To Win A Wallflower

Only the Viscount’s son’s voice rumbled a bit more. Didn’t sound so friendly. Almost a growl.

She wondered what he looked like.

She stood, went to the drawn shades, and moved one aside enough to see out. She couldn’t even see the street. Just another house across the way. Now she would be one storey higher above the road. One level further from the rest of the world. And fewer windows.

She wanted be with her sister. Knew in her heart that her sister, Honour, needed her. It would hurt her mother if Annie left, but Annie couldn’t help worrying about Honour. Laura was fine, she was certain. She’d run off to be with the man she loved.

Without them, life was one day after another. Everything the same. She knew she could find a way to bring Honour home and to reconcile her parents to it. Yes, there would be tears. Disgrace, perhaps. But the family could rebuild itself, or just accept things as they would be.

Chapter Two

Barrett nodded at Carson’s recounting of stitching used in the air balloons as he and Carson returned to the house. The man’s notion of a rousing evening left a little to be desired. It didn’t improve with the tenth telling. Barrett had had to insist they return home early as he couldn’t bear another moment of the camaraderie.

Barrett gave the servant his hat, letting Carson ramble on. Three days. He could not take another balloon story and he had yet to see the daughter. Several times he’d caught a whiff of perfume in the air or heard skittering noises above his head, and just a hint of a voice that he’d heard only once before. He remained in the house, surprised that he was willing to stay, but aware he’d always had a persistence inside him that he couldn’t quite understand.

Carson remained at the doorway, giving the butler instructions to pass along to the housekeeper to pass along to the cook. Barrett continued up the stairs.

As he ascended the stairs, he realised she stood at the top, watching him.

A slender woman, with little of her face left over if you subtracted her eyes and lips and hair. She was seemingly frozen at the sight of him.

It would not have been out of place for her to be bathed in sunbeams and yet she hardly seemed the incomparable that his brother had spoken of. More like a whisper of a woman than the temptress his brother described.

He walked into her presence, unable to look away in those moments, trying to discern what was different and yet not staring. ‘You must be Miss Carson.’

She nodded, dipping her head to him.

‘Annabelle,’ her father called out behind Barrett, ‘you are supposed to be in your room.’ His voice intensified so much that Barrett turned to him.

‘I thought you were to be out all evening,’ she responded.

The man moved up the stairs with more speed than Barrett would have thought him capable of.

Barrett stepped aside.

‘You are not to be bothering our guests.’ Carson’s face had reddened and Barrett didn’t think it all from the exertion of running up the stairs.

‘It’s no bother,’ Barrett reassured Carson.

‘She’s not to be about,’ Carson said, shooing her away with his hand. ‘I’ve told her many times that she is not to interfere with business.’

The smile left her face. ‘Yes, Father. I was just going to see how Myrtle is doing. Her feet were hurting her so, as she has been running up and down the stairs to make sure I am fine.’

‘You are not to be traipsing after the servants. It is their duty to care for you. I would not want Mr Barrett to get the wrong impression of you.’

She looked down, but Barrett wasn’t sure if it was submissive or to hide her eyes. He’d seen the set of her jaw.

‘Go to your room,’ Carson instructed.

‘Wait.’ Barrett held out a palm in Carson’s direction. ‘It’s her house. I wouldn’t want to displace her. And my only impression seems to be that she understands someone else’s discomfort.’

‘She doesn’t mind staying in her room,’ Carson said. ‘Annie is used to it. Prefers it most of the time.’ He spoke the last words almost as an accusation.

‘I’m sure she wishes to keep out of the way. And I would imagine she does quite well at it.’ Barrett could attest to that. He’d tried for three days to see her in the family quarters and apparently the only time she would be there was when no one was around.

‘You don’t realise what it is like to have a daughter,’ Carson eyed Barrett. ‘Annie is the sunshine of our days. She tried to keep her older sisters from upsetting us. She’s the youngest and above all else I want her protected from business and the strife life can bring.’

‘My sisters—I have two,’ Annie said, lifting her eyes. ‘Father is concerned that I don’t follow in their footsteps. They’ve both recently...moved away.’

‘Laura married and Honour is visiting family because she could not be content at home. Annie is all we have left. And we don’t want anyone getting any wrong ideas.’ He glanced at Barrett. ‘She’s half-betrothed, but I must beg your confidence in the matter.’

‘Of course you have it,’ Barrett said.

Annie took in a breath and stared at her father. Barrett caught the apologetic glance her father gave her.

‘I’m sure there are few men who are good enough for a woman who might be concerned for a staff member’s feet,’ Barrett said.

She turned to him. A glimmer of appreciation flashed across her face.

Carson nodded. ‘It is indeed difficult to find someone suitable. I’d thought the man her sister Laura married half-good enough for her and—’ he shook his head so that his chin wiggled ‘—he sorely disappointed me.’

‘Perhaps Miss Annie and your wife could join us for a cup of tea,’ Barrett said.

Now Carson turned to him, suspicion in his eyes. ‘The women would not be interested in the things we men like.’ He clasped his hands behind his back and frowned at Barrett.

Annie smiled, but it dimmed her eyes. ‘I would not.’ She turned and walked down the hallway, head proud as any peer, and disappeared around a corner. The servants’ stair.

‘I don’t remember ever seeing your other daughters about London,’ Barrett said.

‘No,’ Carson said. ‘They chose to leave. I expect them both to return eventually, sadder but wiser.’ Carson stared at the path Annie had taken to leave. ‘Sons would have been so much easier to raise...’

The older man walked to the door of the sitting room, went through the doorway and then, within seconds, returned for Barrett, seemingly forgetting about his daughters. ‘Oh, and I’ve some balloon drawings to show you. I sent for them and they arrived while we were out.’

‘Certainly,’ Barrett said. He didn’t need drawings of balloons. He had something else entirely to visualise. In fact, based on the exterior of the house, the rooms he’d seen and Annie’s departure up the stairway, he knew the house as well as the one he lived in. Annie’s movement up the stairs had filled in the last question in his mind.

* * *

‘Dearest.’ Her mother stopped at the doorway, head down, her hand shielding her eyes. ‘Please close the curtain. I fear my head is going to start hurting. I see the little waves of pain prancing in front of my eyes.’

Annie turned, noticing the green beads sparkling on her mother’s slippers.

‘Of course.’ The curtain fluttered back into place.

‘Would you please read to me until the physician arrives?’ Her mother’s voice wavered.

She held an arm out and Annie guided her to the darkened sitting room, helping her sit. Annie picked up the footstool. Raising her feet, her mother waited for Annie to put the stool directly under the slippers. The older woman settled in place, fidgeting into a comfortable position.

‘I could fetch you something from the apothecary. I’d take Myrtle for a chaperon,’ Annie offered.

‘Nonsense, dear,’ her mother muttered, waving a hand but still keeping her eyes closed. ‘The housekeeper can send someone else. You have a weak constitution. I won’t have you catching your death from that tainted air. And please hand me the cinnamon biscuits.’ She waved an arm. ‘The physician has had them made to his instructions. I can see why he has been physician to so many families of the ton. He is so knowledgeable and so caring.’

Annie stepped away from her mother and lifted the tray of confections, the scent of them trailing behind her as she walked. She put them on the table at the side of her mother. Her mother took the nearest one, leaned back in her chair, shut her eyes and crunched at the edges of the biscuit, tasting more than eating.

Annie looked over her shoulder at the flowing velvet covering the windows. Some days she didn’t care if the air was unhealthy or the people all carried the plague and vermin crawled about. Some days she would just like to go to the shops without having to fill the carriage with people who must go with her.

Then her mother peered over Annie’s shoulder, and the older woman’s face brightened. ‘The physician can verify that you need to take care and stay inside.’

Annie moved, her eyes following her mother’s gaze.

‘Your mother is right.’ The physician stood in the doorway, perfectly dressed, perfectly perfect and very perfectly annoying.

Now she was sure she didn’t like the man. If he wished to keep her locked away, too, then she had no use for him. The house was bigger than a crypt, but just as closed. Well, no. The people in the crypt had more freedom.

He walked in, placing his bag on the floor, next to the pedestal with the bust of King George.

‘Oh...my...’ The physician stared at her. His eyes widened. Then he put a hand to his coat pocket and pulled out a monocle.

Annie leaned backwards as she pulled in her breath. Her mother straightened, as if waiting for a life-or-death pronouncement in a trial.

The doctor paused. He turned to her mother. ‘How long has your daughter been this way?’

‘What?’ her mother gasped.

In one stride he stood in front of Annie. He held the glass against his eye and peered at her. The scent of dried weeds tainted the air. The man smelled like a poultice. ‘Her skin. It’s too thin.’

Annie didn’t move. Her stomach knotted. She would be a near-invalid like her mother. She would be trapped forever. Her breath caught. She put her hand over her heart.

His head darted around, vermin-like, and he did all but wiggle his whiskers. ‘I can’t see straight through to the bones exactly. But I’m sure they have the texture of sawdust now.’

He lowered the glass to his side and bowed his head. ‘I would hate to see one so young forever... Well, forever not with us.’

Annie took a step back. She had to get away from his words. And if she was going to die anyway, she’d rather do it away from the house.

‘I can save your life. Should it be necessary.’ He raised his face. Then he saw the look in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Annabelle. I have a cure.’ He held out a hand in a calming gesture. ‘A very reliable cure.’

Her mother tensed. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She has epidemeosis.’ He patted a hand to his chest. ‘That term is my own as I am the first to be aware of it. In the rest of the world it’s unknown—for now.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well. Nothing really.’ He blinked his words away. ‘The cure is so simple as to be...simple, for lack of a better word.’

‘But her illness?’

‘It’s merely a lack of bile. A serious bile blockage.’

‘The humours again,’ her mother whispered, eyes widening. ‘Those devilish humours. They never stay in order.’

‘Yes. But she’s young. She’ll recover fast. I just would not want it to hurt her spleen. If it reaches the stage where it damages the spleen...’ He shook his head, and expelled a lingering breath, seeming to paint the room with his concern.

‘I will recover?’ Annie asked. She clutched the back of the chair, using it to keep herself upright.

‘Of course.’ The physician turned in her direction, but he glanced briefly at the ceiling, as if he’d heard the words before and perhaps did not even believe himself.

Annie sensed something wrong, but she wasn’t sure if he lied about her recovery or something else.

Then he took the manner of a tutor. ‘It seems the night air right before dawn can build strength. By exposing a person to a small amount of some poisons, they can build a resistance. Edward Jenner discovered this with his cowpox theory when he created a way to save us from smallpox.’ He puffed at the glass of the monocle, blowing away a bit of fuzz. ‘But we mustn’t be overzealous. Give me a few moments and I’ll search out the room which has the highest chance of filtering the air in the right amounts.’

‘Are you sure it will help?’ Annie asked.

‘It’s very simple. You’ll have to sit alone, awake, in the room between four and five in the morning—breathing. Those are the best hours for the air. You can read, or sew or whatever suits your fancy.’

He tapped the monocle against his leg and stared at her mother. ‘I would certainly pass the word throughout the staff and family that they are definitely not to disturb her at this time. It seems the humours are most likely to be put askew by the people who are closest to her the most often. I—’ He put his monocle away. ‘I could speak with her for hours and it wouldn’t bother her as I’ve hardly been near her. But there’s something shared, a miasma of sorts, in people who have been closest to her... She needs to be away from them for a bit.’

‘Are you certain it will cure her?’

‘Oh, yes. I have studied this extensively. For years. I wrote a paper on it.’

‘Well, let me know which room and I will tell the maid to wake her in time for her recovery regime.’

‘I don’t want to do that,’ Annie said. She didn’t trust the man.

The doctor looked at her as if her spleen had just spoken back to him.

‘Miss Annabelle. You must. You have no choice. I have my reputation to keep.’

‘You’ve not been able to cure Mother’s headaches.’

Her mother leaned towards Annabelle, reached out a hand and swatted at Annie’s arm. ‘They are so much better, though. And the lavender oils he has the maids rub into my feet... It always eases my pain.’

The doctor raised a brow in one of those I told you so gestures.

‘Very well.’ She stood and looked at her mother. ‘But only if you promise to let me go somewhere the next week.’

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where do you wish to go?’

‘Anywhere. Anywhere but a soirée or a gathering. I would just like to not feel I am being coddled every moment.’

‘Your father will forbid it.’ Her mother’s lids lowered. Her eyes drooped closed and she pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘My pain just increased tenfold.’

‘We will get that corrected right away.’ The doctor stepped forward, but glanced at Annie. ‘I will discuss which room for you will be best and I expect you to be there from four to five in the morning.’

‘Yes, Annie.’ Her mother opened one eye. ‘Do as the physician says.’

Annie left. She would do as the big miasma of a physician said, but if it became too tedious, she would walk in the gardens, darkness or not. She was tired of being a puppet.

Chapter Three

Annie bundled her dressing gown tight and took the lamp from the servant and waved the woman away. She twisted her hair up, unwilling to have the wisps tickling her face. After pinning it, she added the jewelled one—the pin her grandmother had given her.

The physician had told her mother to send her to the portrait room. Annie hated the Granny Gallery. It had apparently become a tradition for every woman of her heritage to have a portrait painted and, if the woman didn’t like the portrait, she would commission another and another until one finally pleased her—and then the artist would soon be asked to paint a miniature, or two, or ten.

Annie walked into the room, past the two shelves of miniatures her mother had insisted Annie and her sisters pose for. She held watercolours in her hand and a sketchbook under her arm. The barest flutter of air puffed the closed curtains. The doctor had insisted the window be opened the width of a finger. No more. No less.

Eyes from musty portraits almost overlapping stared at her. The ancestors. They’d probably all died in the house.

She put the lamp on the table between the chairs, which faced away from the window. They were the only two chairs in the room. Both squat, flat, and with clawed feet. The chairs were heirlooms and probably looked the same as the day they were made because no one willingly sat on something so uncomfortable.

This was the room where her mother put the furnishings that one had to keep because they’d been in the family forever, but that she would never have purchased.

And now Annie sat in the middle of it, thinking of which road would be best to take her from the house.

She rose, prepared her watercolours and stepped over to one of the portraits of her great-great-aunt. Very carefully, she took the wetted brush and added a beauty mark just outside the eye. It hardly showed against the oils. She sighed. She wasn’t even allowed the true paints of an artist.

She put the brush away, crossed her arms and paced back and forth in front of the trapped eyes.

If she went to find her sister, her mother and father would be desolate. She was the good daughter. The Carson sister who wasn’t wild. The one that took after the Catmull side of the family. And now she was inheriting her mother’s afflictions and she was standing in a room of discarded furniture. She jerked her arms open, her hands fisted, and grunted her displeasure. Making a jab at the world which had trapped her. She punched again.

‘Keep your thumb on the outside of the fist, don’t swing the arm and thrust forward with the motion. It works better.’ A masculine rumble of words hit her ears.

She jerked around and backwards at the same time.

A man stood in the doorway. Although it wasn’t that he really stood in the doorway. More like he let it surround him. A dark shape with an even darker frame. The man she’d seen earlier.

He took one step closer to her and she took in a quick bit of air so she could remain standing.

He wore a coat and cravat and could have been stepping out to attend a soirée, except no one would think him in a social mood with the straight line of his lips and the hair hanging rough around his face. He needed a shave—really needed a shave.

His eyes looked as if he’d just woken, but not the softened look of someone gently waking from slumber—more the studied look of a predatory animal ready to swing out a paw at the little morsel who’d dared disturb the beast.

She moved back.

He extended his arm in one controlled move, but she didn’t feel threatened.

He made a fist, held his elbow at his side, and moved the hand straight forward, but angled away from her. ‘This way. You don’t want to swing wide. Gives someone an easier chance to block.’

Her eyes travelled down the length of his arm, past his elbow, and lodged at his fist. Four curled fingers and then a thumb. The scarred thumb alone could have flattened her.

‘Yes.’ She nodded her head and moved her eyes to his elbow, his shoulder, past the chin, right to his eyes and then one dart back to his chin. She didn’t know what she’d said yes to, but at that moment, it was the best she could do.

She forced herself to look into his eyes and felt she could see the solid wall behind them.

‘It would not matter if I kept my thumb in or out if I should hit you,’ she said.

‘I would think not.’ He shrugged. ‘But, I’m sturdier than most.’

She nodded. ‘Especially stepping out of the shadows. You’re rather...daunting.’

‘I try to be. It helps.’ No smile to soften the words. He meant them.

He walked forward, picked up the light and held it high. It flickered on her face. She stepped backwards into the curtains and her fingers clasped them tight.

‘I did not believe it possible,’ he said. ‘I thought my eyes lied and my memory as well.’

Now he examined her.

With splayed fingers, she touched her cheek. ‘I’ve been ill.’

He choked out a laugh, lowering the lamp to the table. The side of his mouth curled. A smile that turned into a private chuckle before it reached his eyes. He looked away, seeming to discount her, and his own words. ‘Then I can hardly wait to see what you look like when you recover.’

‘Sir.’ She cleared her throat, because it hardly seemed to work. ‘I believe that is improper for you to say.’

‘Of all my choices, it was the most proper,’ he said. ‘But I do beg your pardon.’ A pause. ‘As I should.’ Words exactly perfect. Emotionless.

Now he stood so close the light flickered on his face. He had more ragged edges than smooth. She could not believe her father would invite this man into their home.

But this man would understand others defending themselves.

And if she were to go out without a true chaperon, she might need to take care.

Presently all she needed protecting from was her embroidery needle and that she might tumble out of the chair when she fell asleep stitching. But by Tuesday morning, that might change. She was ready to take her chances with the outside world. ‘So how does one hit someone effectively?’

A muscle in his jaw tightened. ‘Punch straight. Keep your elbow as close to the side as possible. Don’t swing out. Move like a lever. Not like a windmill. A windmill...’ he demonstrated, holding his arm straight from the shoulder and moving his fist forward ‘...is too easy to block.’

‘I will never be able to punch someone,’ she said, feeling helpless. She would never be able to go after her sister. ‘I’m always surrounded by chaperons,’ she said, concluding her thoughts out loud. ‘You would think I am gold, the way my parents guard me.’

True lightness touched his eyes. ‘Perhaps you are.’

Then darkness moved into his face. ‘You are standing alone in a room with a man you know nothing of. The world is full of evil and evil enjoys waiting for just the right moment.’ He stared at her. ‘Evil is patient. It only needs one moment of opportunity.’ His eyes narrowed and he leaned in. ‘One moment.’

‘You were invited by my father. He makes no decisions rashly.’

His slow intake of breath through his nose raised his body enough to show a muted dismissal of any disagreement she made to his statement.

‘I can scream.’

‘You would be surprised,’ his voice thundered, ‘how little noise can carry—even on the most silent night.’ He waited and cocked his head. Listening.

Then his voice took on an innocence. ‘Well, perhaps my words were not loud enough to summon help for you. Scream,’ he said. ‘See who comes running.’

‘It would be embarrassing for you.’

‘Just say I startled you in the shadows. You thought me an intruder. A ghost. A raging bear. You were sleepwalking. Whatever.’

‘I could say you accosted me. Do you not realise the danger in that for you?’

‘I’ll take that risk.’ The muscles at the side of his face moved. ‘I’ve taken many worse.’

He gave a twitch of his shoulders and blandness settled in his eyes. He took two steps to the door. When he touched the door, he moved with liquid stealth and turned back to her. ‘And how truly unsettling for me to be thought a rogue.’

Instead of leaving, he shut the door. He leaned against it, arms relaxed, hands behind his back, trapped by his body against the wood. ‘Now. Embarrass me. Scream. And not just once.’

Her stomach thudded, but she wasn’t truly afraid. He’d put his hands behind him and he had one of the I told you so looks in his eyes.

Silence engulfed them. ‘I’m not trying to scare you, nor am I jesting.’ He spoke in measured tones. ‘Your voice cannot carry through wood and stop dreams of dancing angels. By the time the first shout was out of your mouth, my hand could be over it and, if someone awakened, they would think it an imagination. They might lie awake for a moment to listen, then sleep would grab them again, telling them that they heard nothing.’