Amanda McCabe - Secrets Of A Wallflower

Diana rubbed at her arm. She glanced back to see if she could see Sir William again, but he was gone. ‘Mama, perhaps there are things I want to see before I’m married.’

‘What sort of things? You can see whatever you like, go wherever you like, after you’re married! Just as I did. What choice is there?’

Diana thought of men like her father, like William Blakely, travelling, doing their bit for their country, seeing the world. Making a difference. ‘I could be like Miss Bird, or Miss Butler. Travel, write. Do good works.’

Her mother snorted. ‘Such hoydens. That wouldn’t work for you, Diana. You have been well brought up. Did we not send you to the best school? Make sure you had the best friends? Now we only want to see you happily settled before we are old. Is that too much to ask?’

‘I want to be happy, too,’ Diana said, but her mother wasn’t listening. Lord Thursby had returned to tell them their carriage was on its way.

‘Oh, how kind you are,’ her mother said with a laugh. ‘So reassuring to have someone to rely on thus.’

‘It is the least I can do, Mrs Martin, for how kind with his advice your husband has been.’ Lord Thursby offered Diana his arm and she saw no choice but to take it. She held it lightly, trying to smile, as he led them to the staircase hall where a footman waited with their cloaks.

‘I hope you will be recovered enough for me to call on you tomorrow,’ Lord Thursby said.

Diana suddenly remembered her interview the next day. Nothing could be allowed to stop that! ‘Perhaps in the afternoon?’

‘The afternoon?’ he said. ‘Not the usual morning hour?’

‘Yes. I—I shall probably need to rest and recover my strength in the morning.’

He nodded solicitously. ‘Of course. I know how delicate you ladies can be after such a busy evening as this.’

‘How understanding you are, Lord Thursby,’ her mother chirped, practically pushing Diana out the door towards their waiting carriage. ‘We shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’

Just as they were leaving, a procession of carriages arrived behind them. From the grandest stepped a man unmistakable in his healthy girth and greying blond beard, a beautiful lady in an ivory satin and ostrich feather cloak on his arm. The Prince and Princess of Wales. Diana just hoped her mother did not see them and make them go back.

* * *

On the journey home, Diana knew her mother was chattering about Lord Thursby and his ‘gentlemanly behaviour’, and the splendours of the ball. But Diana only paid enough attention to nod and smile at the right moments. Her real thoughts were far away—with tomorrow’s interview, with plans to persuade her parents to let her go to Paris if she got the job. It would be a very delicate task.

And, she had to admit, her thoughts wouldn’t seem to leave William Blakely. How wonderful it had been in those few moments alone with him in the dimly lit library, so far away from everyone and everything else. How she wished she could have stayed there longer, listening to him talk! Those dark eyes watching her...

* * *

Once they were home, she managed to plead her headache and escape to her room. There she took out the portfolio she had managed to compile: sample essays about fashion, etiquette and bits of society gossip. Losing her notebook at such a moment was a consternation, but hopefully not a disaster. She could remember enough to reconstruct the evening’s observations and hopefully Alexandra would find the notebook itself.

She found another folder, stuffed full of old drawings and notes, and beneath a stack of flower studies was her old sketch of William Blakely at the lake behind Miss Grantley’s. His smile still glowed from the faded paper, the lines of his face still elegant, classical. He hadn’t changed so much after all, yet so many other things seemed to.

She took out another copy of the job listing and carefully read over the words.

Writer wanted. Paris assignment. Must be fashionable and have a way with words. Portfolio preferred. Please apply to the Ladies’ Weekly offices .

She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Please let it happen,’ as she envisaged in her mind what it could all be like. Walking by the Seine, sipping wine at a café on the famous new tower, visiting Monsieur Worth’s studio itself.

But now, much to her shock, when she imagined dancing at the Moulin Galette, her partner wasn’t some faceless, dashing Frenchman. It was William Blakely, smiling down at her in the red and gold lights of the lanterns, spinning her through the night.

Which was most strange, for Sir William didn’t seem at all like a spinning sort of gentleman...

Chapter Three

Diana hurried down the pavement, clutching at the leather valise containing her sketches and the portfolio of ‘articles’ she had cobbled together to try to impress the magazine editor. She could barely hear the commotion of the London streets around her, the clatter of carriage and omnibus wheels, the shouts and cries and laughter, the shriek of the bobby’s whistle. All she could focus on was getting to her interview on time and what she would say when she got there.

She waited on a corner to cross the street, caught a glimpse of herself in a shopfront window and straightened her hat. She had dressed in the most stylish yet simple thing she owned, a tailored russet-red suit with leg-o’-mutton sleeves and narrow lapels, with a patent-leather yellow belt that matched the colour of her shirtwaist. Her felt hat was a matching red with a yellow-checked ribbon. She felt terribly crisp and efficient, which she hoped covered up her giddiness from not being able to sleep a wink after the ball.

If only she hadn’t lost her new notes about the fashions at the Waverton ball! She had stayed up until dawn writing new descriptions, but she worried they weren’t quite as vivid as they should be.

She also worried that William Blakely seemed to slip too much into her memories of the ball, always getting in the way of everything else! The dratted man. How had he come to be so—so distracting?

The crowd surged forward and Diana went with them as they flowed towards Trafalgar Square. The Ladies’ Weekly offices were there, and she felt her excitement flutter even higher as she glimpsed the stone tower of its office building. Everyone around her seemed intent on their own errands, all black suits and tailored dresses, leather cases and intent expressions.

The difference between that workaday crowd and the people at the Waverton ball was amazing. Diana felt at the same moment out of place and exactly where she belonged. It was most strange.

She rushed around the corner and nearly bumped into a man hurrying in the opposite direction. His bowler hat tumbled to the pavement.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she cried and bent to retrieve the hat before it could roll into the street. He reached for it at the same time and they almost knocked each other to the ground. Diana’s own hat tilted over her eyes.

Flustered and embarrassed, she pushed it back and glanced up at the man, who was laughing. To her shock, she saw it was William Blakely, looking not at all dignified and solemn now. His hair, rumpled by the loss of his hat, waved over his brow in an unruly dark comma and she glimpsed a dimple—a dimple!—in his cheek as he laughed even harder.

‘Sir William,’ she gasped. ‘What a surprise. I do beg your pardon. Again.’

‘Good day, Miss Martin,’ he said, his laughter fading to a wry smile. ‘You are looking quite well this morning.’ He took her arm and helped her up, gently brushing the dust from her sleeve. She felt her cheeks turn warm under his gaze, his touch.

‘It was quite a lovely party last night,’ she said, feeling rather silly. A lovely party ? After she had run into this man in the most ridiculous circumstances now—twice? ‘In the end.’