A Wallflower Christmas (Wallflowers #5)(28)

By this time Hannah had turned away and covered her face in her hands, and she was laughing too hard to breathe. “I shouldn’t laugh,” she gasped, “oh, I shouldn’t …”

But the more she tried to stifle her amusement the worse it got, until she was forced to blot her eyes on her sleeve. When she had calmed herself a bit, she glanced at Arthur, who was frowning at her, and that nearly set her off again. With a potential thrashing in store, he didn’t find the situation nearly as amusing as she did. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say. “Poor Arthur. Poor Mr. Bowman! Yes, I’ll fetch it down, no matter what I have to do.”

The hairpiece had to be retrieved, not only for Arthur’s sake, but also to save Mr. Bowman from embarrassment.

“I already tried the ladder,” Arthur said. “But even when I got to the top, I still couldn’t reach it.”

Hannah viewed the nearby ladder appraisingly. It was an extending ladder, an A-frame made of two sets of steps with a third, extendable ladder braced between them. One would slide the middle ladder up or down to adjust the overall elevation. It had already been raised to full height.

“You’re not very big,” Arthur said doubtfully. “I don’t think you can reach it, either.”

Hannah smiled at him. “At least I can give it a try.”

Together they repositioned the ladder close to one of the seating niches in the wall. Hannah took off her shoes. Taking care not to step on the hem of her own skirts, she gamely climbed the ladder in her stocking feet, hesitating only briefly before continuing up the extension. Higher and higher, until she had reached the top of the ladder. She reached for the toupee, only to discover with chagrin that it was approximately six inches out of her reach.

“Blast,” she muttered. “It’s almost within my grasp.”

“Don’t fall, miss,” Arthur called up to her. “Maybe you should come down now.”

“I can’t give up yet.” Hannah looked from the ladder to the overhanging ledge that surmounted the wall niche. It was about a foot higher than the top rung of the ladder. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if I were standing on that ledge, I think I could reach Mr. Bowman’s hairpiece.” Carefully she levered herself up and crawled onto the ledge, pulling the mass of her skirts along with her.

“I didn’t know ladies as old as you could climb,” Arthur commented, looking impressed.

Hannah gave him a rueful grin. Minding her footing, she stood and reached for the drooping locks of the unfortunate toupee. To her disappointment, it was still too high. “Well, Arthur, the bad news is that I still can’t reach it. The good news is, you have a very effective catapult.”

The boy heaved a sigh. “I’m going to get a thrashing.”

“Not necessarily. I’ll think of some way to retrieve it. In the meantime”

“Arthur!” Another boy appeared at the ballroom entrance. “Everyone’s looking for you,” he said breathlessly. “Your tutor says you’re late for your lessons, and he’s getting crosser and crosser by the second!”

“Oh, thunderbolts,” Arthur muttered. “I have to go, miss. Can you get down from there?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Hannah called down to him. “Go on, Arthur. Don’t be late for your lessons.”

“Thank you,” he cried, and hurried from the room. His companion’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Why is she up there…?”

Hannah inched toward the ladder slowly. Before she climbed back onto it, however, the middle extension collapsed, a loud clack-clack-clack echoing through the ballroom. Dumbfounded, Hannah stared at the A-frame stepladder, which was now far, far below her.

“Arthur?” she called, but there was no response.

It dawned on Hannah that she was in a fix.

How had her peaceful morning come to this, that she was stuck halfway up the side of the ballroom with no way to get down, and the manor mostly empty? In trying to save Mr. Bowman from embarrassment, she had brought no end of it on herself. Because whoever found her was certainly not going to be quiet about it, and the story would be repeated endlessly until she was the laughingstock of the entire holiday gathering.

Hannah heaved a sigh. “Hello?” she called hopefully. “Can anyone hear me?”

No response.

“Bollocks,” she said vehemently. It was the absolute worst word she knew.

Since it appeared she might be in for a long wait before someone came to rescue her, she considered lowering herself to sit on the ledge. But it was rather narrow. If she lost her balance, she was undoubtedly going to break something.

Bored and mortified and anxious, she waited, and waited, until she was certain that at least a quarter hour had passed. Every few minutes she called for help, but the manor was deadly silent.

Just as she felt the gnawing of acute self-pity and frustration, someone came to the doorway. She thought it was a servant at first. He was dressed with shocking informality in black trousers and his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. But as he entered the room with a relaxed saunter, she recognized the way he moved, and she closed her eyes sickly.

“It would be you,” she muttered.

She heard her name spoken in a quizzical tone, and opened her eyes to view Rafe Bowman standing below her. There was an odd expression on his face, a mixture of amusement and bafflement and something that looked like concern.