They swept past with a rustle of silk and superiority, leaving Eveline and Harriet standing on the pavement like survivors of a particularly vicious battle.
"Harpies," Harriet hissed once they were out of earshot. "Bitter, jealous harpies who..."
"Who are saying aloud what everyone is thinking," Eveline interrupted, resuming their walk with determined steps. "Did you see how people looked at us as we passed? The whispers behind hands, the way that shopkeeper actually stepped back when I approached his window?"
"How can you bear it?"
Eveline paused, considering the question with the same care she would give to a particularly complex Latin translation. "Because words are air," she said finally. "They bruise only if I breathe them in. I choose not to give them that power."
"That's either very wise or very foolish."
"Perhaps both. But it's the only way I know to survive this with anything resembling dignity intact."
They completed their circuit of the neighborhood in relative silence, though Eveline was acutely aware of every glance, every whispered conversation that ceased as they approached, every door that seemed to close a fraction more quickly than necessary. By the time they returned to her lodgings, her legs were trembling with more than just post-fever weakness.
"Tea," Harriet declared, guiding Eveline back to bed with gentle firmness. "And no arguments about correspondence or employment letters or any other nonsense. You've proven your point about not cowering. Now you need to rest."
Eveline allowed herself to be settled back among the pillows, though hermind continued to race. The reality of her situation was becoming clearer with each passing hour. She was ruined—not dramatically, not with the spectacular fall from grace that warranted epic poems, but with the slow, inexorable slide into social irrelevance that was perhaps worse than outright exile.
"I should write to Mr. Arthur," she said suddenly.
Harriet paused in the act of pouring tea. "Arthur Jameson? Whatever for?"
"He offered once to show me his collection of Byzantine manuscripts. Perhaps he might know of positions available for someone with my skills."
"Arthur Jameson is also unmarried and likely to misinterpret any communication from you in your current circumstances."
"Then I shall be exceedingly clear about my professional intentions." Eveline accepted the teacup with hands that barely trembled. "I need allies, Harriet. Arthur is respected in scholarly circles. His recommendation could make the difference between employment and destitution."
"And if he offers more than recommendation?"
"Then I shall politely decline, as I have declined every other offer he's made over the years." Eveline sipped her tea, tasting nothing but determination. "I will not trade one cage for another, no matter how gilded or well-intentioned."
The evening brought a peculiar quiet to the lodging house. Eveline sat before the fire, Adrian's letter in her hands. She'd read it dozens of times throughout the day, finding new meanings in each carefully chosen word.
"You were right about everything."
Was she? She'd felt right in the moment, turning down his proposal with all the righteous fury of a woman who refused to be anyone's obligation. But now, in the growing darkness with the reality of her situation pressing close, she wondered if she'd been proud rather than right.
"He offered you protection," she whispered to the flames. "Position. Security. Everything a ruined woman should gratefully accept."
But at what cost? To see duty in his eyes where she wanted to see love? To know that every kind word, every gentle gesture, stemmed from obligation rather than affection?
"No," she said more firmly. "I would rather be honestly ruined than dishonestly saved."
She fed the letter to the flames, watching Adrian's careful script blacken and curl. The paper caught quickly, his words turning to ash and smoke, drifting up the chimney and out into the London night.
"I would rather be ruined than caged," she told the empty room, and if her voice broke slightly on the words, there was no one to hear it but the dying fire and her own stubborn heart.
Chapter 14
"Miss Eveline, there's someone asking if you're receiving visitors."
Eveline looked up from her correspondence, where she'd been crafting yet another carefully worded inquiry about employment opportunities in the furthest reaches of Scotland. Mary was standing in the doorway.
"Tell whoever it is that I'm indisposed," Eveline said wearily, returning to her letter. "If it's another one of those dreadful women who has come to gawk at the fallen woman, I haven't the patience for it today."
"Begging your pardon, miss, but he seems quite respectable. Not the gawking sort at all. He gave his card." Mary extended a cream-colored calling card with trembling fingers.
