Page 11 of The Wallflower Manifesto
“Could you bring me any correspondence from the door, please? I’d like to review it before I go down for the day.”
She waited until the girl had vanished before she chose a dress, her mind turning over this new revelation as she laid out her shift and stays and ribbons.
So therewasa jewel thief.
That didn’t mean Mr. Murphy was being entirely truthful, of course. But it meant that he hadn’t been baldly lying either, the scoundrel.
She threw her night rail off with an annoyed huff, sending two of the rag ties in her hair flying across the room along with it, and climbed into the clean shift and reached for the half stays.
Why did it matter so much whether he had been truthful or not, anyhow? He had clearly been studying Lady Bentley, tapping at his cheek with an imaginary fan like a fool. He was up to something nefarious, and they both knew it, and here she was, mulling over some damned jewel thief he’d used to distract her, exactly as the man had intended for her to be.
She told herself repeatedly she would not let it occupy her thoughts as she laced up the stays and pulled the dress overher head. She swatted it from her mind as she pulled the curls free from their rag knots and ran a ribbon through them. And she certainly didnotentertain thoughts of jewels that might be stolen at the events mentioned in the cards and invitations brought to her on the tray Irene left for her as she opened the brand-new leather journal and began the business of managing the dowager’s social agenda for the Season.
She allowed herself a moment of pride at how efficiently and thoroughly she had banished Abe Murphy from her mind as she descended the townhouse stairs with the leather journal tucked under her arm .
The first two pages of the book had been filled with neat lines of social options, dusted with rice powder, and dried, ready for Lady Bentley to make her choices for their upcoming days and nights, free of irritation from unexpected interlopers.
Millie’s hand was neater here than it was in her journals, and she’d made far fewer edits and margin notes, even when discussing the same event. The dowager had commented upon it, reminding Millie that she had very much enjoyed the eccentricities of the private journal and would not at all mind it should Millie choose to embellish their social calendar in a similar fashion.
A surprising quantity of cards had arrived this morning following their evening at the opera, many of them from men young enough to be Lady Bentley’s sons, but plenty as well from legitimate social prospects, free of salacious intent.
The entire experience had been a surprising one for Millie, the theater and the environs both. It was a far cry from the plays she’d attended in Covent Garden throughout her life, comedies usually taken in from the galleries with Claire and Dot.
It hadn’t only been the finery or the scope of the opera house or the quality of the production, because of course she had been expecting those changes. It had been the dance of social graces between acts that had been the true surprise, and the transformation that the dowager had undergone in those moments, drawing onlookers into her orbit like drones to a queen bee.
She must have been quite something in her youth, Millie realized, to still glitter so brightly now, after over two decades removed from Society. It was no wonder she had secured a titled husband when she was a debutante.
“Ah, there you are,” came the dowager countess’s voice from the sunroom, where she had sat herself with a novel in the early-afternoon light. “I wondered if I’d have to send a maid up to fetch you for luncheon. Oh, but don’t you look fetching! I was right about putting you in cool colors, wasn’t I?”
“Perhaps you were,” Millie answered with a self-conscious sweep of her hand down the cranberry-red patterning on her dress. “It’s hard to choose which pieces I want to wear first. They are all so lovely.”
That was to say nothing of the fit. Millie wasn’t certain how to thank the dowager without breaching some social etiquette. But, by way of a good modiste and a lack of concern for forcing Millie’s body into the illusion of a fashionable silhouette, Lady Bentley had visited an enlightenment onto Millie, who considered herself well into womanhood. The astounding fact was that corseting wasnotsupposed tohurt. She was unsure whether or not her own mother knew this fact, or perhaps it had simply never been an issue for her, as slender as she was.
She slid into a chair across from the dowager without having to hold her breath or brace her heels against the floor to prevent her stays from digging into her ribs. It was freedom, and she could not help but smile in satisfaction as she slid her leather book in front of her and opened it to her first page of notes.
“Oh, at least have some tea first,” Lady Bentley said with a chuckle. “I’ve already heard about the mountain of cards you’ve had to wade through this morning. Tell me, what did you think of the show last night? I’ve had the overture skittering through my head all morning.”
“It was surprising,” Millie said truthfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so lavish. And the music was very stirring, wasn’t it?”
“My aunt was in Vienna for the premiere, a lifetime ago,” the dowager said with a wistful sigh. “She says she met Herr Mozart that night and he kissed her hand. I’ve always wanted to see it, after hearing that story over and over as a child. I’m happy to have finally accomplished that feat.”
“I can’t imagine,” Millie replied, lifting a steaming cup of tea to her lips. “I’d probably tell the story over and over too.”
“I used to silently judge her for it,” the dowager confessed. “When I was a young woman, I thought it sad she was living in a memory from decades ago, wishing to return to a moment in the past with such fervor. But, now that I am older and have such memories of my own, I see the folly in my prejudice.”
Do I have a moment I would go back to?Millie wondered to herself. Was she living life wrong, that she had no interludes in her past she longed to revisit?
The dowager was watching her, a sly smile curving the corners of her mouth, as though she could see directly into Millie’s mind and somehow approved of her thoughts.
For reasons she could not quite articulate, Millie found this approval disquieting. So she spoke rapidly to diffuse the temperature that had overtaken the room. “I’ve a meeting set up for tomorrow luncheon,” she said, sounding overly shrill and vim-filled, even to herself. “An acquaintance of mine has a club we might use for your upcoming engagement with your … your spinster friends.”
The dowager’s feline smile only widened. “Is that so?”
“Yes! Yes, and I …” Millie swallowed. “I will inquire as to the cigars as well. But for today, we ought to discuss the opening balls of the Season, the first, in particular, which is only a few days away.”
“Don’t you concern yourself about that,” Patricia Hightower said with a wave of her hand. “I’ve already promised to attend directly to the hostess. She all but accosted me last night during the intermission. All you need to do is decide which gown to wear.”
Millie heaved a large breath and forced a smile. For all the beauty of her new wardrobe, the idea was still somewhat ominous. She had never enjoyed attending balls in the meager years of her debut.
