Letters to a Wallflower

Chapter 1. London, England

Queen Charlotte’s Birthday Ball

It was proving to be a difficult evening.

“How does this appear?” Miss Ventry simpered at her friend, widening her eyes over her fan, but she made sure to speak loud enough for Miss Helen Crawford to overhear, some few feet away. “Do I look inviting? Will the viscount find it too forward? Or is it a maidenly summons?”

Her friend assured her it was.

Miss Ventry sighed in relief. “Thank you. Do you not just adore the utter romance of wordless communication across a ballroom floor? All expression and movement.” Fluttering her fan, she darted a glance at Helen. “So much wiser and safer than expressing yourself in writing.”

The two young ladies giggled together, but Helen merely collected a glass of wine from the footman and turned to hurry it to her grandmother.

Almost unbelievable that she had been like those young girls, not so long ago. Well, not so casually cruel. But three Seasons ago, she’d been a starry-eyed debutante, newly possessed of a wardrobe full of white and pastel-colored gowns. She’d trembled eagerly at the thought of the glittering friends she would make, of the thrilling dances she would glide through, of the heavy gazes of the young gentlemen who would eye her with the prospect of marriage in their hearts.

It had all begun well enough. Her presentation to the queen had been a success and she was out, officially ready for a Season’s worth of merry-making. But a mere fortnight later, The Disaster had struck.

It was how she thought of it—in the same bold-faced type that the papers had used to create it. They had published and her prospects had perished. Her dreams and expectations were crushed beneath the scandal. That eager, young girl had died, borne down by the weight of disappointment, disapproval and scorn.

She’d gone home then. Banished. Miserable. And yet, the next year and the one after it, she’d been back. Reinstated into the rarified world of the ton in her new role as companion to her grandmother, the Countess of Britwell.

There had been objections, of course. More than one outraged matron or affronted maiden had made their dissatisfaction known. But none could stand against Lady Britwell. Helen’s grandmother was a force of nature. One of the benevolent dictators of the ton. A woman who knew everyone, could recite the history of every major family, could recall every rumor, whisper or secret uttered over decades. She and her cronies were the center of Society’s universe. To use the vernacular of the scientists so eagerly studying the heavens, they could knock anyone out of a comfortable orbit and into a wandering wobble at the fringes.

And yes, Grandmama had tried to use her power to save her, but Helen had thoroughly damned herself—and by her own hand. This was the best the Countess had been able to manage—this misty, near invisible place among the rank and file of the beaumonde. For two Seasons she had been neither fish nor fowl. Neither servant nor Society. A hanger-on. A shadow.

And the shadows were where she headed now. After four dances, the break for supper had been called. The Prince Regent had invited sixty-five lucky souls to dine with him and the Royal Family at an elaborate dinner in the conservatory this evening. Lady Britwell was one of them. Her companion was not.

Helen followed as the rest of the guests were ushered into a suite of staterooms. Lingering until the others were occupied with the coffee, tea and other refreshments, she grabbed a chair and dragged it behind a potted tree standing in an alcove. Not for all the seed cake in the world would she mingle with the rest of them. The full swing of the new Season would be here, soon enough. The slower, more comfortable days would soon give way to frenetic activity.

“I say, did you see her come this way?” A gentleman’s voice asked, just beyond the potted tree.

“Who?” his companion asked.

“The Crawford girl.”

Helen shrank back into the shadows of the alcove.

“Who?”

The first gentleman gave a sigh. “You know. Will’s sister.” His tone lowered conspiratorially. “She doesn’t know.”

“How could you know what she does or doesn’t?” His friend sounded bored.

“Because I got it straight from Will.”

What was her brother up to now? Helen nearly rolled her eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to be a fly on the wall when she hears the news?” The first gentleman sounded slightly nasty now. “What fun.” He paused before addressing his friend again. “What? What is that look for?”

“You have a decidedly lacking notion of what is amusing or enjoyable.” The companion sighed. “When will they ever finish dinner? I swear, I only came tonight for a chance to dance with the Princess Charlotte. My father insists he can arrange it, but if they are going to be all night about it . . .” His words faded as he moved on and Helen was left wondering what they had been speaking of.

She had plenty of time to contemplate what her brother might be up to, as the dinner stretched on and the other guests wandered and gossiped over who had been included and who had not—and why. At last, though, the band struck up again and Helen followed as everyone filed up the grand staircase, to the ballroom. The dances were kicked off once more, led out by the Princess Charlotte and the Duke of Clarence.

Helen scarcely got a chance to notice, though, as she danced attendance on her grandmother and her cronies. The dowagers were ensconced in a corner of the ballroom where they could see all the festivities. Helen fetched tea and shawls and went on missions to summon other guests to command performances before the old terrors. She laughed at their witty remarks and at how they cut up at each other. She was standing with her back against the wall, staring intently at the gown of a young, newly married lady while the poor girl bravely dodged the dowagers’ ribald remarks and prying questions, when Lord Akers sidled up next to her.

“It exasperates me to no end,” he said on a sigh.

She didn’t take her eyes off of the woman’s dusky blue gown. “What does, Leighton?”

“The way you examine fashions so closely, deconstructing them in your mind’s eye and redoing them in your head.”

“Why should it bother you?”

“Because I know you will never actually wear anything other than these dark, shapeless sacks.”

“They are not shapeless, merely unadorned.”

“They are boring.”

“I don’t believe a companion is supposed to solicit attention with her wardrobe,” she said tartly.

“Nor is she supposed to look such a complete dowd.”

It was an old argument. She let it go. “Have you, by chance, seen Will here, tonight?”

Her friend’s expression darkened. “No. I thought he was still in Hertfordshire.”

“I don’t believe he is, anymore.”

Leighton made a face. “Well, if he is in Town, this is just the sort of thing to which he would show up.” He pushed away from the wall. “Which means I shall find another entertainment.”

“Another entertainment? On the night of the Queen’s Birthday Ball? Who would dare?”

“It wasn’t this sort of entertainment I meant.”

Helen looked away. Leighton Seabrooke, Baron Akers, was nearly part of her family. Almost. As a son of a lower branch of the Akers line, he’d been raised in America. It was whispered that his father had been banished there, due to some scandal. Charles Seabrooke was said to have continued his disreputable ways and died in suspicious circumstances when Leighton was young. He and Helen were of a similar age, and when they were both sixteen, his uncle, the baron, had also passed away, leaving him the title. He’d been fetched back to England and deposited with Helen’s father, Major Richard Crawford, who had been a friend of Leighton’s father and named one of his trustees.

It had become a situation of varying success.

Leighton was resentful that he must wait until he reached his majority before he could access the money and property that came with the barony. He was . . . on edge with Helen’s father. Helen got on well with him, but Leighton despised her brother, Will.

“Helen?”

She looked over to find him watching her closely. “There has been some talk . . . a few rumblings?—“

“Helen!” Lady Britwell called.

She glanced over to see the countess looking a little grey around the edges and struggling to stand.

“I am ready to go home,” her grandmother announced. “I hate to miss anything, but I am growing too old for these late, great fetes.”

Helen flashed Leighton a smile. “I must go. Good evening.”

She fussed over her grandmother, making sure she gathered her things and was wrapped up tightly. She saw her tucked into her carriage with a blanket over her legs and a brick at her feet. And she held her silence, as Lady Britwell, as was her habit, rode quietly home, staring out the window and mulling over the evening. Oh, she did like to discuss all the nuances of the evening with Helen, but she preferred to wait until she was tucked up comfortably in her bed. She claimed it helped her sleep.

In the usual manner, Helen transferred the care of her grandmother to Simpson, the countess’s lady’s maid, when they arrived home. Helen retreated to her own room, where she readied herself for bed, brushed out her hair, and donned a thick wrapper before she grabbed up her tatting and headed for her grandmother’s rooms.

“There you are,” Grandmama said.

Helen nodded and pulled a comfortable chair close to the bedside. While Simpson prepared the countess’s night cordial, she sat with her tatting, her fingers flying and her mind on that dusty blue gown and on the things she would do, to change it to suit herself. That color begged for gold trimmings. She looked down at the intricate lace forming at her fingertips. Or perhaps a mix of ivory and rose hues.

“Thank you, Simpson,” her grandmother said in dismissal, giving her maid a grateful look. “Will you be sure the door latches all the way, as you go?”

The maid tucked a pillow beneath the covers, elevating the older woman’s feet, then said goodnight and withdrew.

“Helen, dear. Will you put down your tatting? There’s something we must discuss.”

She finished a last knot and looked up. “Is there something happening with Will? Something I have not heard?”

Grandmama blinked. “Well, I did hear some whispers that he’s set his cap for the Duke of Stratfield’s girl. The odds are half against him, though. She’s got more suitors than she can shake a stick at.”

Helen frowned. “I do hope he’s not to be disappointed.” Her brother might be an aggravating know-it-all, but she still loved him.

Her grandmother waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “That’s not what I wished to discuss.” She patted the bed in command. “Come now, put down both shuttles, my dear. I need your full attention.”

Unease began to slide through Helen’s veins. Her grandmother never maligned her tatting. The rest of the family might jibe at her or even grow annoyed over it, but Grandmama knew what it meant to her. She knew it had been her saving grace, during the long, lonely, angry and miserable months after her downfall. She’d shut herself away and lost herself in double stitches, knots and picots. She’d kept her fingers and her mind busy with collars and gloves and lace trimming instead of scandal and betrayal and embarrassment.

She set it aside now, to examine her grandmother’s kind, troubled countenance. “What is it?”

Grandmama frowned. “Well, it’s Dr. Ferguson, to start with.”

Helen straightened. “Shall I have him fetched? Are you in pain?” She frowned. “Is it your cough? I thought it was rather better since you saw him the other day.”

“He added something to my tonic, which has settled my cough a little. But no, no need to fetch him. We won’t be seeing as much of him, I daresay.”

“Is he leaving London?” Helen asked, puzzled.

“No. I am.” Her grandmother gave a short, sharp laugh.

Helen’s eyes widened. “Has he ordered us to the country? I daresay the cleaner air will do you good.” Her mind immediately filled with plans for packing and moving the household.

“Helen, dear. Listen to me, please. We will be going to the country, but not yet. I’ve told Ferguson I will have one last Season. I will enjoy my reign over the ton and relish bending them to my will one last time.”

Helen stilled. It felt as if the blood stopped moving in her veins. “One last time?” she whispered. “Grandmama, what are you saying?”

She knew, though. It had all been increasing over the last months. The coughing. The wheezing. The difficulty moving and the swelling in her grandmother’s feet and legs.

Oh. Helen clutched a fist over her heart. It was cracking open. She could not keep the tears away.

“Don’t fret, child. We have a little time yet. A year, if I’m lucky. And I’ve always been lucky. We are not going to waste it. I’m going to live every day fully and having you with me will make it a joy—and the end, bearable.”

A sob escaped her.

“No. No crying. We will be too busy. We’ve plans to make. And you have decisions to make.”

“Decisions?”

“Yes.” Her grandmother sighed. “You know I love your father.” She chuckled. “Likely because of our two boys, he’s the most like me. Far more than his brother, George, the earl. I don’t know how or when that one grew so stiff and solemn, for he did not take that after either me or his father.” She grew serious. “But your father did not handle your situation well, and I’ll be damned before I give him the chance to muck you about again.”

“Grandmama!” Helen said, shocked.

“It’s true.” She patted Helen’s hand. “You should know, dear, that I came to my darling husband with a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.”

Helen gasped and her grandmother chuckled. “You may well marvel, for I was quite the catch. But your grandpa loved me, not my money. He vowed never to touch it, and he did not. Not a penny of it. It came back to me on his death, and more besides, as he’d invested it and made it grow.” She leaned forward. “I mean to pass it on to you.”

“What?” Now she was truly shocked. “Grandmama, perhaps you shouldn’t. The family . . . They might not like it.”

“Irrelevant. It is my money and I shall do what I like with it. And what I mean to do is to give you a rare gift. Freedom, my girl. Think on it. William will get everything of your father’s. Young Charles will be taken care of by your mother’s settlements. But if you do not marry?—”

“You know I won’t,” she interrupted.

“Then you will be left to wait upon your parents as they grow old, before you become an unpaid drudge for one of your brothers and his family. You will become a duty, a burden in the home of one or the other.”

Helen made a sound of protest and her grandmother snorted. “I won’t have it, do you hear? You’ve been a joy to me in these last years. You’ve kept me young with your French novels and your keen observations and your endless quest for new and interesting teas.”

Helen gave a tearful laugh. “I couldn’t leave you always drinking only black tea! You would never have discovered the spicy Indian varieties.”

“And what a loss that would have been.”

“Indeed, and when it upset your stomach, you might have missed realizing how much you enjoy mint tea, and how it eases your digestion.”

“I enjoyed you, dear girl. And now I mean for you to enjoy yourself. You will be truly free to shape your life as you will—and that is a rare gift for a female.”

“It is so kind of you to think of me . . .” Helen had to stop and push down a sob. “But the price is too high.”

“I’m going to leave this world either way, girl,” her grandmother said bluntly. “So just you make up your mind I’m going to see you set up before I do.” She grew stern. “Now, I want you to take your time and think. When I’m gone and you are alone and independent—what do you wish your life to look like? You will be able to make of it what you will, so put some thought into it, girl. Understood?”

Helen nodded.

“Good. Now, put the light out, will you? I’m tired and I need my sleep. And so do you.” She grinned and it softened her face. “We’ll be busy for a while yet, my dear. Goodnight.”

Numb, Helen returned to her room. Closing the door, she stood just inside and stared into the dark. Sometime later, she realized she’d left her tatting on her grandmother’s bedside table.

It didn’t matter. She couldn’t concentrate. She likely wouldn’t even be able to count knots. Going to the window, she threw the curtains back, dragged a chair over and sat, staring at the cold, night sky.

Think. It had been a command. As had the order not to shed tears. She understood the wish to not waste time. But here, alone, Helen had to cry. She let loose a storm of pain and loss. She cried and she railed at fate and pounded her anger into the window sill and the arms of her chair.

And when she was finally drained of grief—at least for now—she marveled at the truly remarkable gift her grandmother meant to give her.

Think. As if she could do anything else. She stared at the sky and she thought and she planned and she weighed options, wishes and desires. She felt the bars of a cage she didn’t even realize she’d been living in melt away. And when morning had come and her grandmother was stirring, she went to find her sitting at her vanity, powdering her nose.

“Good heavens, child!” Their eyes met in the mirror. “Did you not sleep a wink?”

“No. You told me to think. And once I started, I could not stop.”

“And?” Her grandmother grinned. “Have you decided to take my place amongst the harridans? You know the old girls love you already. They would welcome you right in.”

“No.”

Her grandmother raised her brows and waited.

“You asked me to imagine what I wanted my life to look like and sadly, I realized I can only see what I don’t want—and that is what I’ve already had. I don’t want to go home. I’m just a disappointment to them.”

“They will realize they are wrong someday, my dear, but I’m afraid you are going to have to show them.”

Helen nodded. “I want to travel. All over England. And in Scotland. Ireland. Wales. I have the oddest feeling that I don’t know where I want to make my home because I haven’t seen it yet. I will go, then, and see it all. I will find it. A pretty place, I hope. With kind people and good society. I’ll know it when I see it, I think. And then I will settle and live quietly. I will read and drink tea and tat to my heart’s content. I will come to London when I wish, for the Museum and the theatres. Perhaps I will sponsor a talented, hungry artist or a playwright.”

“Or a writer of French novels.”

Helen smiled a little. “Or a grower of tea.”

Her grandmother sat a moment and Helen waited. She knew Grandmama likely wanted to ask about finding a husband, but she also knew she wouldn’t. They’d discussed it often enough for her to know that Helen wasn’t ready to trust another man. That she might never be ready.

“And what of Society?” Grandmama said quietly. “That’s it? My last Season and you’ll spend it quietly behind me? A wallflower one last time?”

She hesitated. “No.”

Her grandmother’s brows shot high. “Out with it.”

“In the French novels, the heroines all are brave and adventurous. They don’t hesitate. They do not stay quiet and in the background.”

“No,” her grandmother said with a sparkle in her eye. “They do not.”

“I want to be adventurous. Perhaps a little . . . retaliatory.”

“Tell me.”

“I want to make a splash. Shock them all. Show them all what they’ve missed, judging me so harshly and turning away from me. I want to gain their regard and their attention—and then, having conquered them, I will walk away. Show them how little they mean, to me, and perhaps, how little they mean in the grand scheme of things.”

Grandmama laughed. “Oh, good heavens, what a lark. Yes, child. I can think of no better way to spend my last Season.” She sat straight. “We have so much to prepare. Let’s get started, shall we?”