Page 2 of Letters to a Wallflower
“It exasperates me to no end,” he said on a sigh.
She didn’t take her eyes off of the woman’s dusky blue gown. “What does, Leighton?”
“The way you examine fashions so closely, deconstructing them in your mind’s eye and redoing them in your head.”
“Why should it bother you?”
“Because I know you will never actually wear anything other than these dark, shapeless sacks.”
“They are not shapeless, merely unadorned.”
“They are boring.”
“I don’t believe a companion is supposed to solicit attention with her wardrobe,” she said tartly.
“Nor is she supposed to look such a complete dowd.”
It was an old argument. She let it go. “Have you, by chance, seen Will here, tonight?”
Her friend’s expression darkened. “No. I thought he was still in Hertfordshire.”
“I don’t believe he is, anymore.”
Leighton made a face. “Well, if he is in Town, this is just the sort of thing to which he would show up.” He pushed away from the wall. “Which means I shall find another entertainment.”
“Another entertainment? On the night of the Queen’s Birthday Ball? Who would dare?”
“It wasn’t this sort of entertainment I meant.”
Helen looked away. Leighton Seabrooke, Baron Akers, was nearly part of her family. Almost. As a son of a lower branch of the Akers line, he’d been raised in America. It was whispered that his father had been banished there, due to some scandal. Charles Seabrooke was said to have continued his disreputable ways and died in suspicious circumstances when Leighton was young. He and Helen were of a similar age, and when they were both sixteen, his uncle, the baron, had also passed away, leaving him the title. He’d been fetched back to England and deposited with Helen’s father, Major Richard Crawford, who had been a friend of Leighton’s father and named one of his trustees.
It had become a situation of varying success.
Leighton was resentful that he must wait until he reached his majority before he could access the money and property that came with the barony. He was . . . on edge with Helen’s father. Helen got on well with him, but Leighton despised her brother, Will.
“Helen?”
She looked over to find him watching her closely. “There has been some talk . . . a few rumblings?—“
“Helen!” Lady Britwell called.
She glanced over to see the countess looking a little grey around the edges and struggling to stand.
“I am ready to go home,” her grandmother announced. “I hate to miss anything, but I am growing too old for these late, great fetes.”
Helen flashed Leighton a smile. “I must go. Good evening.”
She fussed over her grandmother, making sure she gathered her things and was wrapped up tightly. She saw her tucked into her carriage with a blanket over her legs and a brick at her feet. And she held her silence, as Lady Britwell, as was her habit, rode quietly home, staring out the window and mulling over the evening. Oh, she did like to discuss all the nuances of the evening with Helen, but she preferred to wait until she was tucked up comfortably in her bed. She claimed it helped her sleep.
In the usual manner, Helen transferred the care of her grandmother to Simpson, the countess’s lady’s maid, when they arrived home. Helen retreated to her own room, where she readied herself for bed, brushed out her hair, and donned a thick wrapper before she grabbed up her tatting and headed for her grandmother’s rooms.
“There you are,” Grandmama said.
Helen nodded and pulled a comfortable chair close to the bedside. While Simpson prepared the countess’s night cordial, she sat with her tatting, her fingers flying and her mind on that dusty blue gown and on the things she would do, to change it to suit herself. That color begged for gold trimmings. She looked down at the intricate lace forming at her fingertips. Or perhaps a mix of ivory and rose hues.
“Thank you, Simpson,” her grandmother said in dismissal, giving her maid a grateful look. “Will you be sure the door latches all the way, as you go?”
The maid tucked a pillow beneath the covers, elevating the older woman’s feet, then said goodnight and withdrew.
