Page 39 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“Goodbye.”
She nodded, gesturing for her lady’s maid. As they ran outside in the pouring rain and into the carriage, Marjorie folded forward, crying and laughing all the same. She felt as if she were going mad.
“What is it, miss?” The maid’s concern was clear.
Marjorie sat up, shaking her head and wiping her tears. “I don’t think I can be a wallflower any longer. Can you help me ready for this evening?”
“Tonight, miss?”
“I have an important event. It’s time all of London knows who I really am.”
Hours later, the rain hadn’t let up.
Despite her best efforts, Marjorie arrived at the event soaked through. She brushed back her hair and sniffed, the cold October night chilling her to the bone as she stepped inside the grand hall. Busy and buzzing, it was full of London society.
She had given Percy a chance to do this quietly. But he had chosen to lie, deny it, and make her feel as if she had gone mad when it was her truth and her work. Did he expect her to be quiet and let him take credit?
Probably.
There weren’t many friendly faces in the audience. In fact, many people gave her strange looks. The carriage hadn’t been able to pull close, and pressed for time, she had jumped out and walked a few blocks. Instead of slipping in quietly, she stood out, her dress clinging to her body, her skin covered in gooseflesh as she shivered, sick to her stomach with the knowledge of what she was about to do.
She took her seat and blew out a steadying breath as the first gentleman came to make an introduction. Her palms were sweaty, and she clutched her reticule in her hands. Her back was straight, her knees ready to launch her to standing so she could cut through the crowd, wasting no time.
Rain slashed against the window of the hall, loud and relentless.
An older gentleman, tall with rounded shoulders and wild, silver side whiskers, approached the podium and gave a short nod before his mouth pulled into a smile. “Thank you all for attending this evening. You certainly have heard by now how this novel has swept through London, and we are lucky to have the author here tonight reading for us.” He held up his hands in a grand sweeping measure. “Without further ado, please welcome Lord Chadwick to the stage.”
Percy stepped onto the stage, clutching the novel and giving a brief wave to the audience. He leaned in and whispered to the older gentleman before taking his place before the podium.
Marjorie stood up, then dashed onto the stage. The older gentleman laughed. “Miss, you can’t be up here,” he said, calmly trying to shoo her away. Percy laughed and pointed, playing off the whole event as if it were some pre-planned jest.
But Marjorie persisted, turning around to face the audience. For weeks now, she had been terrified to admit the truth, but finally, it poured out of her. “I am the true author of this novel.”
The audience gasped collectively, then a few laughs began, followed by mumbled insults. She looked upon the audience, her eyes eager to find one friendly face but finding none.
Percy, a few feet away, growled. “What are you doing?” he snapped. “Get off the stage, Marjorie. Enough with this nonsense.”
“I am the true author of this novel,” she repeated, louder this time. “You may know me, if at all, as Marjorie Merryweather. But for the past few years, I have written successfully as M.E. Gastrell.”
The crowd gasped. A few chairs scraped against the floor as people stood and began making their way out of the room.
“Wait!” She held up her hands, pleading. “Wait, please.”
“Are we expected to believe you’re M.E. Gastrell?” one man called out.
Percy stepped in front of her.
“Exactly, good man. I am sad to say this woman is not speaking from reality. Please, is there a surgeon here? Someone who can help us?”
“I’m fine and of sound mind.” And though she glared at Percy, she kept her voice soft and even. In her experience, the male sex never appreciated a woman confident in her voice. Funny that they didn’t prefer wallflowers either.
“Do not humiliate me,” he said slowly. “Get off the stage now.”
“I can prove it,” she called out.
Boos erupted.
Marjorie sensed the tide was turning, and the momentary lapse of them allowing her to continue was quickly fading. She felt she would soon be forcibly taken off the stage, marked forever as a madwoman: Marjorie Merriweather, the crazed spinster who hangs around with her raven and writes until her hands are stained black.
