Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  “I would imagine you have.” Lady Beatrix’s silky tone only thinly veiled the insult behind her words, but Bella’s eager expression did not waiver.

  “Your mother mentioned that you were particularly hopeful of bringing a certain gentleman up to scratch. A Mr. Penrose, wasn’t it?” Lady Beatrix’s eyes were wide and guileless.

  The color drained from Bella’s face, and her mouth fell open in silent horror. She looked first to Jeremy, who merely quirked an eyebrow at her, and then to her mother, who showed no expression whatsoever.

  From the far end of the table, Lord Delby, one of the newly arrived guests, spoke up. “Penrose, eh? Decent chap.” Delby, an avid snuff-taker, paused to emit a loud, wet snort. “A bit dim, perhaps, but rich as Croesus. I heard he had his sights set on some gel, but never heard a name.”

  “Um. Yes, well,” Bella stammered. “Mr. Penrose has been most gracious. But I’m sure we are only the most casual of acquaintances. If he holds a tendre for me, he has never said so.”

  “Oh, my dear, there is no need to be modest,” Lady Beatrix persisted. “I heard the young man followed you like a lapdog. It seems he is quite smitten with you. A girl of your…experience could not help but to notice such open adoration.”

  “And why should he not adore Miss Fitzhenry?” Blackwell intoned from the far reaches of the dining table. “I am certain that a girl as fresh and lovely and young as Miss Fitzhenry must have scores of adoring admirers.” Blackwell leered at Bella, his gaze a hot, brief caress, before turning mocking eyes on his wife.

  Lady Beatrix narrowed her eyes in contempt. “My lord, I am certain some men have more discerning tastes.”

  Blackwell lifted an eyebrow in acknowledgement of his wife’s barb.

  “But,” Lady Beatrix continued, sighing heavily, “I suppose young, beautiful girls who smile just so, well, they will have young bucks falling all over themselves.”

  Bella looked as though she might be sick at any moment. As the rest of the party seemed content to watch her squirm, Mira knew she had to intervene. At the same time, however, she could not pass up the opportunity to warn Bella once more to take matters with Mr. Ellerby more slowly.

  “My lady,” Mira said, “I imagine you had a gaggle of suitors yourself before you wed Lord Blackwell. I am sure you can sympathize with Bella’s predicament.”

  Lady Beatrix leveled a coolly assessing gaze at Mira. “And which predicament would that be, Miss Fitzhenry?”

  “Knowing which of your suitors is honorable. Which have noble intentions and which base,” Mira replied. “For beautiful women, such as yourself and Bella, the problem is not attracting attention but knowing which attention to return. And, of course, knowing how to draw the line between being polite to a gentleman and encouraging him. So I…I suppose, really, there are two predicaments.” Mira paused to look down at her plate. “Perhaps,” she suggested quietly, without looking up, “perhaps you have some advice to offer Bella?”

  When Lady Beatrix did not immediately answer, Mira risked a glance at the woman. The Countess of Blackwell seemed to be looking directly into her soul, her expression intent and vaguely troubled.

  When Lady Beatrix finally spoke, her voice was distant, distracted. “Miss Fitzhenry should remember that both sexes can be fickle in the extreme. Both will sometimes make empty promises. And both are capable of the most brutal and intimate betrayal.” Her gaze slipped around the table as she spoke, resting briefly on each of the dinner guests. Except her husband.

  Mira risked a glance at Blackwell. His heavy lids drooped over his eyes in boredom, and his mouth was set in a thin expression of contempt.

  Beatrix paused to clear her throat. The harsh set of her features softened as she looked down at her dinner plate. “And she must realize that sometimes the dream of love is more compelling than the reality. Only time can distinguish the real from the imaginary. And time can be a cruel ally.”

  The words were poignant, and Mira sensed they carried a depth of meaning. They also echoed Mira’s earlier admonition to Bella. Mira looked to gauge her cousin’s reaction, but apparently the message was no better received coming from the lofty Lady Blackwell as from Mira herself. Bella’s mouth was set in a mutinous line, and she fixed her gaze firmly on her salt cellar.

  “Wise words, my lady, wise words.” The Reverend Mr. Thomas leaned forward, a look of earnest concentration wrinkling his ruddy face. “The dream of love, indeed. Reminds me of a story I heard a time back, about this Frenchman, a marquis or some such, and a fine English woman the bounder set his sights on. Seems he thought to seduce her with…”

  The rest of the meal passed in a blue haze of bawdy stories from the Reverend and a steady flow of wine, until Lady Beatrix finally suggested the women retire to the drawing room where the men would join them later, after port, for cards.

  Like weary soldiers, the ladies filed into the drawing room and moved into formation: Lady Beatrix took her seat in the center of a gold brocade settee, Lady Marleston sitting to her right, and the rest of the women flanking them by rank. As mere misses, the Fitzhenry women were left standing together in an uneasy huddle.

  Lady Henrietta Bosworth, just arrived that afternoon, was the first to break the silence. “Miss Fitzhenry,” she began, before her paper-thin lips twitched up in a haughty smile. “I am sorry, but I mean the Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry. Oh dear. The elder Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry. Our bride-to-be.” She chuckled softly at her own cleverness in pointing out the problem of two Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenrys.

  Smothering a sigh, Mira answered, “Yes, Lady Bosworth?”

  “Well, I understand that you were not actively husband-hunting when this engagement, um, presented itself. That you have never had a single Season. This all must be terribly exciting for you, a remarkable reversal of fortunes. Is it not?”

  The heat rose in Mira’s face. If she were not mistaken, this woman had just managed to accuse her of being a hopeless spinster and of hunting a fortune, all in one breath.

  To Mira’s surprise, before she could marshal an answer, Lady Beatrix came to her rescue.

  “Yes, Lady Bosworth,” she said, her voice slightly muzzy, “we are all excited about the impending nuptials. Such a stroke of luck, really, that Miss Fitzhenry remained unspoken-for. She and Ashfield are quite perfectly suited, I believe.”

  What game was Lady Beatrix playing at, now? Given Beatrix’s opinion of Nicholas, her comment could not be construed as a compliment, but she did not sound snide or sarcastic.

  “Truly,” Beatrix continued, “the Fitzhenry girls are each a puzzlement in their own way. Miss Mira Fitzhenry has, apparently, been cloistered away in study, while Miss Bella Fitzhenry…”

  Mira’s heart sank. Beatrix was not yet done with Bella.

  “…Miss Bella Fitzhenry, on the other hand, has been a veritable social dervish. Two girls from the same family, such complete opposites in looks, manner, and habit. Yet neither one has secured a husband. Until now, that is.”

  Sitting in the middle of her own drawing room, Lady Beatrix might as well have been a rabid fox as a Countess. Every woman in the room, save Lady Beatrix herself, held perfectly still. There was no sound, not even a delicate gasp of air through a prim patrician nose.

  With a startling quick grace, Lady Beatrix rose from the settee causing those closest to her to flinch away. A faint smile touched her mouth as she glanced at the wary women on either side of her, but, despite the hectic flush that stained her usually pallid cheeks, her eyes remained as cold and hard as diamonds.

  “Yes,” she said, “Now one Miss Fitzhenry has landed a husband, and the other has a prospect squirming in her net.”

  Slowly, Beatrix stalked across the room until she was only a few paces away from Bella, Mira, and Kitty. She was so close that Mira smelled her strange perfume—spicy, like licorice, but with a bittersweet quality to it—and noted the creases where her face powder had settled into the fine lines around her eyes.

  Beatrix was not a large wo
man. Indeed, she was little more than a shadow compared to the sturdy bulk of Kitty Fitzhenry. Beatrix nevertheless towered over the diminutive Bella. Mira braced herself for the confrontation.

  “So, Miss Fitzhenry,” Beatrix said, icy disdain dripping from her every word. “Do you think you can land this fish? Or will you admit that you are out of your depth?”

  Bella drew herself up as straight and tall as she could. She managed to look Beatrix square in the eye, even though Mira could see that Bella’s hands and chin were trembling. Mira had to admire Bella’s display of courage. Who would have thought that spoiled little Bella had such pluck?

  “My lady,” Bella choked out, before her voice cracked two octaves high. She swallowed visibly, and started again. “My lady, I do not believe I am out of my depth. In fact, I believe the, uh, fish is mine for the taking.”

  Without warning, Beatrix’s hand flew up, and she struck Bella soundly across the face. The snap of skin on skin was deafening.

  After a beat of breathless silence, Bella gasped. The air made a watery sound as she inhaled past welling tears. Already, the faint imprint of Beatrix’s hand was surfacing on Bella’s delicate skin.

  Kitty stepped forward, maneuvering herself between Beatrix and Bella. Her face reflected anger and shock and fear in equal measures, but, no matter how powerful Lady Beatrix was, Kitty would not allow anyone to abuse her baby.

  Kitty had no chance to do more than shelter her child with her own body before Bella lifted the hem of her gossamer gown and, with an inarticulate sound of misery, dashed from the room.

  Almost instinctively, Mira took a step to follow her, but then she stopped to look at Lady Beatrix.

  Her expression was perfectly blank and bloodless, her pale features gone to chalk. But her eyes were wide, and beneath the unnaturally placid surface, Mira glimpsed a frenzied confusion simmering in their depths. A tremor gripped Beatrix’s hand, which still hung in the air as though prepared to deliver another blow.

  Taking another step toward the door, Mira paused long enough to bob a quick curtsy. “Excuse me,” she muttered, then fled the room in search of Bella.

  Mira found Bella at the top of the main stairs. Tears were pouring down her face. She whimpered quietly as she looked from left to right, obviously unsure about which hallway led to her room.

  Bella started when Mira laid a hand on her shoulder to gently steer her in the right direction.

  “She hit me,” Bella said, her voice soft with amazement. “She hit me.”

  “Are you all right? I… She should not have done that. I cannot imagine what came over her.” Mira cringed at the small broken sounds her cousin was making.

  Again, Bella surprised Mira by swiping at the tears on her face and, with a sniff and a shake of her head, pulling herself together.

  “I will be fine,” she said, her voice stronger already.

  “Good,” Mira responded with a smile of encouragement. “You should go to bed now. You will feel much better in the morning. And, by then, all will be forgotten.” It was a lie, but it was a small one, and it would help Bella get through the evening. Mira grasped Bella’s shoulders lightly and pointed her down the proper hallway, then turned toward her own bedchamber.

  “Mira?”

  Mira stopped.

  “Mira, with Lady Beatrix so set against me, I cannot risk her turning Jeremy against me, too. I have to act now. Quickly. Now there is simply no question: Jeremy and I must elope on Friday night. And you will help me.” Bella’s voice resonated with her newfound strength and determination, and Mira watched in wonder as her eyes turned cold and hard behind the lingering shimmer of tears.

  With a strange sense of detachment, Mira nodded. She still thought the elopement ill-advised, but what could she do? Bella did not really need Mira’s help, but she did need Mira’s support. Someone’s support. After Lady Beatrix’s outrageous conduct, Mira could not bring herself to deny her cousin such a simple thing.

  If Bella found herself in a desperate situation in the future—a likely prospect, under the circumstances—she would need some family member to whom she could turn. It was a small thing, to allow Bella to hide her luggage, and it might salvage her fragile link with her family, allow her someday to seek help without losing her pride.

  Bella did not offer thanks, or even a smile. Instead, she nodded grimly, turned on her dainty heel, and marched away.

  With a sense of foreboding, Mira watched her go. She could not help thinking that events were spinning out of control, hurtling toward some disastrous crisis just beyond the horizon. She shuddered, trying to shake off her unease, and started down the long hallway to her own room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mira returned to her room to find Nan wearing a path in the carpet with her pacing. The tiny maid’s cap was askew, and she was chewing frantically on the edge of her thumbnail.

  “Oh, Miss Mira,” she cried. “Thank heavens you are back! I have so much news.”

  “Well, hello Nan,” Mira said with a tired smile. “Where have you been keeping yourself today?”

  Nan bit her lip and looked down at her toes. “I am surely sorry, Miss Mira. I guess I am not much of a lady’s maid, never around when you need me. But you seemed, well, distracted. And I thought I might ask around the staff a bit, see what I could learn about the murders.”

  Mira crossed the room to sink down heavily on the blue velvet settee, her limbs leaden with fatigue. “No, Nan. It is quite all right. As I have said before, I have gotten along splendidly without a maid for my entire life. I just worried that I had driven you away, been uncivil.”

  Mira pressed her fingers against her eyes and sighed, trying to release the stress of the day. When she looked up again, she forced a bright smile and patted the cushion next to her in invitation. “Come now,” she said, “tell me what you have learned about our mystery.”

  Anything would be a help, Mira thought. After all, Wednesday was already gone, and that left only two days, at most, to solve the mystery. On Friday night, Bella would abscond with Jeremy, who remained suspect. What’s more, any day now, the messenger from London would arrive with certification of the banns, and Mira would be forced to decide whether she would marry Nicholas or whether she would flee. Either way, her choice would be irrevocable, and Mira needed to have answers before she could make it.

  After only a moment’s hesitation, Nan perched herself on the settee next to Mira and launched into her story.

  “Well,” she said, her businesslike tone failing to conceal her excitement. “I started off taking some tea in the kitchen. Big houses like this are no different from crofter’s cottages: everyone tells their tales at table, so the cook knows everything. I tried to act like I was nervous about working for the fancy, that I wasn’t sure how to get on. I said I had heard tell that sometimes the quality took advantage of maids, if you catch my meaning. I asked the cook, Mrs. Jenkins, if I should be worried about that.”

  “Clever girl, Nan!” Mira exclaimed, and Nan flushed from the praise. “So, what did Mrs. Jenkins have to say?”

  “She said I had cause to worry. She said Lord Blackwell is a wolf. But he only comes home twice a year, and he usually stays away from the house staff. She said I should really watch myself around…,” Nan paused, clearly savoring her revelation, “…Mr. Jeremy Ellerby.”

  “Oh dear. Yes, Nicholas let on that Mr. Ellerby had inherited his father’s rakish ways,” Mira murmured, thinking of Bella’s plans to elope and feeling a renewed sense of dread. Time was closing in on her, urgency robbing her of breath. “What else did Mrs. Jenkins have to say about Mr. Ellerby?”

  “Only that he has put his hands on everything in skirts, and that he is not always gentle with a girl’s feelings. Mrs. Jenkins tsked a bit and said that Lady Beatrix has smothered the boy, kept him too close to home for far too long. ‘He’s chafing at the bit,’ she said. The tighter Lady Beatrix holds him, the wilder Mr. Ellerby becomes. Been especially bad this past year.”

 
; Mira narrowed her eyes, considering the import of Nan’s information. It certainly explained Jeremy’s desire to elope, to untangle himself from his mother’s skirts.

  “I also asked Mrs. Jenkins if any of the Ellerbys or their guests were cruel. Told her that my mother left the employ of a gentleman once because he beat her, broke her arm. I let on that I didn’t want to truck with anything like that.”

  “Oh, Nan, is that true? Your poor mother!” Mira laid a comforting hand on Nan’s knee.

  Nan flashed her a cheeky smile. “No, Miss Mira. My mother always says the Irish have a way with tall tales, and I guess my Irish half just got the better of me. I suppose I should feel guilty, spreading tales about my mother and playing on Mrs. Jenkins’s heartstrings like that. But desperate times…”

  “Yes, well, I confess I have stretched the truth a bit myself in the name of our investigation. Under the circumstances, I believe we may be forgiven.”

  “Alas, my fib did not earn me much. Mrs. Jenkins said that Lord Ashfield may be a strange bird, and act sinister, but he keeps to himself and has never raised a hand to the servants. Mr. Jeremy Ellerby has other, more pleasurable uses for his hands,” she continued with a wry smile. “And Lord Blackwell is more likely to dismiss you out of hand than he is to strike you.

  “She did warn me that Lady Beatrix has a temper. Once she was dismounting from her horse and she slipped, almost fell. One of the footmen smirked at her, so she struck him with her riding crop.” Nan dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Left a scar,” she said, eyebrows raised in astonishment.

  Mira shivered, thinking of the startling display of violence Lady Beatrix had shown just that night.

  “But apparently none of the gentlemen of the house has a heavy hand,” Nan continued. “At least not that Mrs. Jenkins is aware, and I cannot imagine that anything happens in this house without her knowing.”