At Your Request (Apart From the Crowd): An Apart From the Crowd Novella

by Jen Turano

  © 2017 by Jennifer L. Turano

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-2995-3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC

  Author represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Behind the Scenes

  About the Author

  Books by Jen Turano

  Back Ads

  Chapter

  One

  JANUARY 1883—NEW YORK CITY

  Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff was reluctantly coming to the unfortunate conclusion that there were absolutely no perks to be had when one obtained the unenviable title of wallflower.

  Taking a sip of the tepid lemonade she’d actually fetched for herself, she couldn’t help but recall the many times in her past when flutes of champagne had shown up in her hand before she’d even proclaimed herself thirsty. Those flutes had been brought to her by her many admirers, admirers who had all but vanished the moment her father’s fortune had disappeared—destroyed as so many fortunes were wont to do by a single disastrous investment decision.

  Shifting on the uncomfortable chair provided by her hostess, Mrs. William Travers, wife to one of the esteemed New York patriarchs, Wilhelmina paused when the chair gave an ominous groan. Refusing to give in to the urge to heave a sigh—especially since any type of heaving might have the chair giving out underneath her—she remained frozen on the spot, praying that the chair would not collapse, since that would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention.

  Attention was not something she actively sought these days, especially because any attention she did garner usually came with a large dollop of pitying looks cast her way by young ladies Wilhelmina had once considered friends.

  Blowing out a breath of relief when the legs of the chair continued to hold her hardly slender figure, Wilhelmina took a second to smooth out the folds of her slightly out-of-fashion brocade gown.

  Her smoothing came to an abrupt end, however, when the lady sitting two chairs down from her suddenly leaned forward, peered at something in the distance, and then bent her head and began scribbling madly on her dance card. After her scribbling was done, she lifted her head, squinted off into the distance again, and then, to Wilhelmina’s surprise, turned and pinned Wilhelmina with eyes that were a very unusual shade of blue.

  “I say, Miss Radcliff, given that you are a most sought-after social secretary these days, would you happen to know the name of that gentleman standing over there beside Miss Kasson?” The lady gestured in the direction of one of the refreshment tables. “I took note of him at the Academy of Music earlier this evening, but even though I’ve been out in society for what seems like ages, I’ve never seen that particular gentleman before.”

  With her mouth forming an O of surprise, Wilhelmina responded to the question in the only way she felt capable of responding—she simply took to gawking at the lady. That gawking was undoubtedly caused by the very idea that the lady had willingly chosen to break one of the unspoken rules of the wallflowers. That rule, as everyone knew, being that wallflowers did not converse with each other . . . ever.

  Wallflowers preferred, or at least she assumed they did, to remain mute, suffering in silence while presenting society with a face of stoic nonchalance. That nonchalance was apparently intended to prove that they were not bothered in the least by the fact they’d been excluded from the fashionable crowd, forced to spend their time twiddling their thumbs while their social superiors waltzed around the dance floor.

  Wilhelmina was not a lady who was comfortable with accepting the whole banished-to-the-fringes-of-society notion. Quite honestly, she was fairly certain she’d be far happier not attending society events at all. But, because she did need the funds high-society ladies were willing to pay for her fine penmanship, she found herself included in one society function after another these days. While she attended these functions, it was her duty to take note of all the guests present, observe who seemed to be in highest demand, and then use that information when she compiled the next guest list, making certain those in-demand society members were placed at the very top of the invitation list.

  Being required, due to a lack of funds, to take on employment had rankled at first. But with time, and with the realization that her contributions to the meager family coffers actually mattered, Wilhelmina had pushed aside all semblance of pride as she settled into the daunting business of survival.

  Because she’d been forced to concern herself with the basic necessities of life, she no longer dwelled on what her future was supposed to have held for her. No longer did she ponder what might have made up her happily-ever-after—especially since she had, at least for a brief moment in time, contemplated allowing Mr. Warren Holland to experience that happily-ever-after with her.

  She’d eventually come to realize that she hadn’t actually loved Mr. Holland, even if her head had been slightly turned by his handsome face and debonair attitude. Those attributes paled considerably when she discovered he was a complete and utter cad, abandoning her the moment he’d learned about her father’s financial setback, while whispering falsehoods in all the right ears that—

  “Forgive me, Miss Radcliff. I certainly didn’t mean to cause you any distress by asking you what must be a far more difficult question than I knew, given that scowl you now have on your face.”

  Blinking out of her thoughts, Wilhelmina felt her cheeks warm when she realized she’d been so lost in memories that she’d completely forgotten she’d been asked a question, and a relatively simple question at that.

  “I do beg your pardon,” Wilhelmina began. “I fear I was so taken aback by your speaking to me that I lost all track of the conversation.”

  The lady flashed a grin Wilhelmina’s way. “Shocking, isn’t it, that I’d have the audacity to speak to you?” Tucking her dance card up the sleeve of a very fashionable dark velvet gown, the lady rose to her feet and dropped into the empty seat beside Wilhelmina a moment later. Without a by-your-leave, she then thrust a gloved hand Wilhelmina’s way. “I’m Miss Permilia Griswold.”

  Having never been presented with another lady’s hand before, Wilhelmina hesitated for the briefest of moments before she took the offered hand, discovering as she did so that Miss Griswold possessed a remarkably firm grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Griswold, and as you already seem to know, I’m Miss W
ilhelmina Radcliff. Although . . .”

  Withdrawing her hand, Wilhelmina frowned. “If you’ve been out in society for what seems like ages—as you just mentioned—why haven’t we been formally introduced before?”

  Miss Griswold waved that aside with a flick of a gloved wrist. “I don’t believe there needs to be much wondering about that, Miss Radcliff. I’ve never taken within society—not once since I made my debut at the ripe-old age of nineteen, which was . . . goodness . . . six years ago now.”

  “You’ve been out for six years?”

  “Indeed I have—a situation that my stepmother, the former Ida Webster, contemplates on an almost daily basis.” Miss Griswold leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Ida has now come to the conclusion that I’ve deliberately set society against me in an attempt to annoy her.”

  Wilhelmina’s nose took to wrinkling. “And . . . have you?”

  Tapping a finger against her chin, Miss Griswold seemed to consider the question quite thoroughly before she shrugged. “Hard to say. But getting back to the reason you and I have never been formally introduced. . . . I believe it has something to do with me being a wallflower for such an extended period of time. During that time, you, Miss Radcliff, were twirling around the dance floor, one of society’s darlings—at least until your . . .” Miss Griswold’s voice trailed to nothing as she suddenly began looking quite as if she’d rather be sitting anywhere except next to Wilhelmina at this particular moment.

  Swallowing a laugh at the look of absolute horror on Miss Griswold’s face, Wilhelmina reached over and patted Miss Griswold’s arm, an action that surprised not only Miss Griswold, but Wilhelmina as well.

  “There’s no need to feel remorse for speaking nothing less than the truth, Miss Griswold. I am perfectly aware that I was once a darling of society and am now . . . well, not. Curious as this may sound, I find it rather refreshing that you have no qualms about bringing up my unfortunate fall from the top rungs of the society ladder.” Wilhelmina gave a sad shake of her head. “My old friends never acknowledge that I once ruled the ballrooms, acting for all intents and purposes as if my descent from that lofty place might be contagious.”

  Miss Griswold took to patting Wilhelmina’s arm. “I’m sure that must be hard for you, being slighted in such a despicable manner. Although, from the whispers I’ve heard, your fall from grace had more to do with Mr. Holland implying there was something lacking in your personality than the fact your father lost the family fortune.” She let out a small huff. “In my humble opinion, it was hardly fair of society to accept Mr. Holland’s explanation so readily—especially since he certainly wasn’t behaving in a manner one would expect from a true society gentleman.”

  “Unfortunately, he was behaving exactly how a gentleman behaves when one needs to marry an heiress, yet discovers that the heiress he had his eye on is no longer flush with funds,” Wilhelmina began. “While his behavior was beyond reprehensible, I assumed society would quickly conclude why he was behaving in such a reprehensible manner, and would subsequently readjust their thinking toward me.”

  “Society isn’t known to be reasonable about these matters,” Miss Griswold said. “And society ladies are always incredibly keen to see a rival lady suffer a fall from grace. That right there is probably why no one paid much mind to the idea Mr. Holland is a fortune hunter who clearly lacks any sense of honor.”

  Wilhelmina’s enjoyment in the evening suddenly took to improving. “How refreshing to speak with a lady with such a straightforward manner. But enough about my dreary situation. Weren’t you inquiring about the identity of someone?”

  “I was indeed.” Miss Griswold raised a gloved hand and gestured toward some guests gathered around a refreshment table. “I’m curious about the identity of that gentleman over there. The one standing by Miss Kasson.”

  Wilhelmina leaned to the left and peered through the crowd. “Oh, that’s Mr. Asher Rutherford, owner of the new department store that recently opened off of Broadway.”

  “Not Mr. Rutherford. I know who he is. I was speaking about the gentleman right next to him, the one with the charming smile.”

  Rising to her feet in order to get a better view, Wilhelmina craned her neck and then lost the ability to breathe when she got her first good glimpse of the gentleman Miss Griswold was inquiring about.

  Looking incredibly dashing as he bent his head toward the oh-so-fashionable Miss Kasson was none other than Mr. Edgar Wanamaker—her best friend from childhood, and . . . the very first gentleman to ever offer her a proposal of marriage.

  She and Edgar had met when they’d been little more than infants, that circumstance brought about because their parents owned adjacent summer cottages on Long Island. Wilhelmina had spent every childhood summer with Edgar by her side, enjoying the sandy beaches and chilly water of the Atlantic from the moment the sun rose in the morning until it set in the evening.

  Even when Edgar had been away at school, being a few years older than Wilhelmina, they’d spent every possible minute they could with each other during the holidays.

  He’d even made certain to be in the city the night of her debut ball, waiting for her at the bottom of her family’s Park Avenue mansion as she’d descended the grand staircase on her father’s arm. As she’d stepped to the highly polished parquet floor, she’d caught his gaze, the intensity of that gaze causing her heart to fill with fondness for her oldest and dearest friend.

  That fondness, however, had disappeared a few hours later when Edgar had gone and ruined everything by asking her to marry him.

  She’d been all of seventeen years old the night of her debut—seventeen years old with the world spread out at her feet. Add in the notion that the whispers stirring around the ballroom were claiming she was destined to be a diamond of the first water, and the last thing she’d wanted that particular evening was a marriage proposal extended to her from her very best friend.

  Edgar, no matter the affection she held for him, was only a second son. Paired with the pesky fact he’d had no idea as to what he’d wanted to do with the rest of his life—except, evidently, to marry her—and she’d been less than impressed by his offer.

  What she had been impressed with that night, though, was the idea that she’d had very influential gentlemen vying for her attention from the moment her beaded slippers had touched the ballroom floor. Because of that, a second son had not seemed very appealing to her—no matter that Edgar had been her dearest friend forever.

  To say she regretted the cavalier manner in which she’d treated Edgar that night was an understatement. She’d wanted more than anything to make matters right between them, especially after she’d matured a bit and realized she’d been a complete ninny where he’d been concerned. However, because Edgar had made himself scarce ever since she’d rejected his offer, she’d never been given the opportunity to beg his pardon.

  Dismay suddenly flowed over her as the thought sprang to mind that the very last place she wanted to finally speak with Edgar again was in the midst of a ball, especially a ball where she was sitting in the wallflower section.

  Without allowing herself a moment to contemplate the matter further, she surged into motion, scooting around the first row of chairs and plopping to the floor directly behind Miss Griswold and right in between two young ladies, neither of whom Wilhelmina had ever been introduced to.

  “Pretend I’m not here,” she whispered to a young lady sporting a most unfortunate hairstyle, who looked down at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  The young lady blinked right before she smiled. “That might be a little difficult, Miss Radcliff, especially since you’re sitting on my feet.”

  “Goodness, am I really?” Wilhelmina asked, scooting off the feet in question even as she pushed aside a bit of ivory chiffon that made up the young lady’s skirt.

  “Shall we assume you’re hiding from someone?” the young lady pressed.

  “Indeed, but . . . don’t look over at the refreshment table. That mi
ght draw unwanted notice.”

  Unfortunately, that warning immediately had the young lady craning her neck, while the other young lady sat forward, peering over Miss Griswold’s shoulder in an apparent effort to get a better view of the refreshment table.

  “Who are you hiding from?” Miss Griswold asked out of the corner of her mouth, having the good sense to keep her attention front and center.

  “Mr. Edgar Wanamaker, the gentleman you were inquiring about,” Wilhelmina admitted.

  “Mr. Wanamaker’s here?” the young lady with the unfortunate hairstyle repeated as she actually stood up and edged around Wilhelmina, stepping on Wilhelmina’s hand in the process. “Is he the gentleman with the dark hair and . . . goodness . . . very broad shoulders . . . and the one now looking our way? Why, I heard earlier this evening that he’s returned to town with a fortune at his disposal—a fortune that, rumor has it, is certain to turn from respectable to impressive in the not too distant future.”

  “You don’t say,” Wilhelmina muttered as she tried to tug her hand out from underneath the lady’s shoe.

  “Miss Cadwalader, you’re grinding poor Miss Radcliff’s hand into the floor.”

  Looking up, Wilhelmina stopped her tugging as she met the gaze of the other young lady sitting in the second row of the wallflower section, a lady who was looking somewhat appalled by the fact she’d apparently spoken those words out loud. Without saying another word, the lady rose to her feet, shook out the folds of a gown that was several seasons out of date, whispered something regarding not wanting to be involved in any shenanigans, and then dashed straightaway.

  “I wasn’t aware Miss Flowerdew was even capable of speech,” the lady still standing on Wilhelmina’s hand said before she suddenly seemed to realize that she was, indeed, grinding Wilhelmina’s hand into the ground. Jumping to the left, she sent Wilhelmina a bit of a strained smile. “Do forgive me, Miss Radcliff. I fear with all the intrigue occurring at the moment, paired with hearing Miss Flowerdew string an entire sentence together, well, I evidently quite lost my head and simply didn’t notice I was standing on you.”