Page 19 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“Well,” Emily said at last, “if you wanted to know, I was out because Mrs. Turner had her baby. Another lovely, healthy boy.”
This time Marjorie did yawn. She wiped her eyes and collapsed onto the armchair by the fireplace with a cup of tea in her hand. She nodded. “I didn’t believe you were sneaking out for any other reason.”
Emily glared at her for a moment. “Is there something you want to say?”
Marjorie stiffened. “I meant no offense. Sister, you believe I wouldn’t support you? You have a brilliant mind for medicine, and I wish for you to pursue it whichever way you can find. It is not easy for us women to make our way in a world where men’s voices are as loud as their brash actions.”
It was Emily’s turn to be surprised. “I was under the impression you preferred ballroom walls, not conquering the spaces men inhabit. Why didn’t you say that first?”
She was so sure she would brush it away as she had for years now, even with the truth impatient on her lips.
Maybe it was because she was still remembering last evening. Or maybe because she was fed up with hiding all her life. Marjorie wished to take up space, to be a part of this world, and no longer be a wallflower.
“I know because I am an author,” she said at last.
Emily scoffed. “You are a writer,” she insisted. “I know you love to write your stories.” She pointed toward Marjorie’s ink-stained fingers now clutching a near-empty cup of tea. “You spend hours writing them. But you haven’t pursued that, have you?”
Marjorie rubbed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her eyelids, and her body buzzed with some strange frustration. She blamed Alfie for that. She was restless at the mere thought of him. Her heart began to race in her chest, and she thought she would forgo some sleep to see him again. Later, she told herself.
“I am an author, Emily. I have written four novels published under my pen name, M.E. Gastrell.”
Emily sank down in the chair opposite her, her mouth agape. “You’ve kept a secret from me. You’re the author?”
Marjorie nodded. “It was too dangerous to write under my own name. Mother and Father would never allow it.”
“But you kept it from me,” Emily said. “Me? I’m your twin. I will support you no matter what.”
Marjorie shrugged, shame creeping up on her cheeks. “You are my twin, yes. But at the time...” She stopped, not wishing to remember her sister nearly dying and the void that had threatened to consume her.
“At the time,” Emily continued, “I was ill.”
“Yes,” Marjorie said, “and it felt silly to share my news, no matter how important to me, when I was desperate not to see you leave us.”
Emily scowled, briefly reaching under her glasses and wiping her eyes before putting her hands back in her lap. “Even on my sick bed, I would have been happy for you, and I’m happy for you now. But I think I might need a day or two because it hurts to know while you have been in London, living this secret life, I have been kept in the country and written off by our parents, wasting my days playing with plants and learning about the human body, and desperately wanting...” She swallowed hard. Now the tears began streaming down her face. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
Marjorie set her cup down and swung her legs off the arm of the chair, quickly walking to her sister and embracing her. “There’s nothing wrong with crying.” She dropped a kiss on top of her sister’s head.
Emily only grunted in response, but finally, after a moment, she gazed up at Marjorie. “I want so desperately to have a bigger life than I have been allowed. And it feels foolish to think so. Now I have just learned my dear sister has been doing just that. And I couldn’t even enjoy the journey with her because it’s been a secret.”
Marjorie nodded, wiping away the tears on her sister’s scarred face. “My dear, you are living a large life, even if it is quiet. You are helping those around here. You are learning medicine, and you are fearless when you do so. Our parents are preoccupied with their own large lives. We can’t let their shadows darken our paths. If you want to come to London, I will be there right beside you. And until then, I will remain here in the country with you.”
“Because you’re busy writing,” Emily said. It wasn’t so much a question as it was an accusation.
Marjorie sighed. “No, not because I am writing, though I am. Because I’m hiding, because my heart has been broken, and my work has been stolen. I am too afraid to do anything about it.”
Emily glanced up at her, her brows furrowed. “I think you have more secrets to tell me.”
Marjorie helped Emily over to the sofa. The two sisters faced one another, and Marjorie proceeded to tell her how she foolishly fell in love with Percy those summers ago and how she dreamed up a life with him. How they talked about books for hours and how one evening at a party, she made the mistake of telling him her secret and believing he had felt the same for her. And in doing so, she laid her heart and trust at his feet, and he smashed everything and stole an old manuscript, publishing it as his own.
“Anyway,” she continued, “that is why I have returned. I asked Alfie for help. I figured if anyone could help me, it would be a duke.”
“But he won’t help because why?”
Marjorie didn’t feel it was her story to tell how Alfie was battling his own demons.
“Alfie can’t help,” she said instead. “I must do it for myself. But hiding isn’t the answer. I only wish for others to acknowledge the fact that he did not write that book. Those are my words. My time, my effort, and I can’t, in good conscience, let him take the credit, even if he’s counting on me to remain quiet.”
“You have the reputation of a wallflower around London,” Emily said. “I suppose he believes you’ll remain quiet.”
