She was determined not to let her younger sisters down.
“A bad business,” Uncle Harris said, folding away Aunt Nora’s letter. “Thank heaven none of it can be laid at my door.”
It was true. Fenny hadn’t stayed with him during her season. She’d resided with friends—a fashionable society lady and her daughter. Aunt Nora had thought it more suitable. “What does my brother know about bringing a girl out?” she’d asked at the time. “Not a blessed thing.”
Evelyn’s own season was expected to proceed along vastly different lines. Not only was she lodging with her uncle in relative obscurity in Russell Square, she had her sister’s scandal to contend with. And she had far less money at her disposal than Fenny had boasted. A sum only sufficient to see her outfitted—frugally outfitted—through August. If Evelyn wasn’t in receipt of a proposal by then, she must return to Combe Regis in defeat.
Never.
She wasn’t going to fail. Not if she had anything to say about it.
“Don’t expect you’ve had any word from her?” Uncle Harris asked.
“None,” Evelyn said. “Not since she left London.”
“Pity. She might have made a creditable connection.” He took on a bracing tone. “But looks aren’t everything. Many a gentleman prefers a plain, levelheaded female.”
“Even plain, levelheaded females must be fashionably attired for the season,” Evelyn said. “One might argue it’s an absolute imperative in their case, having so few other charms to recommend them.”
Uncle Harris nodded his agreement. “Quite so. Nora said you were sensible.”
“Did she? How gratifying.”
He shot her a sharp look.
She instantly regretted her lapse. Now wasn’t the time to bristle. She affected what she hoped was a properly submissive expression. “I’ve frequently been told that I favor my mother in that regard.”
“High praise, to be sure,” Uncle Harris said, mollified. “You may draw upon my bank for whatever you require—within reason, of course.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she said. “You won’t forget to speak with Lady Arundell about the ball?”
“I’ll send a note round.”
“Shall you write it now?” If he didn’t, Evelyn had little hope of him writing it at all. “I don’t mind waiting.”
Uncle Harris was quiet for a moment. “May as well,” he grumbled at last. “I’ll get no peace otherwise.”
* * *
Later that evening, Evelyn sat at her own small desk in her bedroom, finishing the last of her letters home. She’d written one to Aunt Nora and one to each of her younger sisters: Augusta, Caroline, Elizabeth, and Isobel—fondly known as Gussie, Caro, Bette, and Izzy. They ranged in age from eight to eighteen, each of them a uniquely precious individual.
Gussie excelled at watercolors and needlepoint. Caro adored ghost stories and gothic novels. Bette was a hoyden, refusing to ride sidesaddle and already spouting opinions about women’s suffrage. And Izzy, the youngest, was—like Papa—a born adventurer.
“I shall follow your journey on the map,” she’d announced on the day Evelyn had departed Combe Regis.
“And I shall look for you in the society pages,” Gussie had added, giving Evelyn a fierce hug.
Her sisters had been almost as excited for Evelyn’s London season as Evelyn was herself. And that’s what she’d conveyed to them in her letters: excitement. The grandeur of the city, the thrill of riding in an omnibus, and the prospect of attending a ball.
All will be well. Though she never wrote the words, they were implied with every line. You are safe. You are loved. I have things entirely under control.
As she blotted the ink on the final missive, a knock sounded at her chamber door.
“It’s me, miss.” Agnes entered. She was wearing a black stuff dress, her mouse-brown hair combed back into a severe knot. “Will you be needing anything before I retire?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be retiring soon myself.” Evelyn glanced up. “How was your visit to your cousin?”
“Oh, she was all right. Only a bit tired, with the new baby and all. She was glad of the company.” Agnes collected Evelyn’s discarded skirts and jacket from the settee at the end of the four-poster bed. She examined the mud-stained hem and cuffs with a frown. “You didn’t visit that tailor’s shop?”
Evelyn tucked her finished letter into an envelope. “I did.”
Agnes gave her a sharp look. “Alone?”
“I often do my shopping alone. Many young women do.”
“Not ladies,” Agnes said. “Not proper ladies, anyway.”
“Possibly not, but it isn’t as if anyone saw me. Doyle and Heppenstall’s was quite empty, and no one on the street paid me any mind. They were too caught up in their own affairs.”
“Yes, miss, but Mrs. Quick said as how I’m supposed to accompany you—”
“Not on your afternoon off, you aren’t. Besides, I was quite safe.” Evelyn sealed her envelope with a wafer. “I’ll have a great deal more shopping to do in the days ahead. You may accompany me then.”
This seemed to satisfy Agnes for the moment. She draped the soiled skirts and jacket over her arm. They’d need to be sponged and pressed before Evelyn could wear them again. “Did you place your order with Mr. Doyle?”
“Mr. Malik.”
“Who?”
“He’s the one who designs the riding habits, not Mr. Doyle or Mr. Heppenstall.” As she put away her writing implements, Evelyn described her visit to the shop, telling the maid everything that had transpired there.
Well, almost everything.
She didn’t mention how handsome Mr. Malik was. And she didn’t say anything about how she’d felt when he’d looked at her, or when he’d touched her hand.
“You really told him you weren’t a bluestocking?” Agnes’s lips quivered in a smile.
It wasn’t the most flattering reaction.
“And why should I admit to a label?” Evelyn demanded, nettled. “First it’s wallflower, then it’s bluestocking, and then it’s old maid or spinster. I don’t wish to be filed away in a neat little category, labeled and dismissed by society as if I weren’t a person full of mysterious complexities. I don’t even know the full depth and breadth of what I am yet—or what I’m capable of. How can a man? How can anyone?”