Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

  Geoffrey chose that moment to bound into the room, his broad face lit up with pleasure. “Dr. Merial!” he crowed. “I’d thought I wouldn’t see you again!”

  Clare cringed. It was clear, in her brother’s excited greeting, that Dr. Merial provided something he was otherwise missing in his life. And it was equally clear, now that she had witnessed the reunion, saying a final good-bye would be harder than she thought.

  Lucy strolled in next, dressed in a walking gown of a color blue that matched her eyes. Clare blinked in surprise. Had that particular ensemble always been in Lucy’s wardrobe? Her sister also had a pair of gloves clutched in her hands, and a suspicious smile on her lips. “Ah, there you are, Dr. Merial. Just in time.”

  “Just in time for what, exactly?” Clare demanded, apprehension fluttering in her stomach.

  Lucy ignored her and beamed up at Daniel. “I’ve the perfect outing picked out for us. If we hurry, we should just be able to have you back to St. Bart’s by noon, especially if we take the omnibus.”

  “What are you talking about?” Clare looked between her siblings.

  Both looked smug.

  “We’re going out,” Lucy replied. “With Dr. Merial.”

  Daniel spread his hands, and for a second Clare thought with relief that he was going to provide his regrets, as any sensible man must. But then he smiled, and it was not an apologetic sort of expression. “Though your consideration is appreciated, Miss Westmore,” he said to Lucy, “you may be pleased to know I do not lecture today. I am not expected at the hospital before evening rounds.” He bowed from the waist. “It seems I am at your disposal.”

  Clare gasped. “Absolutely not. There will be no outing.”

  There would be no thoughts of an outing.

  And there would be no disposal, lest it was of the doctor’s own body.

  Lucy lifted her chin. “I want to see Madame Sylvie. The Times says she’s attempting a walk today across the Thames, a distance of over six hundred yards from Battersea to Cremorne Gardens. I, for one, plan to be there to see her make history.”

  Clare questioned the functioning of her ears, though her eyes had seen the newspaper article her sister referenced. “Lucy,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “You are not traveling to Chelsea as an unmarried and unchaperoned young lady, to see a woman break her neck attempting to walk a high wire.” She turned to Daniel, livid. “Tell her. I invited you here this morning to say good-bye. Nothing more.”

  But the blasted man was stroking his chin as if in thought. “Madame Sylvie, hmm? She’s a patient of mine, you know. I treated her after her last failed attempt, when she got a ducking in the Thames and two cracked ribs for her trouble.”

  “You treated Madame Sylvie?” Geoffrey breathed in awe. “She’s very pretty.” He blushed. “At least, the drawing in the paper suggests she is.”

  “I can probably secure you an introduction.” Daniel cuffed Geoffrey on the shoulder. “After she is finished with her walk, of course. She will be quite focused at the moment on the coming attempt. I wouldn’t want you to distract her.”

  “It is decided, then.” Lucy sounded pleased. She motioned toward the open drawing room door. “We’ll need to hurry if we’re to procure a spot near the front of the crowd. By my calculations, the bus will be here in ten minutes.”

  Bus? Calculations? Crowd?

  Time to launch a battle to regain some measure of control. “Lucy, Dr. Merial isn’t going with you on an outing,” she said firmly. “It would be improper.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “I am not sure it is a matter that requires your approval. He promised me an adventure. He has established he is not expected anywhere else.” She pulled on her right glove. “Ergo . . .”

  “Ergo?” Clare’s hands clenched to fists. Wonderful. Now both her siblings were spouting Latin, courtesy of one abominably handsome doctor. “You are but seventeen,” she ground out. “Unmarried. Unchaperoned.”

  “Plenty of young women are permitted advanced studies with tutors or even colleges at my age, so it scarcely seems a relevant argument against a simple, educational outing. I’ll even acknowledge I’m unmarried,” Lucy said. Shaded by the brim of her bonnet, her face looked surprisingly mature—and, for a change, quite feminine. But then she smiled impishly. “And I confess I have no intention of ever changing that status. A wise person once told me the most important thing was to be myself, so that is what I intend to be. I want to go on this outing.”

  “But it wouldn’t be proper,” Clare objected. And what was this nonsense about Lucy needing to be herself? If ever there was a piece of advice sure to ruin a girl’s chance for a proper Season, it was that.

  “Lucy, I’m afraid she is right,” Daniel broke in. “You would need a chaperone.” But then his eyes slid toward Clare, accompanied by a grin that made her insides flop. “Which is why your sister should come with us.”

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  He was deranged.

  “No need. It is already arranged.” Lucy stepped to one side, revealing a woman who had apparently been standing behind her in the open doorway. “Because Maggie has agreed to come along as chaperone. Haven’t you, Maggie?”

  Clare stared in disbelief as the pretty, brown-haired servant she had sent to find her siblings stepped forward, her reticule in hand. The maid’s apron had been dispatched to parts unknown and her white lace cap was replaced by a serviceable bonnet.

  It seemed Lucy had thought of every argument, and planned her attack accordingly.

  The servant darted a telling glance in Daniel’s direction, and her lips curved upward in a marked invitation. “Indeed, miss, I am looking forward to a spot of fresh air.”

  “I see,” Clare said tartly, feeling suddenly and inexplicably left out. She couldn’t help but wonder who would chaperone the maid, because given the mooning glances the girl was offering Daniel, it seemed someone ought to.

  “You could still come with us.” Daniel’s voice felt like fingers, trailing up her spine, daring her in this direction, making her lose all common sense.

  “How can I go with an injured ankle?” Clare protested, though her heart thumped an eager response.

  “You said just last night your ankle was healed,” Geoffrey pointed out.

  “And we are taking the omnibus,” Lucy added. “Cremorne Gardens is but a short walk from King’s Road. If you are truly as healed as you claim you are, you should be able to manage it with nary a limp.”

  Clare searched their faces. Did they really want her to go? She cast about for a way to defuse this terrible, tempting idea, and found none at the ready.

  “Perhaps, you might consider this a test, of sorts.” Daniel took a step toward her. “It would prove you are well enough for Lady Austerley’s musicale.” He leaned in until his voice tickled the fine hairs along her cheek. “Which I can unfortunately confirm the countess is insisting will go on as scheduled tomorrow, despite my advice to the contrary.”

  The change in proximity between them scrambled Clare’s senses. Of course, he would not try anything untoward with a drawing room audience. In fact, she could probably go on this outing and remain perfectly safe, given the mob that would no doubt be flocking to Chelsea. Was there anything more public than a London spectacle?

  And was there any safer way to be in the company of a rake than surrounded by throngs of people?

  Clare bit her lip. “I believe I have proved my recovery well enough, given the mile I’ve paced on the drawing room carpet today.” But she didn’t say no. She couldn’t say no.

  Her tongue quite refused to consider it.

  “Come with us,” he coaxed. “You have my promise I won’t accompany them without your permission, which should make you happy, at the least. But we’ve a chaperone, and a destination, and a glorious afternoon waiting for us. What would it take for you to enjoy the day, and possibly even the company?”

  Clare felt as though the breath had been knocked from her lungs. She was wearing her oldest g
own. Without a corset. He was asking her to ride an omnibus. He was supposed to be ten feet away from her, and yet here he was, close enough to touch.

  Close enough to tempt.

  “People might see us,” she mumbled, but the protest sounded vague and hollow to her own ears. “You have no idea what it is like to be someone in my position.”

  “No, but I do.” Lucy stepped forward, gloved hands outstretched, her blue eyes softening. “I’ll understand it even better next year, I imagine. But it seems to me that Dr. Merial is right. No one will judge you—they’ll be too busy judging Madame Sylvie’s performance. For once, can’t you just take a chance without calculating the risks to your reputation, or the damage to your gown, or the cost to your schedule? We miss our sister, Clare. At least, we miss the sister you used to be.”

  Clare blinked, shaken by Lucy’s claims.

  Had she really altered herself so much?

  She’d faced difficult choices, of course, since the start of her first Season. Tolerating Sophie and Rose’s snide remarks and snubbing young men like Mr. Meeks were only part of the daily dilemmas she faced. But what young woman who dreamed of being a duchess didn’t need to make a few concessions?

  Somehow, though, she’d not realized the changes were so noticeable.

  Geoffrey nodded his agreement. But unlike Lucy, he offered her a frankly mischievous grin. “What will it be, sis? And if you stay here, I should point out you’ll have to be the one to explain to Mother where we’ve gone when she finally hauls herself from bed.”

  Clare dried her perspiring palms on her skirts and glanced again toward the window. Mother was still abed, no doubt sleeping off the ill effects of her prior evening’s overindulgence. But eventually she would wake, and given the discomfort of last night’s revelations, the thought of being elsewhere when their mother stumbled downstairs had some appeal.

  Moreover, Daniel hadn’t been exaggerating: the sun outside the window was glorious. She hadn’t ventured farther afield than the drawing room in two long weeks, and she had never felt the loss of fresh air more acutely than she did in this moment.

  Perhaps she should count the past two weeks as a brief diversion in her quest to secure her future, a moment’s anomaly in the continuum of a well-planned life. Perhaps she could relax and truly enjoy herself, just once, before returning to the fray.

  And perhaps an outing—if it was brief and controlled—wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just go for a nice, sedate walk in Hyde Park?” she asked, making one final bid for sanity.

  “No!” came the chorus of her siblings’ voices.

  “No,” Daniel added, a grin splitting his handsome face. “I did promise Lucy an outing of her choice.” His dark gaze met hers, warm and approving down the slope of his perfect nose. Clare felt herself slipping into the fast-moving current of his smile. “And then I will go my own way,” he said, his voice lowering. “All contracts fulfilled, all parties duly satisfied.”

  Clare was no longer sure such an outcome would leave her satisfied, but she nodded. “All right,” she said, “to Chelsea, then,” causing Geoffrey to erupt in cheers and Lucy to clap her gloved hands. Apparently by omnibus, though she wasn’t convinced which was the greater spectacle here: public transportation or a female exhibitionist, flashing her petticoats above the crowd. Clare prayed Madame Sylvie was properly bracing herself for impact, because it seemed quite clear the world was coming to an end.

  And if the high-wire line above her own future was any indication, it was going to be devilishly difficult to navigate the next few hours safely.

  Chapter 16

  From the moment they stepped off the omnibus, it was clear to Daniel that the spectacle at Cremorne Gardens might be best defined as a “riot.”

  Set between the river and King’s Road, the venue was always known to be colorful and loud, though it lacked the flair and reputation of Vauxhall. From the top of the Cremorne pier, colorful banners streamed on the steady, foul wind pushing in off the Thames. Juxtaposed against the stench off the river came the stomach-pleasing scents from vendors selling every type of food imaginable: sticky buns, meat pies, and roasted chestnuts—though surely, by now, they were down to the moldy dregs of last year’s crop.

  But the contrary scents and jumbled sights appeared not to have deterred anyone from attendance today, because more than anything else, there were people. Bodies pressed in on four sides. It was a remarkable slice of the British populace. Young and old. Wealthy and poor.

  Washed and unwashed.

  All here to see a woman walk a high wire across the Thames

  Competing for space and scent with no less enthusiasm were the flowers. Late spring azaleas blossomed on every bush, red and white and coral, choking the air with their heavy fragrance. Closer to the ground, precious tulips that had no doubt been planted by some well-meaning philanthropic organization were being trampled as the crush spilled over into the cultivated beds.

  “What a mob!” Geoffrey exclaimed in excitement. “We’ve a quarter hour, do you think, before Madame Sylvie starts?” He breathed in deeply. “I think I smell gooseberry tarts.”

  Daniel was rather used to such crowds himself, but he glanced over at Clare with concern, in case she was finding the experience overwhelming. Her eyes were wide, but there was a marvelous flush on her fair cheeks. She was pointing her finger at her brother. “No tarts. These vendors are filthy, Geoffrey, have you seen their hands? I want you to stick tight to Maggie’s side. Loop arms. If we lose you in this crush, we’ll never find you.”

  “An excellent idea,” Daniel agreed, sidestepping a dog that had broken its lead and was tearing about, tongue hanging out. The dog’s owner charged through soon after, scattering the crowd for no more than a moment before the bodies pressed back in, shoulder-to-shoulder. “We must strive to not become separated.” Christ, but it was crowded, and growing more so with every passing second. “But we should agree on a meeting point, in the event one of us becomes lost.” He pointed to the iron gate they had just come through. “There.” It was impossible to miss, rising eight feet tall, with ornate molding and gilded lions’ heads that reflected the sun like small mirrors. “Anyone who is separated should come here to the north gate and wait for the others.”

  Fingers clutched at his sleeve. He grabbed the hand, imagining it was a pickpocket. The crowd would no doubt be full of them. But it was Clare, her gloves soft beneath his fingers and her eyes wide now with something other than excitement.

  He loosened his grip slowly, but she didn’t pull her hand away.

  “Daniel,” she breathed, and the panic in her voice was unmistakable. “Where is Lucy? I thought she was right with us, off the bus.”

  He turned in a circle, searching for light blue skirts. He caught sight of her standing on the wrong side of the gate, near the omnibus that should have by now pulled away from the curb. Lucy had one hand on the horse’s bridle and was arguing with the red-faced driver, who looked nearly ready to use his whip.

  Unfortunately, not on the horse.

  Clare spied her at nearly the same time. “Oh, God,” she gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth, as if such blasphemy was on par with her sister’s idiocy.

  Daniel was already in motion. “Stay here. And for heaven’s sake, don’t move.”

  He dodged his way through the milling crowd and pulled a belligerent Lucy back to their little group. Clare grabbed her sister’s arm and shook her, hard. “I swear, you just took a year off my life! What were you thinking? If we become separated in this crowd, we’d never find each other again. We were supposed to meet by the gate if one of us is lost, and there you were, clear on the other side of it, wrestling with a horse.”

  “Well, someone needed to do something,” Lucy protested, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It was starving! You could see the poor horse’s withers!”

  “Er . . . its withers?” Daniel asked, perplexed.

  “On its neck
, Dr. Merial.” She pointed an accusing finger in the direction of the disappearing bus. “You could see its bones. It’s the same on the other buses, too. You can see all of their bones. The poor animals need to be fed better, and I intend to organize a movement to see that it happens.”

  Daniel stifled a laugh. “Lucy, visible withers are not a sign of malnutrition. In fact, it is rather a desirable trait in a horse.”

  She blinked. “Surely not.”

  He studied her face, trying to see if she was joking, but she remained red-faced and earnest. Bloody hell. Was she honestly so invested in a cause she knew little about?

  “Horses lack a clavicle,” he explained, realizing too late that the resulting quartet of blank faces meant his audience probably didn’t know what a clavicle was. He motioned to his jacket, outlining the area of his own collarbone. “So, unlike humans, the muscles of a horse’s front leg attach to the vertebrae.”

  “What is a vertebrae?” Geoffrey interjected.

  Daniel sorted through the jumble of medical and equine knowledge in his head and tried again. “Vertebrae are the pieces of the backbone, and in horses the top of those pieces form the withers.” He thought back to his childhood, and could almost hear his father’s patient voice explaining how to pick apart a horse’s conformation and predict its future use and value. “Withers are an important predictor of a horse’s athletic ability. Longer withers predict an increased length of stride.” Daniel paused at Lucy’s slightly stricken look. “I take it you’ve not spent much time in the company of horses?”

  She worried her lower lip. “Our mews boast only the two horses that pull the coach, and Father’s intemperate stallion that never gets exercised because he spends all his time at his club. I lectured the grooms about increasing their oats, but they’ve done little more than laugh at me.”

  “Ah.” This time he couldn’t hide the amused smile that claimed him. “Well, increasing oats for a stallion who is not regularly exercised is a poor idea all around. Makes them hot and ill-tempered. And if you would but take a careful look around, you’ll realize you never see a horse without withers. It’s a feature of their conformation that has little to do with the nutritional status of the beast. I suspect you want to look at the ribs for that.”