Falling For the Wallflower by Amelia Florey

Author:Amelia Florey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Camden Lee Press, LLC
Published: 2018-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

8 – The Prospect Of Spinsterhood

Lillian was no stranger to this ballroom. Indeed, by the time she’d come out, it was more important for a young girl to be seen in these tastefully decorated halls than to be presented before the Queen.

However, the years that had passed since her first dance here had not made her any less shy or nervous when she took to the floor. Even accompanied by her dear friend, Lillian felt as if she would be suffocated by the very weight of all these people staring.

It was not to be borne. And Nicholas, it seemed, sensed that as well. As soon as the music stopped, he escorted her to a quieter corner of the room, carrying on the whole way in hushed tones about a shocking incident that had happened in a roadside inn.

“And so she said to the gentleman, and I am quoting word for word here,” he was saying. “’The fact that you are so piteously jealous that you would say such things to a woman you have just met, sir, is exactly why you are not wed to a woman like me.’”

“Dear lord,” Lillian said. “Was the fellow drinking?”

“He had to have been,” Nicholas said. “Oh, but if Lord Tull had actually been there.” He shuddered, though his mischievous grin still lit up his face. “Nobody can match his wife’s pistol wit, so he carries the actual pistols.”

“Well,” Lillian said. “If she has a tendency to run into knaves like that, I can hardly blame him.”

“Miss Rowe,” said a woman to Lillian’s left. “How do you do?”

Lillian halted in her tracks so suddenly she nearly went off balance. “Oh...yes?” she said to an acquaintance of her mother’s who was approaching. “Very well thank you, Mrs. Danbury.”

When was the last time Lillian had met her? What had they talked about? Did this woman expect her to remember one thing or another about the conversation?

“I’ve been meaning to ask you or your mother, who made the headpiece she is wearing this evening? It is very charming, and I should very much like one just like it.”

Lillian swallowed then clutched her fan. “It’s, ah, I believe, she has a woman down on Fleet Street who…” What was the word? The word, the one she was looking for? What was it?

Every eye in the ballroom seemed turned toward her. Every face was watching her, judging, finding her wanting in every significant way.

“...makes them to order,” Lillian said. Custom. The word was custom. She was trying to say that Mrs. Havisham custom-makes them for her mother, yet was apparently unable to get the words out.

But it was too late anyway. Mrs. Danbury was in that posture that was so horrifically familiar to Lillian. The woman was leaning back, features somewhat contorted with confusion. “Why, thank you,” she said. “If you see her, do tell her I’ve been trying to find her and speak with her.” She gave Lillian a polite smile and walked off.

Lillian watched, frozen morosely to her spot.

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