Page 15 of The Wallflower Takes All

Only after all that did she step into the small passage beside the pantry, press one hand flat to the wall, and allow herself one silent, undignified moment of panic.

Mr. Ashby had not found any more money. There would be no miracle then.

She had known it. She was not a fool. She had added the numbers too many times to be surprised by their stubborn refusal to transform into something prettier.

But some stubborn, hopeful part of her had imagined the new solicitor might sit behind Papa’s desk, turn over a page, frown in that grave, handsome manner of his, and announce that his father (or her father, for that matter) had overlooked some obscure fund after all. Some annuity. Some investment. Some dear, dusty legal bit of salvation.

Instead, young Mr. Ashby had looked at her with those clear blue eyes and told the truth.

No.

One small word. Very tidy. Very final. Very awful.

Poppy drew in a breath, lifted her chin, and stepped back into the hall. Her morning gown was already creased from kneeling in front of Freddie. The blue ribbon at her waist was slipping a little to one side, but it would have to do. Just like nearly everything in the Montfort household.

She had no time for panic. Panic did not pay bills. Panic did not prevent Mama from promising seven strangers bedchambers they did not possess. Panic did not convince tradesmen to wait, nor keep puppies from eating things that had never been meant for puppies.

Marriage.

The thought moved through her like a cold draught.

Once, before Papa died and Mama became less a mother than a brilliant storm moving through the house, Poppy had dreamed of marriage in the usual foolish way young girls did. She would attend a ball. A handsome gentleman would ask her to dance. His gaze would find hers and remain there, making the crowded ballroom feel suddenly, impossibly intimate. There would be longing glances, stolen words, perhaps a moonlit terrace. They would fall madly, passionately in love, and everyone would say how fortunate they were.

That had been before Poppy understood the difference between dreams and ledgers.

She was not merely a wallflower now. She was perilously close to becoming a confirmed spinster. She had no dowry, no fortune, and no father to make the problem easier to discuss. The gentlemen of the ton did not look at the Montfort household and think, There is a family into which I should like to marry.

They saw Mama, the debts, the laughter, the rumors, the endless parade of guests, and they thought what everyone thought.

Poor Poppy Montfort.

Or worse.

Good heavens, did you hear what Lady Viva did this time?

But marriage was truly Poppy’s only recourse. Only how she would go about securing a match, she had little idea. Nothing she’d done to date had worked. And heaven knew she’d tried.

Putting the thought aside for the moment, Poppy gathered a pile of correspondence from the silver salver near the front door and carried it toward the salon. Mama’s letters had been accumulating for days. Lady Viva believed correspondence should be answered only when one felt “spiritually inclined toward such things,” which, in practice, meant never.

The salver contained two invitations, several bills, a note from a milliner that began in friendly tones and ended in veiled threat, a folded letter smelling strongly of snuff, and an alarming sketch of Mr. Loxley reclining upon a cloud while Death waited beside him.

Poppy placed the sketch face down. She refused to encourage him.

In the front salon, Mama had moved from the chair to the sofa and now reclined with her head tipped back, one slipper dangling from her foot, and a coffee cup in hand. At least, Poppy hoped it was coffee. Mr. Fenwick sat nearby, looking more bewildered than ever, while Lady Stone had fallen asleep beneath the peacock-feather fan that had somehow been located.

“Poppy, darling,” Mama said without opening her eyes, “if that is another bill, burn it. If it is an invitation, accept it. If it is from Lady Cranberry, tell her I have gone abroad.”

“You have not gone abroad,” Poppy pointed out.

“I may. One must keep Society on tenterhooks, sweetie.”

Poppy sorted the letters on the table. “One must also answer one’s correspondence before people begin sending messengers to the door.”

“How oppressive of them,” Lady Viva said.

“You cannot call every obligation oppressive,” Poppy retorted.

“I can, darling. Watch me.”