by Turano, Jen
Knowing full well she’d be less than attentive to her mission at hand if she continued to draw such unexpected attention, Permilia pulled her gaze from the winking gentleman, and, as discreetly as possible, looked over the front of her gown, surprised to discover that everything seemed to be in proper order. Not one button was undone, nor was her neckline askew, which made it even more confusing to understand the attention that kept being directed her way.
Lifting her head, her gaze returned to the winking gentleman and found him now heading her way, carrying two glasses of what appeared to be champagne.
That sight had any thought of proper decorum vanishing straightaway. Abandoning all the many rules her stepmother had drummed into her about walking in a slow and dignified manner, Permilia spun around and dashed away into the crowd, earning more than a few raised eyebrows but thankfully losing the smiling-and-beverage-carrying gentleman in the process.
Needing to find a place to collect her scattered thoughts, Permilia breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted some large ferns. Hurrying their way, she disappeared into the fronds.
What she found on the other side of those fronds had her skidding to a stop, unable to help but smile at the sight that greeted her.
Sitting on what appeared to be an overturned log and looking more forlorn than usual were two fellow wallflowers—Miss Gertrude Cadwalader and Miss Temperance Flowerdew.
That they did not appear to be pleased to be in the midst of Alva Vanderbilt’s ball was certainly an understatement. Taking a step closer to them, Permilia suddenly found herself at a complete loss for words when she got her first good look at Gertrude.
She didn’t know Gertrude well, even though she’d frequently sat beside her at one society event or another over the years. The reasoning behind that lack of familiarity was a direct result of the unspoken rules wallflowers were expected to adhere to at all times.
One of the most important rules was that wallflowers did not converse with each other . . . ever.
Thankfully, that particular rule had finally been broken when a fellow wallflower, Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff, had required assistance in trying to evade the attention of Mr. Edgar Wanamaker. The evading tactics had not exactly gone off as planned—especially since, instead of avoiding Mr. Wanamaker, Wilhelmina was now engaged to the man. But the antics of Wilhelmina and her Mr. Wanamaker had made it possible for Permilia and Gertrude to become friends. Permilia found the unexpected friendship to be very lovely indeed, seeing as she not made any friends since she and her father had moved to New York after living a somewhat nomadic existence for years.
Nevertheless, even though she had formed a friendship with Gertrude, she had yet to understand Gertrude’s unusual sense of fashion. Though she always dressed in a rather peculiar manner, tonight, well, Gertrude had simply outdone herself.
Gertrude’s golden curls were gathered together in two unevenly matched bunches on either side of her head. Brightly colored feathers were stuck into the bunches, and then more feathers—ones that appeared to be from a chicken—were attached to wings that had been sewn onto the back of her blue-and-green-striped dress. Additional feathers had been glued, and not glued very well, all over the fabric of Gertrude’s skirt.
“I’m a peacock,” Gertrude said before Permilia had a chance to recover her speech.
“Of course you are.”
Gertrude grinned. “I know I don’t look anything like a peacock, Permilia, but Mrs. Davenport, the lady I’m paid to be companion to, fancies herself a somewhat artistic sort. One of the conditions of her hiring me on as her companion was that I needed to agree to allow her to pursue her artistic nature by styling me in whatever manner she saw fit—or . . . ‘as the muse strikes,’ as she so quaintly put it.”
Resisting the impulse to grab a dance card from her muff and write down that intriguing piece of nonsense concerning one of society’s established matrons, Permilia summoned up a smile instead. “Perhaps the muse will stop striking.”
Miss Temperance Flowerdew—another wallflower, but one who rarely spoke—let out what almost sounded like a laugh, until her eyes widened. She gulped in a breath of air and immediately settled into silence again.
Releasing a laugh of her own, Gertrude caught Permilia’s eye. “While I can always hope that Mrs. Davenport will decide she’s not an artistic sort, for now, since she pays very well for my company, I’ve learned to avoid mirrors at all costs.” Gertrude patted a spot beside her on the log. “You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
Feeling a rush of affection for her new friend, Permilia moved to the log and took a seat. “May I assume the two of you plan to spend the entire ball hidden behind here?”
“I should think not,” Gertrude said even as Temperance began nodding. Reaching over to Temperance, Gertrude patted her hand. “We can’t stay here all night—especially since I’ve come to the conclusion that this cozy nook may have been created to offer couples seeking out a bit of privacy, a place to . . . well . . . do whatever it is couples do when they go off searching for a secluded spot.”
Temperance immediately stopped nodding, turned a bright shade of pink, and got to her feet, shaking out the folds of what appeared to be some sort of a servant costume. “I’ll get in all sorts of trouble if anyone comes to the conclusion I’m hiding away back here in order to have a clandestine meeting with . . . a gentleman.”
For the briefest of moments, Permilia simply stared at the woman who’d just strung an entire sentence together. “Get in trouble from whom, pray tell?”
Temperance shuddered. “It would be for the best if I didn’t answer that, but I do appreciate you asking.” With that, she spun around and rushed away.
“You don’t suppose her cousin, Mr. Wayne Flowerdew, is abusive toward her, do you?” Gertrude asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Mr. Flowerdew, nor about Temperance, for that matter,” Permilia began. “I’ve heard the rumors that she’s a poor relation, taken in by her cousin after her parents died a few years back. I’ve also heard that the Flowerdew family was fortunate in that they were vouched for by a very respected New York Knickerbocker matron who saw them accepted into New York society two years ago without much fuss.”
She pursed her lips. “It’s been clear to me for some time now that the Flowerdews place little value on Temperance. Her sole purpose in attending society events seems to revolve around her being at the ready if Wayne Flowerdew’s daughter—the very fashionable, yet quite nasty, Miss Clementine Flowerdew—needs assistance with anything. Why, I’ve seen her called away from the wallflower section numerous times over the past two years in order to sew a button back on Clementine’s gown, search out glue to reattach a heel that had come off Clementine’s dainty shoe, and once . . . I watched Temperance hold a parasol over Clementine’s head in order to keep the sun away from her cousin’s pale complexion as they strolled around Central Park.”
Gertrude gave a shake of her head. “And here I thought I had a difficult time of it being a paid companion to Mrs. Davenport, who isn’t always pleasant, but at least there’s only one of her, and—”
Whatever else Gertrude had been about to say got lost when there was a loud shriek and then a thud. A second later, one of the pillars that had been brought in to lend the gymnasium an ancient-Roman feel, and one that could be seen from their hiding place since it reached almost to the ceiling, began to teeter.
Not hesitating, Permilia moved into motion and burst through the foliage she’d been hiding behind. Her gaze took in the sight of Temperance lying on the floor, obviously a victim of an overly long hem, before she switched her attention to the pillar Temperance had apparently bounced against. To her horror, that pillar no longer simply teetered but began to topple, sending the plants on top of it cascading to the ground.
Dashing forward, she put her shoulder against it, praying that would be enough to set it to rights again.
To her dismay, the pillar turned out to be far heavier than
she’d anticipated. As her feet began to slip out from underneath her, she called a warning to the guests closest to her, right before she completely lost her balance and slid to the floor. Lifting an arm to cover her face, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the pain that was certainly soon to come.
Chapter
Three
Pausing in the midst of a conversation he was enjoying with some delightful young ladies, all of whom had obtained their lady-in-waiting costumes from his store, Rutherford & Company, Mr. Asher Rutherford blinked as what could only be described as a catastrophe-in-the-making began to unfold right before his eyes.
A decorative pillar was teetering in a most concerning manner, the teetering sending some of the potted plants adorning the top of it tumbling to the ground.
As the first plant hit the marble floor, guests scattered every which way, but amidst all the scattering, a lady dressed in a shimmering gown of white suddenly darted out from behind a clump of ferns. To his disbelief, she charged right up to the pillar that was now tilting, not teetering, and placed a slim shoulder against it, one that certainly wasn’t strong enough to stop the disaster that was about to happen.
When her feet began sliding against the polished floor of the gymnasium, he immediately found the incentive to move, rushing forward and reaching the pillar right as the lady lost her balance. Meeting the falling pillar with a shoulder of his own, but one that was certainly broader than the lady’s, he shoved with all his might, sending the pillar on a different course, one that didn’t have it grinding anyone into the ground. When it hit the floor, it broke into numerous pieces, the sounds of the pieces tinkling across the marble floor overly loud in a room that had grown remarkably quiet.
Silence settled over the gymnasium as a few leaves from the potted plants drifted through the air, until a lady standing near him—one who was sporting a most unusual hairstyle and wearing, curiously enough, what appeared to be chicken feathers attached to a wide swath of her costume—began clapping enthusiastically as she beamed a bright smile his way, her actions having the entire room bursting into applause.
Being a gentleman who’d never been uncomfortable with attention, Asher smiled and presented the room with a bow. As the applause began to fade away, he directed his attention to the rash young lady who’d certainly had good intentions but had behaved in a manner at distinct odds with her innate feminine nature. That young lady was still lying on the ground, her face almost entirely hidden beneath a gloved hand.
Leaning toward her, he took in the sight of well-coifed red hair that was a most unusual shade, given that it was mixed with a good deal of gold, and . . . it was a shade he’d only seen on one lady before.
His smile dimmed ever so slightly as he realized that the lady stretched out on the floor in front of him was none other than Miss Permilia Griswold, a lady he wasn’t overly familiar with, but who evoked rather unusual emotions in him all the same.
Those emotions ranged from annoyance, exasperation, frustration, and even grudging respect—all of the emotions, curiously enough, having come about during the two times he’d found himself in her company.
The first time he’d spoken to her had been in Central Park, providing skates—at a price, of course—to the many New Yorkers who’d braved the elements in order to enjoy the beauty of a snow-blanketed day. Miss Griswold had arrived at the park in the company of Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff, recent fiancée to his very dear friend, Mr. Edgar Wanamaker. Before he’d been able to do more than greet Miss Radcliff, though, Miss Griswold had begun taking him to task over what she’d felt were inflated skate prices.
Being a gentleman who made it his business to know the worth of every object he sold—and the worth of the service he extended to his customers that went with that object—he’d found himself at a complete loss for words when first presented with Miss Griswold’s argument. He’d rallied quickly, though, when she’d begun haggling with him like a common fishmonger. But before he’d been able to claim a victory—and the exact amount of money he was asking for the skates—Miss Griswold had somehow won the day, handing him the exact amount of money she felt the skates were worth.
Before he’d had the presence of mind to protest, he was watching her stroll away, swinging her ill-gotten gains by their laces and whistling a far too cheery tune.
The second time he’d run across the oh-so-annoying Miss Griswold had been at Edgar Wanamaker and Wilhelmina Radcliff’s engagement ball. Asher had been determined to let bygones be bygones, but when he’d attempted a polite conversation with Miss Griswold—talking about fashion, which he’d always found to be a most innocent topic and one normal ladies seemed to enjoy—Miss Griswold had gotten her back up. She was clearly peeved that he’d had the audacity to question where she’d purchased her delightful gown, assuming that she’d had a renowned designer create it for her.
Sparks had practically flown out of Miss Griswold’s brilliant blue eyes as she’d lifted a well-formed chin. She’d then informed him in a frosty voice that she rarely frequented renowned designers, finding that they charged prices that were far too steep for her.
When he’d made the grave mistake of pointing out that her father was one of the richest men in America and therefore those costs needed not concern her, her cheeks had turned an agreeable shade of pink right before she’d turned on her heel and stomped away from him, returning a mere moment later to make some unexpected remark about the weather. She’d then muttered something about her stepmother and trying to remember all the rules, before she’d turned back around and left his company without another word.
Their conversation had been more than peculiar, but now, with the memory of how vocal Miss Griswold usually was around him fresh in his mind, Asher bent closer to her, his gaze sharpening on her inert form.
Because Miss Griswold was not emitting a single sound—a concerning situation if there ever was one—alarm immediately replaced the annoyance his memories had evoked.
Realizing he needed to get her out of the crowd circling around them, Asher bent over, scooped Miss Griswold into his arms, and straightening, letting out a grunt when she began flailing about in his arms, quite like a fish out of water. Taken by surprise, his hold on her slackened, and Miss Griswold tumbling right out of his arms and back onto the floor.
Kneeling beside her with an apology on the tip of his tongue, Asher leaned toward her . . . but reared back a mere second later when Miss Griswold pushed herself to a sitting position. The apology he’d been intending to make was all but forgotten as he watched her rub an elbow that would surely sport a bruise come morning before she lifted her chin, caught his eye, and blinked a time or two.
Bracing himself for the wrath to come, he was instead surprised when instead of taking him to task for dropping her so unchivalrously to the ground . . . she smiled at him.
Curiously enough, a smiling Miss Griswold was a lovely sight indeed, her smile having the unexpected result of lodging his breath in his throat, a circumstance that took him by complete—
“What a delightful surprise to discover that you, Mr. Rutherford, are the gentleman who saved me from a most gruesome death” were the first words to come out of Miss Griswold’s now rapidly moving mouth.
The warm sensation he’d begun to feel in regard to her lovely smile disappeared in a flash. “You’re surprised to discover I saved you?”
Miss Griswold gave a nod, the motion sending the large tiara she wore on her head listing to the left. “Indeed, especially since, as I was bracing myself to be crushed in a most horrible fashion, I found the presence of mind to ask for a touch of divine intervention, and . . . the good Lord above apparently sent you racing to my rescue.”
“You asked for a touch of divine intervention?”
She reached up and made short shrift of setting her tiara to rights. “I’m sure you would have done exactly that if you’d been facing a gruesome demise.”
“Perhaps, but . . .” He paused and caught her eye. “I must
admit I can’t recall a single time anyone’s ever admitted to asking for divine intervention in the midst of a society event.”
Pursing her lips, she seemed to think about that for a long moment. “I suppose you’re right about that, Mr. Rutherford. But don’t you find it somewhat peculiar that when people gather, say, at church, matters of divine intervention are expected, but when they gather outside of places specifically relegated as places of worship, the topic of God or anything relating to Him seems to become rather uncomfortable?”
“I would imagine that’s because people are cautious, especially members of New York society, about offending those within their social circles. And talk of religion—along with politics, of course—can be a somewhat slippery slope to navigate.”
Miss Griswold’s eyes widened. “Ah, I imagine that’s exactly what my stepmother was trying to warn me about a month or so ago when we were discussing my appalling lack of conversation savviness.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You may very well find this to be surprising, but I’m apparently woefully deficient when it comes to conversing well with members of polite society. Truth be told, more often than not, I find myself completely tongue-tied whenever in the midst of the more fashionable set, and if I’m not tongue-tied, I seem to always broach a subject that would be best left not broached.”
Asher lowered his voice as well. “May I assume then, especially since I’ve not experienced the whole tongue-tied business when I’ve been in your company, that you don’t find me worthy to be considered a member of the fashionable set?”
“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Rutherford. You own what is certain to become the most fashionable store in the city. If you’re not considered a member of the fashionable set, I don’t know who is.”
With that, Miss Griswold pushed herself to her feet, seemingly unconcerned with the notion that young ladies were expected to allow a gentleman—if one was available, which he certainly was—to assist them to their feet after they’d taken a nasty plummet to the ground.