“Eh?”
“Agnes. One of your housemaids.” Evelyn had already struck up a sort of understanding with the girl. Formerly employed in Mayfair, Agnes boasted a vast acquaintance with many of the servants in that neighborhood—including an upstairs maid working in the Park Street town house of Miss Catherine Walters. It was how Evelyn had learned where the famous courtesan bought her habits.
“Could never keep track of staff,” Uncle Harris said distractedly. “I leave that to Mrs. Quick. She’s a capital housekeeper. Always knows precisely what to do.” He paused. “Is that all?”
“I’m afraid not. There’s still the small matter of my clothing allowance for the season. I have a little money of my own set by, but Aunt Nora was hoping—”
“That I might contribute to the cause? Yes, yes. Quite right. She mentioned something to that effect.” He rifled through the papers on his desk. “Had a letter from her just this morning, reminding me of the fact.”
“Aunt Nora’s written?” Evelyn stepped forward. “What did she say?”
“A great deal, as I recollect. Ah. Here it is.” He raised a sheet of elegant pressed paper to the light. It was covered from edge to edge with Aunt Nora’s familiar spidery scrawl. “I’m to see that you’re clothed and shod, etc., etc. And to hire a maid for you, etc. Same requests she made in her last letter. Nora’s a great one for repeating herself.”
With a brother as absentminded as Uncle Harris, Evelyn didn’t wonder. “Does she mention anything else?”
“She reminds me to write to Lady Arundell.”
“You haven’t written to her yet?” Evelyn failed to keep the exasperation from her voice.
Rosamond Deveril, Countess of Arundell, was an acquaintance of Uncle Harris’s from the Antiquarian Society. A wealthy widow involved in all manner of charitable causes, she was best known for the lavish ball she hosted every spring. Uncle Harris never failed to mention it in the letters he wrote to Aunt Nora. According to him, the Arundell ball was the highlight of the season.
Evelyn had thought Uncle Harris had already approached his friend on her behalf. That Lady Arundell might, in fact, be on the verge of calling any day now to offer her assistance.
“Don’t know why I would. Unless . . .” His brows beetled. “She’s lately touting a school for girls in Wimbledon. Always on the hunt for teachers. Don’t suppose Nora means you to take up the trade?”
“I should think not. I have no wish to be a teacher and no aptitude for the profession, either.”
“Then what business can you have with her?”
Evelyn possessed herself in patience. It wasn’t easy. Not with her entire future—and the entire future of her sisters—depending on her uncle’s actions. “Aunt Nora hoped Lady Arundell might be persuaded to take me under her wing while I’m in town. That she might help to introduce me into society.”
He gave a thoughtful grunt. “And I’m to convince her, am I?”
“You’re to broach the subject, yes.”
“Can’t think you’ll have much of a season this year, with or without her ladyship’s support. What with the Prince Consort cocking up his toes. Bound to put a damper on things.”
Evelyn couldn’t argue the point. Prince Albert’s death was rather inconvenient. He’d passed away in December, reportedly from typhoid fever. A tragedy for the Queen, and for the country, too. For a time, businesses had shut their doors and public entertainments had been canceled. Even now, three months later, some of the shops in London still had their windows swathed in black fabric.
But life must go on.
She had little choice but to make the best of the situation. “Nevertheless . . .”
“You require a sponsor.”
“It needn’t be anything formal.” Evelyn desired a degree of independence during her visit. Still, she couldn’t do it all on her own. “At the very least, Aunt Nora trusted you’d be able to secure an invitation for me to Lady Arundell’s ball next month.”
“Daresay I can. If Nora asks it.” The letter remained poised in his hand. He stared at it in silence.
“Is that all she says?”
He harrumphed. “Tells me I’m to take care you don’t go down the same road as your sister.”
The reference to her older sister’s disgrace brought a frown to Evelyn’s lips. “There’s no danger of that, sir.”
He peered at her again, his gaze flicking over her person with a dismissive air. “Don’t imagine there is.”
Evelyn supposed she should take that as an insult. She wasn’t as pretty as her older sister, a fact of which she was well aware.
Fenella had been the undisputed beauty of the family. The repository of everyone’s hopes. Three years ago, Aunt Nora had expended the bulk of her savings to give Fenny a proper London season. A seemingly wise investment. If Fenny had made an illustrious match, she would have been in a position to bring out Evelyn, and their four younger sisters, too.
But Fenny hadn’t won herself a wealthy husband.
Instead, she’d run off with Anthony Connaught, the rakehell son and heir of their neighbor, Sir William.
Babbington Heath, Sir William’s estate, was located not far from Combe Regis. The Maltravers family had long been acquainted with Sir William and his sons. Evelyn had counted Anthony’s younger brother, Stephen, as a friend. More than a friend. She’d often gone riding with him or stood up with him at village assemblies.
But no more.
The scandal had reverberated from London to Sussex. As a result, any thought Aunt Nora had had of bringing out Evelyn or her younger sisters had been set aside. Worse than that, Evelyn’s own girlhood tendre for Stephen had crumbled to dust. Thrown back in her face by Stephen himself, who had believed that Fenny had trapped his brother—and that Evelyn had been trying to trap him.
Trap him. As if she were some desperate, grasping female! Her father may not have had great wealth or rank, but he’d been a gentleman and she was a gentleman’s daughter. What did it matter that she lacked illustrious connections? That she didn’t have a sizable dowry? She was still worthy of respect.
At least, that was how she felt now.
Three years ago, she hadn’t been so rational. Only twenty at the time, she’d been crushed. Heartbroken. She still felt a twinge whenever she thought of it.
But there was no use in repining.
Fenny was gone, possibly forever. To the Continent, some said, to live with Anthony as his mistress. The fate of the Maltravers girls now rested on Evelyn’s shoulders.