Page 4 of Letters to a Wallflower
Helen gave a tearful laugh. “I couldn’t leave you always drinking only black tea! You would never have discovered the spicy Indian varieties.”
“And what a loss that would have been.”
“Indeed, and when it upset your stomach, you might have missed realizing how much you enjoy mint tea, and how it eases your digestion.”
“I enjoyed you, dear girl. And now I mean for you to enjoy yourself. You will be truly free to shape your life as you will—and that is a rare gift for a female.”
“It is so kind of you to think of me . . .” Helen had to stop and push down a sob. “But the price is too high.”
“I’m going to leave this world either way, girl,” her grandmother said bluntly. “So just you make up your mind I’m going to see you set up before I do.” She grew stern. “Now, I want you to take your time and think. When I’m gone and you are alone and independent—what do you wish your life to look like? You will be able to make of it what you will, so put some thought into it, girl. Understood?”
Helen nodded.
“Good. Now, put the light out, will you? I’m tired and I need my sleep. And so do you.” She grinned and it softened her face. “We’ll be busy for a while yet, my dear. Goodnight.”
Numb, Helen returned to her room. Closing the door, she stood just inside and stared into the dark. Sometime later, she realized she’d left her tatting on her grandmother’s bedside table.
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t concentrate. She likely wouldn’t even be able to count knots. Going to the window, she threw the curtains back, dragged a chair over and sat, staring at the cold, night sky.
Think. It had been a command. As had the order not to shed tears. She understood the wish to not waste time. But here, alone, Helen had to cry. She let loose a storm of pain and loss. She cried and she railed at fate and pounded her anger into the window sill and the arms of her chair.
And when she was finally drained of grief—at least for now—she marveled at the truly remarkable gift her grandmother meant to give her.
Think. As if she could do anything else. She stared at the sky and she thought and she planned and she weighed options, wishes and desires. She felt the bars of a cage she didn’t even realize she’d been living in melt away. And when morning had come and her grandmother was stirring, she went to find her sitting at her vanity, powdering her nose.
“Good heavens, child!” Their eyes met in the mirror. “Did you not sleep a wink?”
“No. You told me to think. And once I started, I could not stop.”
“And?” Her grandmother grinned. “Have you decided to take my place amongst the harridans? You know the old girls love you already. They would welcome you right in.”
“No.”
Her grandmother raised her brows and waited.
“You asked me to imagine what I wanted my life to look like and sadly, I realized I can only see what I don’t want—and that is what I’ve already had. I don’t want to go home. I’m just a disappointment to them.”
“They will realize they are wrong someday, my dear, but I’m afraid you are going to have to show them.”
Helen nodded. “I want to travel. All over England. And in Scotland. Ireland. Wales. I have the oddest feeling that I don’t know where I want to make my home because I haven’t seen it yet. I will go, then, and see it all. I will find it. A pretty place, I hope. With kind people and good society. I’ll know it when I see it, I think. And then I will settle and live quietly. I will read and drink tea and tat to my heart’s content. I will come to London when I wish, for the Museum and the theatres. Perhaps I will sponsor a talented, hungry artist or a playwright.”
“Or a writer of French novels.”
Helen smiled a little. “Or a grower of tea.”
Her grandmother sat a moment and Helen waited. She knew Grandmama likely wanted to ask about finding a husband, but she also knew she wouldn’t. They’d discussed it often enough for her to know that Helen wasn’t ready to trust another man. That she might never be ready.
“And what of Society?” Grandmama said quietly. “That’s it? My last Season and you’ll spend it quietly behind me? A wallflower one last time?”
She hesitated. “No.”
Her grandmother’s brows shot high. “Out with it.”
“In the French novels, the heroines all are brave and adventurous. They don’t hesitate. They do not stay quiet and in the background.”
“No,” her grandmother said with a sparkle in her eye. “They do not.”
“I want to be adventurous. Perhaps a little . . . retaliatory.”
