Page 16 of Letters to a Wallflower
He doubted she’d welcome any such advances from him. Surely her youthful feelings had been put to death by two years of suffering. Her reactions to him had been wary and guarded—and who could blame her?
Why then, did he find himself thinking of those letters? Of the admiration and appreciation she’d expressed? And why did he suddenly wonder what that might look like, coming from her now?
He contemplated these absurd and contrary thoughts as he fought the traffic heading into Town. It was later in the afternoon before he reached his father’s house and carefully climbed down. His leg was beginning to object to the day’s activities. He gave instructions to the groom and limped inside, where he found his mother’s butler awaiting him.
“Will you have my cane brought down to me, Withers?” Ben asked the servant. “I think I’ll sit in the study for a few moments before I attempt the stairs.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler held out a small silver tray. “You have a message, sir. It arrived an hour ago.”
Ben took it. His pulse jumped when he recognized the hand. How could he not, when he’d just recently read so very many pages of it? He sank down onto a bench meant for less worthy visitors, those who would never pass beyond the entry hall.
* * *
We will be at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane tonight.
* * *
He drew in a breath. She summoned him? Why? What might it mean? Hope sprang to life, banishing his pain.
“Never mind the study, Withers. Can you have a bath drawn for me, instead?” he asked.
Chapter 5
Helen fidgeted in her seat. She sat in the darkest corner of the countess’s box, her gaze fixed on the stage, but seeing nothing. She heard nothing of the play that held the attention of the others in the theatre. The words that danced in her head came from the letter Ben had given her.
The letter he had written to her.
* * *
Your home was everything mine was not, Helen. Country or townhouse, our home was—is—cold. Empty, despite the family and servants in residence. Your household was so much more. Laughter. Teasing warmth. Card games and chess matches and bad poetry read aloud. The obvious caring of your parents for you and for each other. Good smells and smiling faces. I was entranced. I could scarcely stay away. I miss it, still.
* * *
She sighed. She missed it, too. But that warmth was gone now. At least for her. She had disappointed her parents. They looked at her in disbelief, now, mostly. As if, in writing those letters, she had stepped so far beyond their expectations that they no longer recognized her.
It hurt. Because she knew they doubted her. Only Grandmama had ever truly believed that she had not posted those letters herself. Well, and Leighton, too, had taken her word. He’d said she was too smart to sink her own ship in such a way. Everyone else had believed, deep down, that she’d been just that desperate and attention seeking.
* * *
I hope you know that after being made so welcome among your family, I could never betray them, or you, in such a manner.
* * *
Ben believed her, too. And when she coupled that with his letter, she was tempted to believe him, as well. Everything he’d written had matched her memories. He’d always looked so happy when he trooped in with Will and Elliot Ward. She’d see him sometimes, gazing about their chaotic dinner table with something like wonder in his face.
The thought triggered a memory. A time when he hadn’t been happy. They had all been at the stables, watching her father work with a spirited, untrained stallion. Leighton had said something terse and resentful, as he often did when her father was about. Ben had given him a shove. A tad more forcefully than he’d meant to, she thought, for Leighton had tumbled off the fence and hit the ground. He’d jumped up, roiling with anger and the two of them had faced off. Ben had looked nearly as furious as the touchy young baron, to Helen’s surprise. He’d snarled something low, something about Leighton being lucky to have her father as a friend and guardian. “Quit acting such a fool,” he’d ordered, before stalking off.
Helen had sat before a blazing fire in her room, holding Ben’s letter, remembering, and watching her own letters burn, one by one. And she realized she knew—Ben had not done it. She believed him.
She’d wanted him to know.
So she’d written him a note to tell him where she’d be this evening. And now, she waited.
Ben stood at the back of the theatre, waiting for his eyes to adjust and searching the boxes above the crowd of seats below. Yes. There. Helen sat in the dim corner of Lady Britwell’s box, alongside the countess and her brother, Will. Around him, the audience laughed at the antics on the stage, but she sat unmoved, staring blankly. Pre-occupied? Or was something wrong?
Glancing across the auditorium, at his father’s box, he heaved a sigh of relief to see it empty. It just might do. He turned to head back to the antechamber, in search of a porter.
He found Akers instead. Had the man spotted him at the back of the theatre? He came running lightly down the steps and stopped just before Ben, meeting his gaze with a glare.
