Once Upon a Wallflower

The words were poignant, and Mira sensed they carried a depth of meaning. They also echoed Mira’s earlier admonition to Bella. Mira looked to gauge her cousin’s reaction, but apparently the message was no better received coming from the lofty Lady Blackwell as from Mira herself. Bella’s mouth was set in a mutinous line, and she fixed her gaze firmly on her salt cellar.

“Wise words, my lady, wise words.” The Reverend Mr. Thomas leaned forward, a look of earnest concentration wrinkling his ruddy face. “The dream of love, indeed. Reminds me of a story I heard a time back, about this Frenchman, a marquis or some such, and a fine English woman the bounder set his sights on. Seems he thought to seduce her with…”

The rest of the meal passed in a blue haze of bawdy stories from the Reverend and a steady flow of wine, until Lady Beatrix finally suggested the women retire to the drawing room where the men would join them later, after port, for cards.

Like weary soldiers, the ladies filed into the drawing room and moved into formation: Lady Beatrix took her seat in the center of a gold brocade settee, Lady Marleston sitting to her right, and the rest of the women flanking them by rank. As mere misses, the Fitzhenry women were left standing together in an uneasy huddle.

Lady Henrietta Bosworth, just arrived that afternoon, was the first to break the silence. “Miss Fitzhenry,” she began, before her paper-thin lips twitched up in a haughty smile. “I am sorry, but I mean the Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry. Oh dear. The elder Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry. Our bride-to-be.” She chuckled softly at her own cleverness in pointing out the problem of two Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenrys.

Smothering a sigh, Mira answered, “Yes, Lady Bosworth?”

“Well, I understand that you were not actively husband-hunting when this engagement, um, presented itself. That you have never had a single Season. This all must be terribly exciting for you, a remarkable reversal of fortunes. Is it not?”

The heat rose in Mira’s face. If she were not mistaken, this woman had just managed to accuse her of being a hopeless spinster and of hunting a fortune, all in one breath.

To Mira’s surprise, before she could marshal an answer, Lady Beatrix came to her rescue.

“Yes, Lady Bosworth,” she said, her voice slightly muzzy, “we are all excited about the impending nuptials. Such a stroke of luck, really, that Miss Fitzhenry remained unspoken-for. She and Ashfield are quite perfectly suited, I believe.”

What game was Lady Beatrix playing at, now? Given Beatrix’s opinion of Nicholas, her comment could not be construed as a compliment, but she did not sound snide or sarcastic.

“Truly,” Beatrix continued, “the Fitzhenry girls are each a puzzlement in their own way. Miss Mira Fitzhenry has, apparently, been cloistered away in study, while Miss Bella Fitzhenry…”

Mira’s heart sank. Beatrix was not yet done with Bella.

“…Miss Bella Fitzhenry, on the other hand, has been a veritable social dervish. Two girls from the same family, such complete opposites in looks, manner, and habit. Yet neither one has secured a husband. Until now, that is.”

Sitting in the middle of her own drawing room, Lady Beatrix might as well have been a rabid fox as a Countess. Every woman in the room, save Lady Beatrix herself, held perfectly still. There was no sound, not even a delicate gasp of air through a prim patrician nose.

With a startling quick grace, Lady Beatrix rose from the settee causing those closest to her to flinch away. A faint smile touched her mouth as she glanced at the wary women on either side of her, but, despite the hectic flush that stained her usually pallid cheeks, her eyes remained as cold and hard as diamonds.

“Yes,” she said, “Now one Miss Fitzhenry has landed a husband, and the other has a prospect squirming in her net.”

Slowly, Beatrix stalked across the room until she was only a few paces away from Bella, Mira, and Kitty. She was so close that Mira smelled her strange perfume—spicy, like licorice, but with a bittersweet quality to it—and noted the creases where her face powder had settled into the fine lines around her eyes.

Beatrix was not a large woman. Indeed, she was little more than a shadow compared to the sturdy bulk of Kitty Fitzhenry. Beatrix nevertheless towered over the diminutive Bella. Mira braced herself for the confrontation.