Page 9 of Letters to a Wallflower
A cane? He’d been injured? How? How badly? She stopped herself. She didn’t care, she reminded herself firmly. She could not care.
Helen drew a deep breath and turned to the girl at her side. “Do you ride, Miss Parker?” She kept her gaze on the ladies as the conversation continued, but she couldn’t help watching him from the corner of her eye. Helen smiled and gave the correct answers and marshalled all the charm she could summon, but still, a great deal of her attention remained on him.
He stood stock still and stared. His expression kept changing. Eager, then reluctant. Pale, as if he’d seen a ghost, at first. Then, wondering, as if was meant to know her, but didn’t, quite.
His focus unnerved her. Her hands began to shake. She clutched them tightly together. Her heart would not return a normal rhythm and her knees began to knock. This was intolerable. She cast about, reaching for an excuse. “Well,” she said as her eye fell upon a nearby table. “I see there is a punch bowl! I am sure my grandmother would enjoy a glass.” She pressed Miss Parker’s hand. “It has been so lovely to meet you. I hope we will speak again.” She made her goodbyes, cast a dark look at Leighton, and walked away. She meant to fetch the punch, whisper to her grandmother that she didn’t feel well, then retreat to a dark corner inside the house where she could be alone to fall apart.
But Ben wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Whispers had already begun. She could feel the glances bouncing from him to her and back again. As she moved away from the group, he moved to intercept her.
Cursing under her breath, Helen stopped.
He stopped as well, a few feet away. “Miss Crawford . . . Helen.” He paused, his expression strained. The silence stretched out, too long. “It’s good to see you.”
How was she supposed to respond? With a lie? Her pride would not allow it. “Mr. Hargrove. It appears you’ve been injured. I hope you recover well.” Her chin high, she made to move past him.
He reached out to grasp her forearm. “Wait! Helen, please. I must speak with you.”
She jerked her arm away. “I don’t believe you do, sir. I believe that you—and your friends at the newspaper—have already said more than I care to hear.”
A hush had grown around them. Every eye watched.
“You must listen,” he insisted. “It was not me! I never saw a single?—”
“That’s enough, Hargrove.” Leighton was beside her now, his face stern and his tone as cold as ice. “You’ve done enough damage.”
“This is not your concern, Akers,” shot Ben.
“Nor am I your concern,” Helen retorted. She kept her tone low, but now that the moment was here, there were things she must say. “I wrote those letters, yes,” she admitted. “I was . . . young and I felt things strongly. I needed an outlet. A safe place to pour my emotions and contain my sentiments. But I did not post any of them. I don’t know how they fell into your hands.” She settled her shoulders. “I know now that I was looking at you through young, innocent eyes. The girl who wrote those letters is gone, buried under an onslaught of public censure and shame—all poured upon me at your invitation.” She took a step closer. “I am a woman now, sir. Older. Wiser. And I sincerely pity any woman who finds herself bound to your . . . care.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “No! Helen, I—” he stepped toward her.
She whirled away and moved on, ready to be done with this performance.
She heard the gasp behind her. And then the splash.
The crowd erupted into titters, bravos and sputtering protests.
Helen turned slowly. Ben was climbing to his feet, soaking wet from head to toe and wearing a drape of water lily.
Her hand went to her mouth. But she dropped it and stiffened her spine. “I do apologize. I did not mean to overset your balance.” She sighed. “Mr. Hargrove, I believe it will be better if you keep your distance from me, from here on out.”
Without waiting for an answer, she strode on, heading toward the house.
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.
