Page 7 of Letters to a Wallflower
She had fashioned the dress herself, as she had done with all of her new wardrobe. She’d had Carruthers’ help, along with the aid of a seamstress they’d hired to live in for a few weeks. After two seasons of watching the finest fashions, of being ignored, but able to listen in on the young ladies talk of their fabric choices, trimmings, favorite linen drapers and modistes, Helen had let loose her imagination.
She started with her tatting. It felt like an extension of herself. A shield of sorts, as well as an interesting and different trimming for her gowns. Last night’s gown had featured a design of her own, a thin lace incorporating delicate, misshapen hearts in pearlescent white thread. She’d used it as trim on the curved, high bodice of her gown and on the capped sleeves. She’d then attached it to an exquisitely sheer organza and laid it all over a deep pink silk. The result was a rich but soft and romantic gown that left her feeling both feminine and somehow . . . capable.
And in the end, though she’d suffered a few terrified moments and nervous flutters, it had all worked as they’d hoped. No one in the receiving line had equated this new version of Helen with the old, retiring, plain-clad companion. Lady Stockard’s oldest son and heir had stared and quickly requested a dance. A number of people stopped and gawked as she and Grandmama entered the ballroom. A young buck standing with his friends looked closely and said, a little too loudly, “Old Battleax Bitwell’s granddaughter? Where’s the other one, then? The mousy one? The w?—”
“The wallflower?” Helen had turned to smile at him and address him directly. “The one that suffered a schoolgirl crush on a man who proved unworthy and was ostracized for it? I am she. Right here before you, as you see.”
The young man gaped. One of his friends gasped. But two others grinned and one stepped forward. “Quite right, Miss Crawford. Well done, setting old Brendford in his place. You recall meeting me, I hope? I am Landing.”
Helen curtseyed. “Of course, Mr. Landing. A pleasure to see you again.” She had met him at court when she’d been presented to the queen. He had not spoken to her since.
“I hope you will do me the honor of reserving me a set?”
She smiled. “With pleasure, sir.” And then she moved on to follow her grandmother through the room.
No one else mentioned the scandal. No one mentioned the letters. Not to her face, in any case. A few people raised brows or gossiped behind fans as she passed, but she danced every dance before the supper dance and was surrounded by both young ladies and gentlemen. As the first chords struck, her grandmother insisted they depart. “Always leave them wanting more,” she said wisely.
They moved on, then, to a musical evening at Lady Merriview’s. Word of Helen’s success had already reached the gathering, thanks to a few gossips who had departed Lady Stockard’s before them. Helen had found herself awash in friendly faces and in young men who vied for a chance to sit near her or fetch her drinks.
“I feel a little heady with last night’s success,” Helen admitted now as she paced the parlor. They were awaiting Lord Akers, who had agreed to escort them to a garden party at the Edsmond estate in Isleworth. “But I also feel a bit sad.”
“Sad? Sad? After such a grand beginning?”
“Yes. I couldn’t help but think, as the ladies asked about my tatting and my interests and my family, and the young men admired my figure, my hair and my grace on the dance floor, that they might have known, asked and admired at any time during the last two years.”
“They could have,” her grandmother agreed. “But you must be honest with yourself. They might have made an effort and looked past the scandal and the dark, forbidding gowns and the severe hair and expression—but were you ready to be seen?”
No. She had not been. The truth of it settled over her. She had been hurt, embarrassed and more than a little angry to be attacked over something that had been meant to be private and never seen by other eyes. She had wished someone, anyone, had defended her. And then someone had. Her grandmother. But she had still wanted to hide away from prying, judgmental eyes. Who knew how long she might have wallowed in her own misery, had it not been for Grandmama’s announcements? Facing the horrible reality of her grandmother’s fleeting time left had forced Helen to stop. To ponder. And to decide to take the reins and not let her life be something that merely happened to her.
“I was not,” she admitted. “But I am now.”
She looked down at her gown. It was another lovely, eye-catching piece, this time in a lemon yellow softened by the same organza, but embellished with lace she’d fashioned into chains of daisies and leaves. It made her feel bright and happy, and she was beginning to see how a gorgeous dress could also function as armor.
“Hell and damnation.” Leighton had finally arrived. He stood in the doorway and stared at her. “I can scarcely believe it. You might actually pull this stunt off.”
Color rose from her low, curved bodice. “It’s not a stunt.” She raised her chin. “And I am absolutely going to pull this off. As I have already told you, multiple times.”
“Yes, but you never said it looking like that.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let us go, then, ladies. I cannot wait to see how this all plays out.”
It was a lovely, sunny day and they rode west out of London in the countess’s open barouche. Helen kept a careful eye peeled, but her grandmother was relaxed and looked at ease and in good color. Leighton seemed happy. As happy as he ever allowed himself to be, in any case, although Helen thought there was a brittle quality to his mood. Still, he exerted himself to amuse Grandmama and she was grateful for it.
As they arrived, they were greeted and shown around to the side and back of the sprawling house. The gardens looked magnificent, lush and green and blooming with flowers of every color. They held a good portion of London Society, many competing with the blooms in color, flounce and ruffle.
Their host, Sir Henry Edsmond, met them there, himself. A banker of great fortune and well-known taste, he was also the grandson of a marquess and a leader of Society. He greeted Lady Britwell as a friend and ally, as they had often aligned in the trenches of societal drama.
“I’ve saved you a seat in the folly, Rose,” he said, kissing Grandmama’s hand. “You may sit upon the dais with my wife and hold court while you enjoy the view of the gardens and the pond.”
He greeted Helen and Leighton, complimented her lavishly and led them through the winding garden paths to where they trailed next to a rectangular pond lined with flowering shrubs and conical conifers. The folly sat at one end of the pond. Helen saw her grandmother seated, then allowed Leighton to pull her back down from the dais and into the garden.
“I must stay close, to see to Grandmama,” she told him.
His mouth twisted. “You know she doesn’t need you to hover. She never has.”
The remark stung. Helen did not retort with the truth of the matter, however. She had promised to keep her grandmother’s secrets. “Perhaps not. But I need to do it.”
Surprisingly, he kept to her side instead of wandering off. Leaning against the folly, he let his eye rove over the wandering crowd, making sharp observations and occasionally bitter remarks.
“Please, Leighton,” Helen said, sighing. “You know it makes me jittery when you speak so harshly.”
