Diary of an Accidental Wallflower

by Jennifer McQuiston

  And then he stormed from the dining room, his too-large body radiating a boy’s disappointment. Clare suffered a pang of guilt as she watched his angry retreat. She wanted to call him back, to better explain her motives.

  But that would require a confession she didn’t know how to give.

  “Well, that didn’t go very well,” she muttered to her lamb.

  “Did you imagine it would?” Lucy stood up with an angry scrape of her chair, then pulled a white box from the pocket of her skirts and shoved it into Clare’s hands. “I’d forgotten about this on Tuesday, and had thought to give it to you after dinner tonight, but as I’m to be sent to my room, it seems pointless to wait.”

  Clare’s fingers closed over the paper box.

  She knew what it was and who it was from without opening it.

  And this time it was her heart, rather than her stomach, that clenched in anticipation.

  Lucy swept from the room, her chin held high. Such an exit would have been stunning if executed in a London ballroom. In truth, the scathing set-down Lucy had just delivered would have served her well in the fashionable gauntlet of the ton.

  When had her sister become so polished?

  Just as Clare thought she might actually pull it off, Lucy tripped over her heavy skirts and fell against the door frame. She regained her balance with a haughty sniff that would surely improve with practice. “And if I might be permitted to offer my opinion, it’s a shame to see Geoffrey return to such boorish behavior, simply because you think your ankle is healed. It seemed as though he was finally making progress, thanks to Dr. Merial.”

  Lucy’s parting words echoed the regrets that were already flooding through Clare’s mind. Was she right? Were the changes they had seen in Geoffrey this past week—changes that now seemed in jeopardy—primarily due to Daniel’s strong influence?

  Worse, though it had not been discussed, what might his sudden dismissal mean to Lucy’s future? As her sister’s blond head disappeared around the corner, Clare realized for the first time all evening that Lucy’s hair had been put up in a fashionable chignon.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  She was being selfish, only thinking of herself and her dangerous reaction to the kiss that probably hadn’t meant anything. In sending Daniel away, had she just removed the most important positive influence in Lucy’s and Geoffrey’s lives?

  Her thoughts raced furiously. She couldn’t fix this, not entirely. The damage had been done. But perhaps she could ensure a slower separation, a gradual easing of contact with Dr. Merial, instead of this awful, abrupt ending. And surely she was enough in control of her emotions to ensure that the dreadful kiss never happened again.

  But if eventual separation was the goal, why did her stomach clench so enthusiastically at the thought she might see him once again?

  As the servants flowed around her, removing plates, collecting cutlery, Clare opened the top of the paper box Lucy had shoved into her hands. She stared down at the beautiful sugary pieces. Today’s selection included candies the size of marbles, shaped like plump berries in vivid shades of purple, red, and blue. Tiny green leaves curled around the tops. Though her own pin money was enough to accommodate the occasional purchase of such treats, she never bought them, fearing their long-term effects. She knew that Daniel could scarcely afford such an expensive confection, probably not even once a year, and certainly not twice in the space of a month.

  It would be a shame to throw them away.

  Clare picked one up and placed it in her mouth. It dissolved on her tongue, the danger and sweetness lingering long after the candy itself was gone.

  Not unlike Daniel Merial’s blasted kiss.

  “I declare, I don’t know what to do with either of them.” Her mother’s slurred voice jerked Clare’s gaze from her marzipan reverie back up the length of the almost empty table.

  Clare fumbled the lid back onto the box. “If it eases your mind . . . I don’t think they are trying to vex you on purpose, Mother,” she said, the sweetness of the candy still thick on her tongue. “Lucy seems to be turning a page for the better, at least with respect to her hair, and Geoffrey is still quite young. Dr. Merial suggested he would mature out of this phase in a year or two.”

  “I suppose.” Her mother heaved a long-suffering sigh. “But if we are speaking of the doctor . . . now that we are alone, perhaps you might tell me the real reason you’ve dismissed Dr. Merial? Geoffrey was correct.” Her table-length gaze was bleary, but it was still direct enough to make Clare squirm. “You limped as you came into dinner. That hardly supports the miraculous recovery you’ve claimed.”

  Clare slid down in her seat. “Not much of a limp.” She fought against the urge to fidget. “Dr. Merial does not understand the intricacies of the Season, Mother.” Or have any notion of propriety and class boundaries. “You know as well as I that his recommendation for a month’s convalescence would be disastrous for my chances for a good match this year.”

  “Is there a particular gentleman you are eager to see, then? A match you have in mind?” her mother pressed. She took a veritable gulp from her glass of Madeira—her third, by Clare’s count. Or was it the fourth? “The world can be a harsh place, and I am eager to see your future secured. Perhaps Mr. Meeks has made a more favorable impression this year?”

  “No.” Clare put some emphasis behind the word, determined to thwart another bout of her mother’s meddling. She could not bring herself to mention Mr. Alban.

  Not yet.

  It was safer to unleash Mother only after a proposal from her future duke was well in hand. “But I won’t have any hope of encouraging an eligible gentleman’s interest if I remain confined to our drawing room. My ankle is healed enough to walk up and down the stairs unaided. I believe I can manage a quiet musicale, as a start.”

  Her mother hesitated. “Well . . . I had thought to refuse Lady Austerley’s invitation, as I had presumed your ankle still on the mend. But if you wish to attend, I suppose I could send her our acceptance.” She sighed, swirling a finger along the crystal rim of her glass. “Perhaps we should ask if your father might want to attend as well. He has always enjoyed music, though he claims dancing is painful for his knees. But a musicale might sway him, don’t you think?”

  Clare slid the box of marzipan into her pocket. Was she hearing correctly? Not once this Season had Father accompanied them on a social outing. She’d imagined her father’s absence was due to Mother’s preference on the matter. But tonight’s conversation suggested things might be more complicated than she’d imagined.

  He’s always with her. As Clare stood up, her mother’s earlier words turned over in her head. She no longer knew what to believe, but if Father was engaged in some sort of disreputable conduct, it would sting every bit as much as Mother’s indiscretion. She helped her mother to her feet, then turned herself over to the question that would not leave her mind, though she silently cursed Daniel Merial for planting the seed of doubt in her head.

  “Mother . . . are you unhappy?”

  Her mother froze, one hand on the back of her chair. “What an odd question to ask.”

  “Is it?” Clare asked quietly. “You didn’t strike me as being particularly happy the night of Lady Austerley’s ball.” She looked pointedly at her mother’s soiled bodice. “Or tonight, for that matter.”

  Her mother glanced down, and Clare thought she could see her blanch beneath her rice powder veil. She motioned a dismissal to the servants clearing the table, then grabbed a napkin from the table and began to dab at the stain on her bodice. “Did you . . . ah . . . mention the events of that night to your father?”

  “No.” Clare shook her head. “I would not betray your confidence, or purposefully damage Father’s trust. In truth, I initially agreed to Dr. Merial’s care that night only as a means of procuring his silence. It is part of the oath they take that a doctor cannot indulge in gossip regarding his clients.” She studied her mother’s blue eyes, expecting to see fear. Or possibly c
onfusion, given the unholy amount of wine she had consumed tonight.

  Instead, she saw mainly pain.

  “I don’t remember all the events of that evening,” her mother admitted, her words slightly slurred. “Or the gentleman in question.”

  Clare blinked. How could her mother not remember? Clare only wished her own memory wasn’t quite so sharp. She didn’t know precisely what had occurred between her mother and that gentleman in Lady Austerley’s library, but she was quite sure it involved something more damning than staring into each other’s eyes.

  That ought to require an exchange of names.

  Preferably given names.

  “You’ve not said . . . why would you do such a thing?” Clare choked out. “To Father?”

  To me?

  Her mother smiled, but it was a smile so brittle Clare feared she might shatter. “There are things that you do not understand. There are things that even I do not understand, and this is hardly an appropriate conversation to have with one’s daughter.” She lifted a hand to her temple, wincing. “Now, I would like to go lie down a moment. I . . . I’ve a headache coming on.”

  Clare wanted to ask more, but instead she offered her mother an arm. Clearly, a headache was not the primary cause of her mother’s unbalance, and it soon became obvious reinforcements were required. She called for Wilson, and the kindly butler sprang to attention, assuring her he would assist Lady Cardwell to her suite.

  With the marzipan tucked safely in her pocket, Clare made her way to her own room through the silent house. Her mind screamed for answers, but with her mother off to bed, there were none to be found beyond those she might conjure in her head.

  Whatever the motive behind her mother’s indiscretion, it had been a terrible risk to take, especially if she still cared even a bit for Father. A daughter’s instincts—and the course of the evening’s conversation—told her such feelings still lingered in her parents’ stilted marriage, at least on her mother’s side.

  What did it all mean? Her parents had never been openly warm toward each other, but they had once at least been civil. During last year’s Season, Mother had been far more attentive, carefully counting the number of dances claimed by Mr. Meeks and forming her own misguided conclusions regarding Clare’s interest in the man. This year, though Clare had danced three waltzes with Mr. Alban, her mother seemed largely oblivious.

  What had changed?

  Was the negligence and indiscretion her mother was showing this Season an anomaly?

  Clare turned over that thought as she lit the candle at her desk. She sat down, putting pen to paper. She hoped, given the conflicting evidence at hand, her mother’s actions of late did not define the course of her parents’ entire marriage.

  And perhaps, if she were fortunate, the direction of her parents’ marriage would not predict the course of her own future.

  Chapter 14

  Daniel made his way through the darkened streets of Smithfield with his mind fractured around a series of distinct problems, none of which he could solve tonight.

  After the debacle with Tuesday’s kiss—which could be blamed on none other than his own idiocy—his week had gone anything but smoothly. His experiments were not progressing to satisfaction. While his regulator was certainly safer than administering liquid chloroform, he still killed one out of five frogs, a record of success that might earn him a visit to Newgate if attempted on humans.

  Worse, he’d arrived at St. Bartholomew’s yesterday morning to find a letter of rejection for a paper he had written on the preliminary findings of his experiments. The editors had felt the piece was unfinished, the conclusions too poorly formed, to “merit publication in a journal as prestigious as the Lancet.” Not an inaccurate sentiment, given that he had not progressed beyond experimentation on frogs at the moment, but the editors had also roundly questioned his experience as a physician and his commitment to the advancement of science. It was a scathing rejection, not only of his ideas, but of his very soul.

  Perhaps on a footing with the one he’d suffered at Clare’s hands.

  Then, following this evening’s rounds at St. Bartholomew’s—and still simmering from the sting of his week’s personal and professional failures—he’d checked in on Lady Austerley. He’d done little more than take her heart rate and respirations, which were thankfully stable. But it was hard to deny that her attacks of syncope appeared to be organizing themselves into something more sinister than the occasional swoon, and this evening her skin had displayed a yellowish cast, as if her liver was now in agreement with her heart and was close to giving up the ghost. Not even the most experienced physician could make a body live forever.

  But that didn’t mean it was easy to accept the inevitable march of time.

  His mind occupied with these disturbing thoughts and the necessity of digging his key from his pocket, Daniel almost missed the prone body slumped in the alley next to the boardinghouse. Some sixth sense slowed his feet for a closer look. He tensed in case the setup was a ruse to relieve him of his none-too-full pockets.

  In the faint glow of the overhead gas lamp, he recognized the woman as a local prostitute who plied her trade from darkened shadows. Meg, her name was. “Handsome Meg,” she’d proclaimed last week, sitting up on the examining bed at St. Bart’s, though her sallow skin had suggested the name was more a hopeful wish than fact. He’d treated her for syphilis and counseled her against her profession in the name of the public’s health.

  But judging by the smell of gin and vomit that clung to her, it seemed like the venereal infection was the least of her immediate worries.

  Though he risked exposure to footpads to linger after dark in this part of Smithfield, he knelt and took the woman’s pulse, which pumped steadily beneath his fingers.

  Right then. Not dead. Just dead drunk.

  A month ago, when there had still been a risk for frost, she might have risked dying from exposure. It was warmer now, the season marching toward summer. But frost was not the only danger in Smithfield. He couldn’t leave her here, exposed to all manner of ill intent. It was a miracle he’d discovered her before she’d been gutted or worse.

  Though, worse was a stretch, given what he suspected was the nature of her usual clientele.

  Daniel hefted the woman in his arms and staggered under the surprising weight of her. His rooms were only a few steps away, but before he could insert the key in the lock, a woman’s voice struck from behind, like a bludgeon out of the darkness.

  “Oh, Dr. Merial. There you are. I waited up for you.”

  Daniel jumped beneath his skin, nearly dropping his burden. “Mrs. Calbert!” He waited for his breath to catch up with his pulse. “What a . . . ah . . . surprise.”

  A light fell on him from the lantern his landlady raised in her hand. “I’ve a letter for you, delivered with some urgency from the hospital.”

  “The hospital?” Daniel turned around to face Mrs. Calbert. It was past midnight, and she should have been sound asleep. Instead, she was wearing a dressing gown that must have once been the centerpiece of her wedding trousseau, and her hair showed signs of being freshly—and thoroughly—brushed.

  The hopeful smile on Mrs. Calbert’s lips vanished as she took in the woman lying limp in his arms. She held the lantern closer, sending ghostly shadows dancing across the drunk prostitute’s features. “Who is this?” she demanded.

  “Er . . . Meg. At least, that was the name she provided at the hospital last week.”

  Mrs. Calbert’s white gown and the unbraided hair made him feel every bit as uneasy as her resulting scowl. He tried to look anywhere but at the near-transparent front of the dressing gown, and finally landed on a cross-stitched sampler hanging on Mrs. Calbert’s wall, just over her shoulder in the depths of her foyer. Place Your Trust in God.

  Judging by the suspicious glint in her eyes, God was clearly the only entity for whom Mrs. Calbert employed such a sentiment.

  “I found her in your alley,” he tried to explain. �
�She appears to have encountered a bit of an accident.” With a bottle of gin. But that sort of truth would only muddy matters for the passed-out prostitute, and so Daniel wisely withheld his opinion.

  “I recognize her.” Mrs. Calbert sniffed her disapproval. “The tenant who last rented your flat invited her in one night. That was why I finally had to turn him out.” Her voice lowered, the warning clear. “I had thought you a more discerning sort of gentleman, Dr. Merial, but it seems I was mistaken.”

  Daniel choked back a cough of surprise. If his landlady thought he might consider doing anything but counsel a syphilis-afflicted prostitute, it was clear she didn’t know him very well at all. “Come now, Mrs. Calbert, I’d only intended to help her. I’m a physician, and she’s clearly in need of assistance. She’ll need someone responsible to watch over her until she wakes.”

  “Then take her to the hospital.”

  He shifted the dead-to-the-world woman in his arms and prayed that the lice which no doubt hovered beneath Meg’s tattered clothes stayed on their side of the street. “Normally I would take her to the charity ward at St. Bart’s, but it’s already closed for the night. I would prefer not to have her in my rooms, as I know your rules are intended to ensure both the safety and propriety of your guests.” Daniel smiled as winningly as he could, given the woman’s heavy weight in his arms. “Could I leave her with you?”

  Mrs. Calbert hesitated, clearly torn between wanting to believe the best of him and the evidence unveiled by the light of her lantern. “Well, I can allow it’s a decent thing to want to help a body in need, but if you ask me, you should return her to where she fell. She reeks of gin. I’ll not have her in my house.”

  She was unsure, though. Daniel could tell by the way her lower lip gaped, showing the recently acquired gap in her teeth. “Surely it is too dangerous to leave her passed out cold in the alley so close to where your own husband was attacked,” he coaxed.