“Gwen!”
Brought back—again—to the present, Gwen stepped forward and handed her voucher to the doorman. She and her mother were announced, and she stepped into the one place where she always felt like a desperate, old leftover woman. The room was relatively small, but it was designed for dancing. Tepid lemonade in one corner, the orchestra in another, and seats for the patronesses in the third where they reigned like queens. And all around the edges stood the young girls with their mothers. Her mother called themdewy fresh.Gwen called them pastel cut-outs of people. If any one of them had a passion, it had been thoroughly stamped out of them. Certainly one might sing well, another play the violin with skill, but not one dared speak out or carve their own path. They were too young to realize they could, and their mothers had been too determined to teach them “proper manners.”
It reminded her forcefully of the little girl in the park so long ago. The one who had been watching an insect only to have her nanny swat it away. Every single one of these girls was a result of that kind of education, and Gwen thought it a crime. Because if they never fought back, if they never thought for themselves, then they’d never find the kind of joy she found in science or a man like Jackson who valued her passions as much as his own.
She stepped into the room and she heard the whispers begin. She was notorious in Almack’s because she was the cautionary tale. Every girl here was being admonished to be nice to the gentlemen or they’d end up like Lady Gwen—on the shelf and damned as a bluestocking.
Normally Gwen would deflate within ten seconds of hearing the first whispers. She would mentally retreat into her plants, thinking of science rather than whomever was in the room. And she would pray for the evening to end.
I love you. And if you will have me, I want to marry you as soon as possible.
But today was going to be different.
A gentleman approached and bowed to her and her mother.
“Mr. MacDonald,” her mother said. “What a pleasure to see you here tonight.”
Thanks to Jackson’s coaching, she knew he was the second son of a Scottish earl on the hunt for a wife. He enjoyed dogs, horses, and boxing, and he was a year her junior. Within two minutes’ conversation, she also found him rather silly. Usually she’d just turn away from him or accidentally spill lemonade on him just to get away. Instead, she heard Jackson’s voice reminding her to find something honest she could say to compliment him.
“I really admire how you are keeping yourself fit,” she said in absolute truth. “So many men forget that they will age into heaviness which is not at all attractive.”
He brightened at that, preening as young men often do. He was only one year her junior, and yet she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was still a thirteen-year-old boy trying to prove himself manly.
“You are most kind and…” he added with a wink, “most perceptive. Might I have the honor of a dance?”
She agreed and offered him her dance card. Very soon others were coming to speak to her. It wasn’t much different from any other time she went to Almack’s. She was never completely without partners, and the fact that she was wearing daffodils certainly sparked a bit of conversation. But after the first set it was clear that she wasn’t making anything like the impact they needed to sell the flowers.
She needed to be special very soon or this would all be for nothing. But how? Without Jackson here she couldn’t do anything new, couldn’tbeanything new. Her only choice was to get a message to him, and the only way to do that—short of leaving—was to use the maid in the dressing room. Besides, the flowers she wore were indeed drooping. It was time to replace them with new.
She headed into the ladies withdrawing room. Since it was between sets, there were several girls there refreshing themselves, getting the hems of their skirts resewn, or just clustered in a corner talking to one another away from their mothers. Personally, she had never found the room to be a respite from anything. As bad as her mother could be, the girls in the dressing room could be ten times crueler, but there was no other choice.
So she went in, saw the maid right away as she tried to keep a couple girls back from the vase of daffodils, and quickly maneuvered through the crowd. One thing about being long in the tooth, she’d had more time to learn how to use her hips to good effect.
“Please, step back. Ladies, if you want these exclusive Lincolnshire daffodils, then you’ll have to buy them tomorrow. I’ve already paid tonight for these.”
“I’m going to wear roses,” one woman huffed. “I don’t want your silly yellow trumpets.”
She almost said something cutting back, but once again she heard Jackson’s voice in her head. Only nice words, no matter what they say. An honest compliment.
Except she knew the speaker. A spoiled, mean brat if ever there was one. But she would do what Jackson wanted even if it was a million times harder to think of an honest compliment to the shrew.
“You used the correct terminology!” Gwen managed to cry with false enthusiasm. “This part of the daffodil is called the trumpet. Your education really was excellent.” Well, that part was a lie. Only boys got a good education. Girls got the leftovers.
Miss Esme Atkinson frowned, completely thrown by Gwen’s words. Unfortunately, that only lasted a few seconds. Moments later, she lifted her chin, sniffed in disdain, and said, “Of course I do,” before walking away with her group of followers trailing behind.
Gwen watched the women walk away, waiting for the familiar bite of loneliness to cut through her chest. Here was yet another example of how she didn’t fit in. But instead of pain, she felt a curious detachment from the situation, similar to what she felt for Mr. MacDonald and his need to appear manly. Miss Atkinson seemed just as young and silly to her as Mr. MacDonald did, and that was a surprise. Beyond politeness, she had no more need to be friendly with her than the child in the park with her nanny.
What a surprise.
And on the heels of that shock came another. She was busy pulling out the daffodil from her bodice when a voice interrupted her.
“Don’t worry about Esme. She was born awful.”
Gwen turned around, startled to hear anyone speak to her in a kind fashion. That wasn’t usual in the ladies retiring room. “She doesn’t bother me,” she returned honestly. “Miss Atkinson was born young and apparently has remained that way.”
The woman’s eyes widened. She was a mousy girl with nut brown hair and sweet brown eyes set beneath thick eyebrows. She also had a beautiful smile as she looked longingly at the daffodils. “Are they really magical? I heard they come from a fairy mound.”
Obviously, Jackson’s efforts had succeeded. He’d begun the rumor that they were magical for just this kind of reaction. Here was a young woman desperate to believe that anything would make her special even if it was the false belief in magic. And Gwen was supposed to agree with that, reinforce that, even promote that because it was the only way to make the flower popular.