Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe

London

      ‘What are your plans now, William, since you have returned from India?’ Harold Blakely, William’s father, asked from the head of the dining room table. ‘They must be glad to have your expertise once more at the London office, but surely they won’t want you to stay behind a desk there for long. I was always eager to be on to the next task myself, when I was at work there.’

      William’s mother didn’t even look up from the plate she was listlessly picking at. ‘I’m sure we all well remember those days,’ Beatrice Blakely muttered. ‘William has plenty of time to decide what to do next. At least he has returned from that pestilential India.’

      ‘Hmmph,’ Harold said with a scowl. He gestured to the footman for more wine. ‘You’ve certainly worked hard enough of late, William. That’s a great deal more than can be said for that useless Christopher. Takes after his mother, does that one. No direction at all.’

      Beatrice didn’t even answer, merely sighed and studied the curtained windows across the room as if she was in her own little world. She had been that way for as long as Will could remember and he was appalled to find nothing had changed in the Blakely house while he’d been abroad.

      Ever since he and Chris were children, their parents had alternated between quarrels and icy silences. The only respite was in the long periods when their father was gone for his mysterious work and Beatrice would laugh a bit again. But her pale, fragile beauty had faded and her laughter was rare, and some times, as her sons grew older, she would complain to them of her loneliness. Her wasted youth.

      She pushed her food from one side of the Wedgwood plate to the other, as Harold drained his wineglass. William longed to take his mother’s hand, to give her a reassuring smile, but he knew from experience it would be like touching a ghost.

      ‘Where is Christopher?’ Harold demanded of no one in particular.

      ‘He’s here somewhere,’ Beatrice answered vaguely. ‘Aren’t you meant to go to my sister’s ball with him, William?’

      ‘Yes,’ Will said. ‘He was meant to meet me for dinner and we would go to the Wavertons’ after.’ He did wonder where Chris had vanished to and meant to scold his brother for leaving him alone with their parents for a whole meal, but he found he couldn’t entirely blame Chris for disappearing again.

      ‘No use at all,’ Harold grumbled. ‘Can’t even get himself to a duke’s party and he’s related to them. Some people would give their eye teeth for an invitation like that. The boy’s been given everything and he’s throwing it away.’

      William ignored him and smiled at Beatrice. ‘Why don’t you come with us, Mother? I’m sure Aunt Waverton would love to see you. Alex was saying you hadn’t called on them since the beginning of the Season.’

      Beatrice gave him a startled glance. ‘A ball? Oh, no. It will be so very crowded. I couldn’t. My nerves.’

      ‘This family,’ Harold snorted. ‘Weak blood. Except for you, I hope, William. What are you going to do now you’re in England again?’

      William took a long drink of his own wine, gathering his usual quiet control. He needed it when it came to dealing with his parents. ‘I haven’t decided yet. The office will decide where I’m ultimately needed.’

      ‘Of course they will. And I’m sure you’ll do us proud. I do miss those days of work.’ Harold sighed. ‘Perhaps you’ll use this time to find a proper wife, set up a house where you can entertain. That’s the best way to make contacts for the long run.’

      Beatrice perked up a bit at those words. ‘Oh, yes, William. A marriage would be lovely. There are so many pretty girls out this Season, or so I hear. I’m sure my sister would be happy to introduce any of them to you in a trice.’

      William glanced around the gloomy dining room, the burgundy-red silk walls, the gold curtains muffling everything from the outside world, the dark portraits and still lifes staring down at them. The very cushions of the dark, carved furniture seemed seeped with years of loneliness and unhappiness. So filled with bitterness. He certainly had no desire to replicate such a life, to make a lady miserable as his mother had been.

      ‘I’m not ready for such a step,’ he said. ‘But as soon as I am, Mother, you and Aunt Waverton will be the first to know.’

      Before his parents could answer, the dining room door opened and Chris staggered in. His blond hair was rumpled, his cravat half-tied, and he gave them all a crooked grin.

      ‘Good evening, Blakelys all!’ he said, waving his arm. He grabbed his mother’s still-full wineglass and drained it. ‘Well, Will, are we going to this ball or not?’

      * * *

       Lady S-T was wearing a gown of yellow...

      No. No, marigold.

       ...marigold silk taffeta and velvet, with rust, olive-green, and beige lily bouquets of satin, with a floral pattern of pearl and gold beads on the hem.

      Diana studied the lady’s gown again, jotting down one last detail in her little notebook.

      Smaller bustle at the back, falling in beaded pleats, according to the new fashion for narrower skirts.

      Lady Smythe-Tomas, a young, wealthy widow, was widely known as one of the most fashionable women in London and tonight, at the most fashionable ball of the Season, she didn’t disappoint. Was it from the House of Worth? It had to be, Diana decided, with that wonderfully intricate beadwork and unusual colour combination in the bouquet trim.

      She glanced down at her own gown, a debutante’s pale pink organza, with only the tiniest edge of white-lace frill along the short, puffed sleeves. Her pearl necklace was fine enough, but she knew the wreath of pink rosebuds in her hair was wrong for her red tresses. How dull it all was! Surely if she could visit Monsieur Worth in Paris, look at his sketches, feel the fine lengths of fabrics, cool satins and rich velvets, choose some daring design of her own...

      She sighed. It would be heaven. And if she could get these descriptions just right, get them to sound perfect, it could all come true.

      In the meantime, she had the next best thing. She could sit here in the corner at one of the most fashionable events of the London Season and observe everything going on around her. All the ladies vying with each other to have the finest, most unique, most up-to-the-minute gowns, and the most glittering jewels.

      She could do it—if only her mother didn’t catch her. Diana peeked carefully around the gardenia-and-white-rose-draped trellis she was hiding behind and studied the ballroom. The Duke and Duchess of Waverton, Alexandra’s parents, had one of the largest ballrooms in London and the Duchess never spared any expense in her party arrangements. Tonight was no exception.

      The ballroom, a glittering jewel case of a room in ivory and gilt, crowned with crystal chandeliers and furnished with gilded satin chairs and sofas, sparkled even more when crowded with the satin and gemstone kaleidoscope of dancers on the polished floor. More white roses and wreaths of gardenias were draped everywhere, turning the space into a garden bower.

      Oh, that was good. Garden bower, she wrote in her notebook.

      The Duchess stood beneath a full-length portrait of herself by Mr Sargent, clad in a gown of midnight-blue velvet and tulle embroidered with a dazzling pattern of stars and crescent moons that matched the famous Eastern Star sapphire from India in her tiara.

      The Duchess smiled brightly as she greeted each new guest, even though her husband was probably hiding in the card room, and the Prince and Princess of Wales, who were rumoured to be attending because the Princess was Alexandra’s godmother, had not yet arrived. Alex herself, who the ball was nominally in honour of, was nowhere to be seen. Diana was sure she must be hiding just like her father, maybe still in her chamber or in the ladies’ withdrawing room, as Alex so often was at large balls and soirées.

      Luckily, Diana’s mother was also nowhere to be seen. She was safe for the moment.