Page 97 of Temptations of a Wallflower
“Yourcondemnation?” Lady Ashford asked sharply.
The question made sense. After all, women like Sarah, from her class, her station, were precisely the sort who would turn their backs on women like Lady Marwood and Lady Ashford. Again, Sarah shook her head.
“Not mine,” she answered. “I’ve nothing but admiration.”
Lady Marwood smiled wryly. “We’ve both beencalled the worst words.Hack, virago, peddler of trash.”
“Unnatural harpyis one of my favorites,” Lady Ashford said with a dry smile.
Their casual reaction to these slurs stunned Sarah. She’d fielded her own share of polite insults at being a wallflower, but at considerable cost. Yet Lady Marwood and Lady Ashford had no trouble brushing off the hurtful words.
“Then why pursue it?” Sarah pressed.
The two women fell into their own pensive silence. After a moment, Lady Marwood said, “It validates me. Makes me feel like I make a difference.”
“It’s like I’m a ghost without form or substance,” Lady Ashford added. “But when I write, I become corporeal. I have substance. I can move objects—I can change the shape of things.” She shook her head. “I’m sure that makes no sense.”
Sarah had never spoken to anyone about what it felt like to write, and tonotwrite. It had always been a private, secret understanding she hadn’t been able to share. But these women were giving voice to all the feelings she’d never articulated, not even to herself.
“No, I understand you completely,” Sarah quickly said.
“Even if we didn’t get paid to write,” Lady Marwood continued, “I think both Eleanor and I would continue to do it.”
“We’ve got stories to tell, don’t we, Mags?” Lady Ashford said fondly.
“Heaps of stories,” her friend agreed, “and nothing can keep them inside.”
Sarah turned this over and over in her mind. Shewished,oh, she wished,that she could tell these women the truth. Because they, more than even Jeremy, seemed to understand what writing actually meant to her. As a person. As a woman. They could truly comprehend what it was like, the joy of writing, its sorrows and victories, its importance, and the devastation of its loss. But she’d silenced herself—to preserve peace.
At what cost?
“What if, for some reason, you couldn’t write anymore?” she asked.
“I’d find a way,” Lady Ashford said immediately.
“But if youcouldn’t,” Sarah demanded. “If it simply wasn’t possible.”
Expressions of horror crossed the ladies’ faces. They turned pale, as though someone very dear had turned to ash right in front of them.
“I . . . don’t know,” Lady Marwood finally said. “It would be like . . . losing a part of myself.”
Sarah absorbed this. She had felt as though a part of her had gone missing but she felt its phantom pain.
“Is Mr. Cleland keeping you from writing?” Lady Ashford asked gently.
“If he is . . .” Lady Marwood looked fierce, as though she would battle Jeremy herself.
“Oh no,” Sarah said quickly. “The decision was entirely mine.”
Lady Marwood appeared unconvinced, but she nodded.
“And the choice,” Sarah went on, “between love and writing? If you had to pick one or the other, what would it be?”
“I thought I had to,” Lady Ashford said soberly.“But I was fortunate. Very fortunate. I didn’t have to select one or the other.”
“If youhadto pick,” Sarah said, almost frantic, “which would you choose? Love? Or writing?”
Neither Lady Ashford nor Lady Marwood spoke. They looked like the mother from the Judgment of Solomon. Horrified at the decision.
