Artemisia’s eyes sparkled with naughtiness and Evelyn continued to be amazed at how her sister had adapted to the life they now led. At sixteen and with a baronet for a father, she should be studying the pianoforte and practising curtsies, twirling with excitement in lavish silks for her first Season.
Instead, she had begun taking in sewing work, her fine stitches a boon to the nymphs of Covent Garden, learned how to cook and to bargain with the market women. But then, there had been no choice as Evelyn oft returned late from the theatre, her arms fit to drop and fingers stiff from painting all day.
Life’s path, she’d learned, never remained true. From a distance, it appeared set and untroubled, but as one neared, the path twisted and curved. One either bent to its demands or snapped.
Artemisia would grow to be a self-sufficient woman – able and strong, not taking for granted that which thehaut tondid every hour of the day.
But even with both their wages, Evelyn had been unable to find better lodgings than these, been unable to halt the harsh cough which lurked within Artemisia’s chest, due no doubt to the damp crawling the walls.
“I sometimes wonder if I could have prevented Papa from ruining us after Mama died,” Evelyn whispered, reaching over to stroke Cleopatra – for what better name than that for a creature who imagined she ruled the world.
“Don’t be a pudding, Evie. I remember Papa too well. When he was flush in the pocket, he treated us like princesses and the bad times fell away. Remember when he sold that portrait of Lady Sweffling? He bought us all ruby earbobs.”
Yes, Evelyn did remember: the joy on their ailing mother’s face, how Father had danced his daughters around the room. Then the next week, when it had all been spent and the butcher, the baker and, indeed, the candlemaker had hammered on their door for payment. Evelyn had sold her and Artemisia’s precious earbobs…
“Those rubies gave Mama such pleasure in her final days,” Evelyn admitted, standing. “Now, dress in your warmest cloak for the walk to Matilda’s. ’Tis cold as a gravedigger’s tool out there.”
“But, Evie, aren’t shovels always cold?”
“I’m not sure it means… Well, Flora learned the expression down at the docks.” She tucked a scarf tight around her sister’s neck. “So best not to repeat it in company.”
* * *
“Clipstone Street.”
“Clipstone Street?” Teacups paused at their lips as Evelyn and her sister sat in confused tandem upon the satinwood and lemon-silk settee of their friend’s front parlour.
Nodding, Matilda scrunched her nose. “Whilst I was snooping in my cousin’s study late last nigh– What?” She crossed her arms and huffed at their askew glance. “Snooping is the only way I can be prepared.”
“I cast no stones, dearest,” assuaged Evelyn. “After all, I’m deceiving and defrauding a duke.”
Matilda smiled and proceeded to pace the jonquil rug. “Well, I discovered a letter from his French mistress informing him she’d a new protector. Madame Pelletier– I’m sure she wasn’t French at all, as she spelledimbécileincorrectly – began by outlining his deficiencies, most enlightening, although she also spelledpetitewrong. Anyhow, in addition to the letter were some bills relating to a house he kept for her on Clipstone Street in Marylebone.” She jostled for position on the settee, leaned close and whispered, “It’s sitting empty so you could host the showing of your painting there. I don’t know the state of it – there may be rats – but given a little time, I could…procure the key.”
“I don’t want any trouble for you,” Evelyn whispered back. “You are dependent on the Clod-skull for–”
“For bringing harlots into my beloved parents’ house and squandering my dowry on yellow pantaloons. No, I shall help you all I can and to hell with Cousin Astwood.”
Evelyn hugged her hard. “It does sound perfect. Posing as owner of a respectable abode might put His Grace more at ease.” She bit into a buttery biscuit. “Do you know, he seemed to think me a hustling harlot.”
Artemisia and Matilda both sniggered.
“What I cannot believe, Matilda, is that you failed to notice the Duke of Rothwell’s handsome visage, imposing appearance and, well, there is man-shaped, as you suggested, and then there is…man-shaped.”
A helpless shrug answered all as her friend stood, wandered to sit at the pianoforte and plinked out a few discordant tones. “At least I was correct about the lack of warts…as far as you were able to distinguish.”
“I doubt the duke would allow a wart to appear. He was most…commanding.” Evelyn snaffled another biscuit whilst Artemisia dunked a pair into her teacup. “But perhaps I also need to attend a social occasion at which he would be present, or chance upon him in Hyde Park or drop a handkerchief in Bond Street. To show him I am a part of thebeau mondeand allay his mistrust.”
“A fine idea,” agreed Artemisia, spooning around her teacup for the drowned biscuits. “As far as I can tell, men are simple creatures who just need constant reassurance.”
Astute or naive?
Matilda hit a strident F sharp and squealed. “I know the perfect event. Cousin Astwood is off hunting defenceless animals in Shropshire for a month but amongst his correspondence was an invitation to the Plymtrees’ ball on Thursday which attracts all the upper echelons. The duke is bound to attend and there would be nothing like a ball to convince him you are a lady… Not that you aren’t, of course. But you could dance the quadrille and eat supper with the correct utensils. That would be all it requires.”
Evelyn wasn’t entirely sure she could remember how to do either – although the supper part sounded agreeable.
“But I have no invitation?”
Matilda rose from the piano stool, gaze militant. “With Lord Astwood gone, I can claim you are another cousin of mine. Aunt Flossie won’t recognise anything amiss as she’s taken up the brandy, and in any case, we have more cousins than woodworm.”
