Page 26 of The Wallflower Manifesto
Her heart didn’t feel like it had slowed all night. There was just somuchto think about and ponder and record.
That is to say, the night had not finished with shocking revelations at the mention of a development in the matter of the jewel thief. What had happened next had been salacious enough to have originated in a cheap penny novel like the ones Claire always had lying around.
“I am curious,” Dot had said, speaking up for the first time this evening with any real volume and drawing the attention of all the women in the room to where she’d been nibbling on what was left of the fruit. “If the merchant paid for the ring in a legal dealing, but the duchess has original ownership, whose claim to legal rights over the item will prevail? It is much like the case my husband is working right now.”
“Oh?” said Mrs. Smith, suddenly more alert. “What case is this?”
“A relation to the royal family had a family estate in Reading, some hunting box–style manor that has largely fallen into disrepair,” Dot answered. “The fellow who owned it grew old and died in Portugal, leaving it to his son.
“When the son sailed over to England to inspect his inheritance, he found a family living in the estate, apparently having purchased it through the full legal proceedings twenty years past. The paperwork, though certainly forged, was filed with the courts, and as such, the new family is refusing to leave the home or elsewise pay the Portuguese gentleman for his loss.”
There was a beat of silence. A beat of heavy silence.
It took a moment for Millie to realize that all of the Spinsters had turned their attention from Dot to Lady Bentley, who was white as a ghost.
“My husband is representing the Portuguese gentleman as a favor to the crown. It is likely the outcome of the case will lead to him taking the silk,” Dot continued, her pride in Silas outshining her awareness of the shift in the temperature of the room.
“So he is here?” Lady Bentley asked, her voice thin. “He is here in England? Right now?”
“Yes?” said Dot, blinking as she realized something odd had occurred. “Dom Raul is staying with us in Bloomsbury this week while he seeks other lodgings. He will remain in Britain until the matter is settled.”
At this revelation, Lady Bentley had stood up and walked briskly to a window. She gripped the sill and appeared to be drawing in deep, ragged breaths, and the matter only dissolved when Mrs. Billings took her by the shoulders and steered her into the night air beyond the doors of the Forge.
Mrs. Smith had sighed, tossing her hand onto the table with a frown now that it was clear the game of Whist would not be proceeding. “Shall we take to the balcony for those cigars, then?” she’d suggested impatiently.
“Of course,” replied Ember, moving to stand. “But, please. Who is Dom Raul?”
“Oh, him,” said Mrs. Smith with a dismissive flip of her hand. “He was the one shedidn’tmarry.”
Millie had forcedherself to lie down, at least until it was an appropriate time to go down for breakfast, but her mind never stopped buzzing.
She was arranging paragraphs in her mind, chiseling out sentences and concepts that she intended to put to paper once she had this new journal. Now that all of the events of the evening had been poured out into the page, she was bombarded with what remained: the spark of an idea she’d been given by Dot.
She wanted to write Miss Lazarus a letter, and the longer she lay abed, staring at the cresting waves of plaster on the ceiling, the more it took shape in her mind.
At first, she’d thought she must simply have a conversation with her about all she’d witnessed, a quick exchange of shared wisdom the next time they crossed paths at a ball. But the more she’d thought on it, the more she felt certain that she must write this speech down.
After all, there could be other girls like Miss Lazarus someday, and Millie would hate to forget everything she’d learned and considered lately.
She would write it out in her new journal, a master draft that she could edit and adjust to her liking, and then she would make a copy for Miss Lazarus. This way, the girl could read it in private, and if she had any questions, Millie could amend her original draft with the necessary improvements.
Dot had a daughter now, didn’t she? Perhaps Vivian Cain would benefit from this knowledge someday too.
In any event, the speculation and planning had prevented any sleep from overtaking her.
By the time Irene had come in with warm water for the basin, Millie had practically sprung out of bed in relief, startling the other woman nearly out of her wits.
Millie had apologized profusely, nearly pouncing on her writing desk to retrieve a note she’d written for Abe in the night. “I need a letter delivered,” she’d said, aware that she sounded quite mad, “and transportation to Bloomsbury once the shops open. And some more paper, if you please.”
Irene had nodded, opening the curtains and tugging the duvet off the bed as though nothing at all was amiss. “At least another two hours for the shops, ma’am,” she’d said. “And the other things are no trouble.”
Millie had nodded, passing her the letter with a frown. “I don’t know his address,” she realized. “But Mr. Cresson at the Cain law practice on Bow Street will have it. Shall I write that down?”
“No need, ma’am,” Irene had replied with obvious amusement. “How about we wash that ink off your lovely white fingers and get you dressed, hm? Maybe some food in your belly would also calm you down a bit.”
“Oh,” Millie said, “yes, that’s sensible. I’m afraid I had rather too much whiskey last night.”
“Whiskey!” the maid repeated with a low whistle. “Well, really, Miss Yardley. You’re lucky I’m not a gossip.”
