London Town Prattler, of course, had omitted the first paragraph of that part and included only the second, then gone on to paint a shameful picture of a young girl thrashing through feverish nights of longing and days of plotting to gain attention. They twisted honest, wistful wishes into something sordid. And as he read on, it grew worse. Each accompanying editorial mocked and turned youthful fancy into shameful behavior.

It infuriated him. Helen never stood a chance. They’d painted a youthful crush as debauched. It was a hateful, deliberate character assassination. The fact that she’d ever been accepted back into Society at all was a testament to the power of Lady Britwell’s influence. No wonder Helen blanched at the sight of him. She believed he’d done this to her.

He understood now, why she’d allowed herself to become invisible during those two years. He also realized what an act of courage it was for her to break out of that role, now.

He wondered what had changed. What had propelled her out of the shadows and into the light? He realized he wanted to help her. And by God, he wanted to find out who had done this to her. And some part of him wanted to restore himself in her eyes and perhaps gain a little of that shine back. To become, at least in part, that idealized man she’d once seen.

He stood, staring out the window, seeing only the plans and possibilities in his head. And then he took a seat at his father’s desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and he began to write.