What a Wallflower Wants

by Maya Rodale

  “You should meet the duke and the baron before you go. I know how much it means to you.”

  PRUDENCE’S HEART WAS pounding in her chest. She thought it might burst right through. She understood the unspoken words following his “unless. . .”

  He lied he lied he lied he lied he lied. She couldn’t forget that.

  But she loved him. He had breathed life back into her when she’d thought she might just give up and die. Ladies didn’t marry servants, but when had ladylike behavior ever made her happy?

  What was she to do? And however was she to decide their fate before this afternoon?

  She would introduce him to the duke and baron. Perhaps she could think while they conversed. It was certainly impossible to think when John’s blue eyes were looking at her like she was the sun, moon, stars, and everything else that was beautiful and true in the world.

  She linked her arm with his and led them over to the Engine.

  “Ashbrooke, Radcliffe. I hope I may present Mr. John Roark to you,” Prudence said. “I am forever indebted to this man for the kindness he has shown me and the protection he has given me. He has grand ideas for your engine that I think you will wish to entertain.”

  “Roark? I am not familiar,” Ashbrooke said. Nevertheless, he greeted the man openly.

  “Mr. John Roark, former footman, former impersonator of Lord Castleton, and tremendous admirer of your work on the engine.”

  Prue wasn’t the only one to smile.

  She was quite certain her heart was the only one pounding at such a furious pace, though.

  “How did you hear of it?” Ashbrooke asked.

  “I’ve had extensive conversations with members of the Royal Society. I’ve read numerous publications about it as well,” John explained. “I knew you were onto something when the machine was decried as useless and impossible.”

  That seemed like just the right thing to say to prove to Ashbrooke and Radcliffe that he was serious and understood them and the potential for the machine. A passionate, animated conversation ensued, in which Prudence overheard things about physics that flew right over her head. He might have been a footman, but he had somehow obtained a gentleman’s education—perhaps even more. She wondered how he had managed it. She wondered what kind of man managed to bring himself up from being a servant to speaking intelligently about the sciences with a duke.

  The conversation concluded with a coveted invitation for the former footman: “Call on us tomorrow at Ashbrooke House. Three o’clock.”

  She didn’t mention the ticket in his pocket for a ship destined for America. Neither did he.

  She and John then stepped back away from the crowds surrounding the Difference Engine.

  John clasped her hand in his, lifting it to his lips for a kiss. She felt sparks. It was bittersweet.

  “Prudence, I cannot thank you enough.” The gratitude was plain in his eyes, and she was truly glad to have helped him with the small manner of an introduction, even though nothing might ever come of it if he boarded that boat.

  “You’re a footman,” she said, as if the truth was still sinking in. “One who knows of physics, and engines, and other advanced scientific things.”

  “I was. I suppose I am.”

  “And your mum and your sister?”

  “Housemaids.” He glanced away for a second before returning his gaze to her. “We worked at Castlemore Court before leaving for Blackhaven Manor. I looked too much like the real Lord Castleton,” he said wryly.

  Prudence let it all sink in. He was probably the illegitimate son of the real Viscount Castleton. She began to understand how he’d been able to pull off such a monumental charade; according to the newspapers this morning, he’d been pretending to be Castleton for at least six months, deceiving scores of the nobility. Prudence only had more questions for him now.

  “If I could do it all again,” he began, “I would have let you in on the secret from the beginning. But then what chance would we have had to be together?”

  “It’s hard, isn’t it,” she mused, “when the world doesn’t allow much room for a person to live the life they want.”

  She thought of all the strict rules imposed on a woman, defining her innocence, her marriageability—or ruination. She thought of the strict social barriers separating the aristocrats from everyone else, and she thought of servants who were just supposed to fade into the background. She wanted to be more than her qualifications as a wife, more than the status of her virginity.

  He wanted more, too. Was that so wrong?

  “I love you, Prudence,” he said, clasping her hands. “You deserve better than me. You deserve a man of your rank who will adore you and care for you and not cause embarrassing and destructive scenes at balls. You deserve children who will attend finishing school and won’t have to live with the shame of their father’s humble origins.”

  She did deserve all those things. But that wasn’t all that mattered.

  “No one else will ever love me like you do,” she said softly. She could now see the possibility that perhaps, in time, she might find another man with an open mind and an open heart who would take her as his wife. But it wouldn’t be the same. She wanted this man, who’d taken her as a fragile, wounded creature and with patience, kindness, and love had made her strong enough to live without him.

  “Because you are lovable, Prue. I want you to know that.”

  She knew that now. She also knew that she loved him. No other woman would love him the way she did. Before Prudence could tell him these things, shouts erupted, and the crowd swelled and surged dangerously.

  “There he is!” Someone shouted, pointing directly at John.

  Then an officer hollered the fateful order: “Arrest him!”

  Chapter 27

  Later that day

  PRUDENCE OUGHT TO have been exhausted after the events of the past twenty-four hours, or the past week, or the past few years of her life. Instead, she found herself electrified, for now her life had purpose.

  For so long it had felt like she’d dragged herself through each day, always fighting her fear, with many little victories, numerous defeats, and never winning the war. It all had felt so hopeless. But then, suddenly, there was a transformation. A phase change. Suddenly Prudence knew how to make everything right, and she felt absolutely determined to do it.

  She could not stand idly by while John, a good—though flawed—man was imprisoned. She could not stand idly by while scum of the earth like Dudley strolled around, free to wreak havoc on the lives of innocent young women.

  It was time for her to take matters into her own hands.

  The offices of The London Weekly

  57 Fleet Street, London

  Three young ladies arrived at the offices of The London Weekly. A terrifying man standing guard at the door questioned their purpose and, satisfied with their answer, granted them entry.

  Emma, Prudence, and Olivia then waited for an interview with Mr. Derek Knightly, owner and publisher of the most popular newspaper in London. It had been doing well enough, until he’d hired a quartet of women to scandalously write for the publication, producing exposés, reports of weddings, the most salacious gossip, and an advice column. Then the paper’s popularity skyrocketed. Very few members of the ton had made the acquaintance of this lowborn upstart—yet they all lived and breathed by his printed word.

  “Are you certain of this, Prudence?” Olivia asked anxiously.

  “Yes,” she said confidently. “And besides, it was your idea that I write a letter. Why are you having second thoughts now?”

  “Because we were under the effects of sherry then,” Olivia replied.

  “I think it’s noble. And brave,” Emma said firmly.

  “Thank you.” Prue flipped open the folded sheet she held in her gloved hands and scanned the lines once more.

  She had written about what Dudley had done to her. She had written about why she had kept this secret for so long: what if no one believed her? Worse: what
if someone had? It was a cruel thing that her only options should be to marry her defiler or suffer in silence, alone.

  She condemned his despicable act and the unspoken rules that declared her ruined, spoilt, and useless because of this. She was more than this one bad thing that had happened to her.

  She’d even written about John. To her surprise, his lies hadn’t been the topic she’d focused on. He knew the truth about her. Anyone else would have judged her, cast her aside, or taken this admission as permission to take further advantage of her. John had loved her.

  One man had diminished her; another had nurtured her.

  One man had perpetrated violence against her; another had taught her how to defend herself.

  One had planted fear in her heart; another had shown her love.

  One had a title, a country estate, and a fortune; one had nothing of value, but everything that really mattered.

  By the time Prudence had signed the letter, only one question remained: was she really going to cut love out of her heart because of the circumstances of a man’s birth?

  Yes, he had lied about who he was. But hadn’t she also done so all these years?

  John had also told her the truth. And with this letter, so did she.

  DESPITE THE FACT that they were not acquainted, Prudence found herself standing before Mr. Derek Knightly’s desk in his Fleet Street office. Little was known about him, but she reckoned he had a soft heart for women and an open mind about their involvement in newspaper publishing.

  Mr. Knightly stared at her with brilliant blue eyes. He put her in mind of Castleton John, with his bright, inquisitive gaze and unruly dark hair. Apparently, being lowborn was another point these two men had in common. There were very quiet rumors that Knightly was the bastard son of an earl.

  But to look at Knightly now, one would never know. Everything about his office—a spacious room decorated in the finest furniture—declared him to be the wealthy, powerful man that he was. She wondered whether John would have an office like this, and a power like Knightly’s, if he did manage to buy his factory and produce those engines.

  Prudence remembered the passion and determination with which John spoke of the Difference Engine. John could be like Knightly if given the opportunity. Ashbrooke and Radcliffe were currently working on securing his release from prison by appealing to Lord Castleton. She was about to make a tremendous public declaration—after all, she was already quite ruined, had little left to lose and everything to gain.

  “Well, Miss Payton?”

  Not Lady Nanson, not Lady Castleton. Miss Payton.

  “I would like you to publish this letter,” Prudence said, finding her voice. She handed the folded sheet to Mr. Knightly. Her hand shook only slightly.

  He flipped it open and quickly scanned the words she had composed in a frenzy this afternoon. Then those bright blue eyes settled on her.

  “This will ruin him,” Knightly said gravely. Interesting choice of word: ruin. She would have been ruined if word had gotten out. She had felt ruined.

  “It will be what he deserves,” she said with a lift of her chin.

  “You will cause an uproar amongst the ton,” Mr. Knightly pressed on. Did he really think she was unaware of that? Oh, she knew.

  “People should know what he has done,” she said. “I think it will be worse if this letter doesn’t cause a ruckus.”

  “And what if they say that boys will be boys, reformed rakes make the best husbands, and then you see him around at all the parties?” Mr. Knightly asked, and this time he seemed genuinely concerned for her well-being.

  “That is a risk I shall have to take. I am tired of standing by on the side of the ballroom, silent and fearful, while everyone else waltzes past me. I am tired of being afraid. I thought I didn’t deserve love, Mr. Knightly. But now I know that I do. I came to The London Weekly not because it’s the most popular but because of the Writing Girls you had hired. I thought you would understand a woman’s voice needing to be heard.”

  Mr. Knightly stared at her for a moment. Lud, those eyes had a way of getting to a girl. Had she said the right thing? The wrong thing? His lips quirked up into a slight grin, which reminded her of John. After last night’s humiliation and heartache, and this afternoon’s dramatic turn of events, she had no more patience for more charming, upstart rogues and their mysterious half smiles and sparkling blue eyes.

  “Are you going to print my letter or not?” Prudence demanded.

  Knightly grinned. Then he leaned forward and said, “Let’s run this bounder out of town, Miss Payton.”

  Chapter 28

  The following day

  Eight o’clock in the morning

  ALL OVER LONDON, from dining rooms to coffee shops, there was a symphony of sounds. First, gasps of shock. Next, the sound of the newspaper being snapped straight so one could be sure they were reading the words correctly. This was followed by teacups set firmly in their saucers and cutlery rested on the edge of the plate, for the contents of this morning’s issue of The London Weekly demanded one’s complete attention.

  The letter began with “Dear London” and proceeded to provide a shock.

  There is something you must know. Lord Dudley, heir to the Marquis of Scarbrough, violently took my innocence against my will. As I am a gently bred lady, he has also robbed me of my prospects of marriage. As a girl, he left me feeling damaged and unworthy.

  I am writing this letter out of fear that I am not the only victim of Lord Dudley’s violent attempts to control and dominate innocent young women.

  Had I not found the love of a kind, generous, and good man who has helped me love myself, I wouldn’t have had the determination and courage required to give voice to a secret I’ve kept for so long.

  At a breakfast table on Brooke Street, Miss Marchwood, spinster, sat very still, newspaper in hand, trying very hard not to cry into her teacup. Her father was immersed in the business section, and her mother was reading a letter from Aunt Bess. To their dismay, Miss Marchwood had never married, even rejecting a number of suitable men. She had never explained why.

  For the first time, she understood that she was not the only one.

  I beseech you to send a message to Dudley and others who treat women so cruelly. Refuse them. Refuse them entry to your homes, your clubs, your ballrooms. Refuse to condone and enable violent behavior against the innocent, perpetrated by “gentlemen” who act with callous disregard for others.

  Just as a woman’s worth ought not be judged by her innocence and marriageability—a man’s worth isn’t to be found in his station or wealth but in his honorable actions.

  Signed,

  Your daughter, your sister, your friend

  In Berkeley Square, Lady Dare set down the newspaper and peered over her spectacles at her niece, who had come in to welcome her after her return from Bath late the previous evening. As was their habit, Prue lounged on a settee, and Lady Dare remained abed. They shared the newspaper whilst sipping chocolate and nibbling on breakfast pastries.

  Lady Dare hadn’t always been the most attentive guardian, and she’d never been the maternal type. Prue’s governess, Miss Georgette, had provided all the warmth and care. But Lady Dare had seen to it that Prue had received the finest education, wore lovely gowns, and had been properly brought out in society.

  But now Lady Dare wondered: was something like this the reason Prudence had gone from being a lovely, spirited girl in her first season to one who had become very quiet and rather adept at not drawing attention to herself? Lady Dare had noticed, she had wondered. But she just hadn’t known how to broach the subject in such a culture of silence.

  Besides, Prudence had been fine.

  But a young lady oughtn’t just be fine. She ought to be splendid, gloriously happy, and madly in love.

  This article gave Lady Dare a chance to bring up an emotionally fraught and delicate matter in a very roundabout way. It would allow her to say things she didn’t know how to say otherwise.

>   “This girl is very brave,” Lady Dare said resolutely, jabbing at the newspaper with her finger.

  “Which one?” Prue asked cautiously.

  “The one who stood up to Dudley.” Lady Dare watched her niece closely. What she saw broke her heart. There was a slight tremble in Prudence’s chin, as if she was about to cry.

  “Oh. I’m so glad you think so,” Prudence replied in a small voice.

  “I do. And anyone who thinks otherwise is an ignoramus,” Lady Dare added, just in case there were ignoramuses who thought otherwise. Knowing the half-wits in the ton, there would be.

  Prue cracked a smile.

  “I wouldn’t turn away a girl like this. I would tell her that he’s despicable and she is lovely anyway. I would also tell her that she deserves every and any happiness. She must give everyone a chance to love her.”

  “You’re very kind,” Prue said softly.

  “Nonsense. I am merely human and concerned for my fellow humans.”

  With that, they returned to drinking chocolate and reading the paper. However, Lady Dare stole glances at her niece, who seemed to be a little bit brighter.

  Ten o’clock in the morning

  Lady Dare’s drawing room

  While there were numerous dim-witted people amongst the haute ton, there were also some shrewd minds who were able to put two and two together. Was it a coincidence that Miss Prudence Merryweather Payton had done a grievous injury to Lord Dudley at a ball and then, just days after, such an accusatory letter appeared in the newspaper?

  Many did not think it was a coincidence.

  Many thought Prudence was grossly impertinent, had forgotten her place, and ought to be reminded of it. Others wished to seek the intimate details. A few more wished to offer their support to a brave young woman who had stood up to a known bully.

  It was not fashionable to pay calls before noon at the earliest. But it was never fashionable to be the last one to hear the latest news or converse with the most recent person of scandal. Thus, society called upon Prudence en masse at a dreadfully early hour.