Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe
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beyond the dance floor.
‘Diana,’ her mother demanded again, ‘where on earth have you been?’
‘I was just—dancing. We’re at a ball, you know, Mama,’ she said, trying to laugh carelessly. She fanned herself vigorously, wishing Lord Thursby was not watching her so closely.
‘Lord Thursby was looking for you. He says you promised him the supper dance,’ her mother said, reaching out to fuss with Diana’s tulle-edged sleeve. She drew away, wondering if she had newsprint caught there, too.
‘The supper dance?’ she said. That meant spending the midnight meal by his side. ‘Oh, Mama. I’m afraid my head rather aches and I was hoping we could go home soon.’
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Diana...’ she snapped.
But Lord Thursby intervened smoothly, smiling politely. ‘That is a vast disappointment for me, Miss Martin, but I would never wish to cause you a moment’s discomfort. Please, let me send for your carriage. I can also ask our hostess if she has a headache powder.’
‘That is kind of you, Lord Thursby,’ Diana said cautiously.
‘Indeed,’ her mother said. ‘Thank you.’
Lord Thursby bowed and hurried away. As he spoke quietly to the Duchess, Diana saw William and Chris come back into the room. For just an instant, before the crowd closed around them, she saw how much Sir William stood out from everyone around him, an island of watchfulness and dignity, so dark and handsome. Was this really the same man Lady Smythe-Tomas was so ardently chasing? Such intriguing contradictions.
He caught her eyes and gave her a small nod, making her feel suddenly flushed and fluttery. She spun around, waving her fan in front of her face.
Her mother grasped Diana’s arm, her fingers hard through her satin glove. ‘Mama,’ Diana gasped and yanked her arm back.
‘You should make a tiny bit of an effort, Diana,’ her mother said through a gritted-teeth smile. ‘He is quite nice, you know, with a fine future ahead of him.’
Diana rubbed at her arm. She glanced back to see if she could see Sir William again, but he was gone. ‘Mama, perhaps there are things I want to see before I’m married.’
‘What sort of things? You can see whatever you like, go wherever you like, after you’re married! Just as I did. What choice is there?’
Diana thought of men like her father, like William Blakely, travelling, doing their bit for their country, seeing the world. Making a difference. ‘I could be like Miss Bird, or Miss Butler. Travel, write. Do good works.’
Her mother snorted. ‘Such hoydens. That wouldn’t work for you, Diana. You have been well brought up. Did we not send you to the best school? Make sure you had the best friends? Now we only want to see you happily settled before we are old. Is that too much to ask?’
‘I want to be happy, too,’ Diana said, but her mother wasn’t listening. Lord Thursby had returned to tell them their carriage was on its way.
‘Oh, how kind you are,’ her mother said with a laugh. ‘So reassuring to have someone to rely on thus.’
‘It is the least I can do, Mrs Martin, for how kind with his advice your husband has been.’ Lord Thursby offered Diana his arm and she saw no choice but to take it. She held it lightly, trying to smile, as he led them to the staircase hall where a footman waited with their cloaks.
‘I hope you will be recovered enough for me to call on you tomorrow,’ Lord Thursby said.
Diana suddenly remembered her interview the next day. Nothing could be allowed to stop that! ‘Perhaps in the afternoon?’
‘The afternoon?’ he said. ‘Not the usual morning hour?’
‘Yes. I—I shall probably need to rest and recover my strength in the morning.’
He nodded solicitously. ‘Of course. I know how delicate you ladies can be after such a busy evening as this.’
‘How understanding you are, Lord Thursby,’ her mother chirped, practically pushing Diana out the door towards their waiting carriage. ‘We shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.’
Just as they were leaving, a procession of carriages arrived behind them. From the grandest stepped a man unmistakable in his healthy girth and greying blond beard, a beautiful lady in an ivory satin and ostrich feather cloak on his arm. The Prince and Princess of Wales. Diana just hoped her mother did not see them and make them go back.
* * *
On the journey home, Diana knew her mother was chattering about Lord Thursby and his ‘gentlemanly behaviour’, and the splendours of the ball. But Diana only paid enough attention to nod and smile at the right moments. Her real thoughts were far away—with tomorrow’s interview, with plans to persuade her parents to let her go to Paris if she got the job. It would be a very delicate task.
And, she had to admit, her thoughts wouldn’t seem to leave William Blakely. How wonderful it had been in those few moments alone with him in the dimly lit library, so far away from everyone and everything else. How she wished she could have stayed there longer, listening to him talk! Those dark eyes watching her...
* * *
Once they were home, she managed to plead her headache and escape to her room. There she took out the portfolio she had managed to compile: sample essays about fashion, etiquette and bits of society gossip. Losing her notebook at such a moment was a consternation, but hopefully not a disaster. She could remember enough to reconstruct the evening’s observations and hopefully Alexandra would find the notebook itself.
She found another folder, stuffed full of old drawings and notes, and beneath a stack of flower studies was her old sketch of William Blakely at the lake behind Miss Grantley’s. His smile still glowed from the faded paper, the lines of his face still elegant, classical. He hadn’t changed so much after all, yet so many other things seemed to.
She took out another copy of the job listing and carefully read over the words.
Writer wanted. Paris assignment. Must be fashionable and have a way with words. Portfolio preferred. Please apply to the Ladies’ Weekly offices.
She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘Please let it happen,’ as she envisaged in her mind what it could all be like. Walking by the Seine, sipping wine at a café on the famous new tower, visiting Monsieur Worth’s studio itself.
But now, much to her shock, when she imagined dancing at the Moulin Galette, her partner wasn’t some faceless, dashing Frenchman. It was William Blakely, smiling down at her in the red and gold lights of the lanterns, spinning her through the night.
Which was most strange, for Sir William didn’t seem at all like a spinning sort of gentleman...
Diana hurried down the pavement, clutching at the leather valise containing her sketches and the portfolio of ‘articles’ she had cobbled together to try to impress the magazine editor. She could barely hear the commotion of the London streets around her, the clatter of carriage and omnibus wheels, the shouts and cries and laughter, the shriek of the bobby’s whistle. All she could focus on was getting to her interview on time and what she would say when she got there.
She waited on a corner to cross the street, caught a glimpse of herself in a shopfront window and straightened her hat. She had dressed in the most stylish yet simple thing she owned, a tailored russet-red suit with leg-o’-mutton sleeves and narrow lapels, with a patent-leather yellow belt that matched the colour of her shirtwaist. Her felt hat was a matching red with a yellow-checked ribbon. She felt terribly crisp and efficient, which she hoped covered up her giddiness from not being able to sleep a wink after the ball.
If only she hadn’t lost her new notes about