Page 1 of Letters to a Wallflower
London, England
February 1813
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 beau monde. 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.
