Liz Tyner - To Win A Wallflower

Annie walked into the room, past the two shelves of miniatures her mother had insisted Annie and her sisters pose for. She held watercolours in her hand and a sketchbook under her arm. The barest flutter of air puffed the closed curtains. The doctor had insisted the window be opened the width of a finger. No more. No less.

Eyes from musty portraits almost overlapping stared at her. The ancestors. They’d probably all died in the house.

She put the lamp on the table between the chairs, which faced away from the window. They were the only two chairs in the room. Both squat, flat, and with clawed feet. The chairs were heirlooms and probably looked the same as the day they were made because no one willingly sat on something so uncomfortable.

This was the room where her mother put the furnishings that one had to keep because they’d been in the family forever, but that she would never have purchased.

And now Annie sat in the middle of it, thinking of which road would be best to take her from the house.

She rose, prepared her watercolours and stepped over to one of the portraits of her great-great-aunt. Very carefully, she took the wetted brush and added a beauty mark just outside the eye. It hardly showed against the oils. She sighed. She wasn’t even allowed the true paints of an artist.

She put the brush away, crossed her arms and paced back and forth in front of the trapped eyes.

If she went to find her sister, her mother and father would be desolate. She was the good daughter. The Carson sister who wasn’t wild. The one that took after the Catmull side of the family. And now she was inheriting her mother’s afflictions and she was standing in a room of discarded furniture. She jerked her arms open, her hands fisted, and grunted her displeasure. Making a jab at the world which had trapped her. She punched again.

‘Keep your thumb on the outside of the fist, don’t swing the arm and thrust forward with the motion. It works better.’ A masculine rumble of words hit her ears.

She jerked around and backwards at the same time.

A man stood in the doorway. Although it wasn’t that he really stood in the doorway. More like he let it surround him. A dark shape with an even darker frame. The man she’d seen earlier.

He took one step closer to her and she took in a quick bit of air so she could remain standing.

He wore a coat and cravat and could have been stepping out to attend a soirée, except no one would think him in a social mood with the straight line of his lips and the hair hanging rough around his face. He needed a shave—really needed a shave.

His eyes looked as if he’d just woken, but not the softened look of someone gently waking from slumber—more the studied look of a predatory animal ready to swing out a paw at the little morsel who’d dared disturb the beast.

She moved back.

He extended his arm in one controlled move, but she didn’t feel threatened.

He made a fist, held his elbow at his side, and moved the hand straight forward, but angled away from her. ‘This way. You don’t want to swing wide. Gives someone an easier chance to block.’

Her eyes travelled down the length of his arm, past his elbow, and lodged at his fist. Four curled fingers and then a thumb. The scarred thumb alone could have flattened her.

‘Yes.’ She nodded her head and moved her eyes to his elbow, his shoulder, past the chin, right to his eyes and then one dart back to his chin. She didn’t know what she’d said yes to, but at that moment, it was the best she could do.

She forced herself to look into his eyes and felt she could see the solid wall behind them.

‘It would not matter if I kept my thumb in or out if I should hit you,’ she said.

‘I would think not.’ He shrugged. ‘But, I’m sturdier than most.’

She nodded. ‘Especially stepping out of the shadows. You’re rather...daunting.’

‘I try to be. It helps.’ No smile to soften the words. He meant them.

He walked forward, picked up the light and held it high. It flickered on her face. She stepped backwards into the curtains and her fingers clasped them tight.

‘I did not believe it possible,’ he said. ‘I thought my eyes lied and my memory as well.’

Now he examined her.

With splayed fingers, she touched her cheek. ‘I’ve been ill.’

He choked out a laugh, lowering the lamp to the table. The side of his mouth curled. A smile that turned into a private chuckle before it reached his eyes. He looked away, seeming to discount her, and his own words. ‘Then I can hardly wait to see what you look like when you recover.’

‘Sir.’ She cleared her throat, because it hardly seemed to work. ‘I believe that is improper for you to say.’

‘Of all my choices, it was the most proper,’ he said. ‘But I do beg your pardon.’ A pause. ‘As I should.’ Words exactly perfect. Emotionless.

Now he stood so close the light flickered on his face. He had more ragged edges than smooth. She could not believe her father would invite this man into their home.

But this man would understand others defending themselves.

And if she were to go out without a true chaperon, she might need to take care.

Presently all she needed protecting from was her embroidery needle and that she might tumble out of the chair when she fell asleep stitching. But by Tuesday morning, that might change. She was ready to take her chances with the outside world. ‘So how does one hit someone effectively?’

A muscle in his jaw tightened. ‘Punch straight. Keep your elbow as close to the side as possible. Don’t swing out. Move like a lever. Not like a windmill. A windmill...’ he demonstrated, holding his arm straight from the shoulder and moving his fist forward ‘...is too easy to block.’

‘I will never be able to punch someone,’ she said, feeling helpless. She would never be able to go after her sister. ‘I’m always surrounded by chaperons,’ she said, concluding her thoughts out loud. ‘You would think I am gold, the way my parents guard me.’

True lightness touched his eyes. ‘Perhaps you are.’

Then darkness moved into his face. ‘You are standing alone in a room with a man you know nothing of. The world is full of evil and evil enjoys waiting for just the right moment.’ He stared at her. ‘Evil is patient. It only needs one moment of opportunity.’ His eyes narrowed and he leaned in. ‘One moment.’

‘You were invited by my father. He makes no decisions rashly.’

His slow intake of breath through his nose raised his body enough to show a muted dismissal of any disagreement she made to his statement.

‘I can scream.’

‘You would be surprised,’ his voice thundered, ‘how little noise can carry—even on the most silent night.’ He waited and cocked his head. Listening.

Then his voice took on an innocence. ‘Well, perhaps my words were not loud enough to summon help for you. Scream,’ he said. ‘See who comes running.’

‘It would be embarrassing for you.’

‘Just say I startled you in the shadows. You thought me an intruder. A ghost. A raging bear. You were sleepwalking. Whatever.’

‘I could say you accosted me. Do you not realise the danger in that for you?’

‘I’ll take that risk.’ The muscles at the side of his face moved. ‘I’ve taken many worse.’

He gave a twitch of his shoulders and blandness settled in his eyes. He took two steps to the door. When he touched the door, he moved with liquid stealth and turned back to her. ‘And how truly unsettling for me to be thought a rogue.’

Instead of leaving, he shut the door. He leaned against it, arms relaxed, hands behind his back, trapped by his body against the wood. ‘Now. Embarrass me. Scream. And not just once.’