A man didn’t have to be a member of the spiritualist society to see the direction things were headed.
Ahmad steeled himself as he followed the housekeeper into the morning room. Evelyn was already there. She was seated at a walnut secretary desk in the corner, engaged in writing a letter. Her quill pen quivered as the steel nib moved swiftly over the page.
“Mr. Malik, miss,” the housekeeper said.
Evelyn looked up with a start. Her expression softened. “Thank you, Mrs. Quick. That will be all.”
The housekeeper withdrew, leaving Ahmad alone with Evelyn.
She crossed the room to greet him, one hand outstretched.
He took it, engulfing it in his. In that moment, it seemed rather like a lifeline. “Who are you writing to?”
“My aunt Nora,” she said. “After so many days of silence, I owe her a long letter.”
“You write her every day?”
“I try to. And to my little sisters, too. It’s a treat for them to receive something in the post.” She slipped her hand from his so she could take the dress box. “You didn’t have to bring it yourself.”
“I had time.” An understatement. It wasn’t work that had kept him away from Evelyn these past days. It was his own sense of impending disaster. He’d known, when next he saw her, they would have to discuss their future.
If they still had a future.
“And now you’ve finished making my dress, you shall have even more.” Her face lit with guarded hope. “Will you go to Sussex this week?”
Ahmad regarded her from across the short distance, a raw ache in his chest.
He could think of nothing to say. Nothing that wouldn’t put an end to their relationship before he was ready.
“You won’t have to brave it alone,” she said “I intend to go, too.”
That startled him. “When?”
“The day after the séance.” She put the dress box down in a chair. “I should have told you. Lewis is taking Hephaestus back to Combe Regis this week. I want to be there for him.”
Ahmad was instantly at her side. “Has something happened? He’s not ill or—”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “Nothing like that. It’s something else. A business decision I’ve recently come to.”
He listened in growing astonishment as she explained her plan for putting her stallion out to stud.
“What can you be thinking?” he asked when she’d finished.
“I’m thinking of the future,” she said. “Trying to be pragmatic.”
He was incredulous. “You told me once that involving yourself in such things would make your family notorious.”
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “But only by the standards of fashionable society.”
“Society’s standards are the ones that matter.”
“Do they?” she wondered. “All of these rules that tell women how to think and how to behave, restricting our lives to the confines of a certain neighborhood and the approval of a certain kind of people. We’re supposed to pretend that the world outside doesn’t exist. That there aren’t wider concerns than whether a lady rides an omnibus unchaperoned or forgets to wear her gloves during an afternoon call.”
He could understand her frustration. That didn’t make the reality of her situation any less precarious. “You’re right,” he said. “But your good name is more than a philosophical argument. The rules may be tedious, but—”
“They’re unfair is what they are. And hypocritical, too, given what most English gentlemen get up to on a regular basis. You must recognize that.”
He sighed. What she was describing wasn’t new to him. He grappled with the ramifications of unfairness and inequality every day. “I do recognize it,” he said. “But it’s not the sum total of life. Rules still matter. Reputation still matters, especially for a young lady like yourself.”
Her hazel eyes took on a martial glint behind the lenses of her spectacles. “It’s lately seemed to me that we ladies are dropped into a churning sea and forbidden from revealing that we know how to swim. But I do know how, and I’m not too delicate minded to do it. Not anymore. I refuse to believe that it’s more respectable to drown than to save myself.”
“Evelyn . . .”
“Besides,” she said. “I’ve done nothing to tarnish my reputation, not by rational standards. Putting Hephaestus out to stud is sensible. Indeed, one might argue that failing to make the most of his bloodlines is the greater sin. Not to mention the financial aspect of the business. If arranged efficiently, the fees would pay for his upkeep, and leave a tidy sum left over besides.”
Ahmad had grown up in the city. Saddle horses were a luxury. He knew precious little about their upkeep, and even less about the fees attached to their breeding arrangements. “Whatever the sum, it can’t be enough to justify endangering your good name.”
“Fifteen pounds.”
“Fifteen pounds?” It was nearly as much as Ahmad charged for one of his habits. The difference being that he didn’t earn the sum outright. He had to deduct the not insubstantial cost of fabric and trimmings.
“You think it too steep? I assure you, it isn’t. Indeed, I’ve discounted the fee to ten pounds for the first year, as an incentive. Quite a bargain, I thought.”
“By what measure?”
“By any measure. One need only look at the sporting pages. Champion studs are advertised for a similar amount. And when one considers I have the best horse in the world—”
“Evie . . . who in their right mind would pay such a fee?”
“Lots of gentlemen,” she said. “Lewis has already taken five bookings, including two from Mr. Fillgrave for his Spanish mares.”
Ahmad stared at her, dumbstruck. Five bookings? That was fifty pounds.
He felt the sudden urge to laugh.
It was offset by a grimmer impulse.
He knew why she was doing this. It was because his business was in danger of failing. She was trying to alleviate some of the burden.
By God, he admired her for it.
At the same time, he hated that she was obliged to even think of such things. A man looked after the woman he loved. He didn’t take from her. And he didn’t permit her to risk her good name on his account.
“That’s why I must go back to Combe Regis for a time,” she said. “I want to see Hephaestus settled, and to visit my sisters while I’m there. It would be the perfect opportunity for you to call on my aunt.”