Oh, for the optimism of youth, but a thought occurred to Evelyn. “Have you never met the Duke of Rothwell at some social occasion, Matilda?” After all, the Clod-skull cousin happened to be a viscount; noble birth rights were so indiscriminate.
Matilda tossed the paper aside. “The ducal circle is too exalted for us, but I’ve seen him from afar at balls and suchlike.”
“And how is his appearance?”
Evelyn and her sister sat up, chins on fists.
A disconcerted frown pulled Matilda’s forehead ever more, sherry-brown eyes squished shut. “Oh. Well. If I remember correctly, tall and blond and…man-shaped.”
Artemisia’s nose creased and pale lips plummeted. “But what of eye colour? And is he handsome? Does he dance well? Has he a wart?”
But Evelyn knew their friend would have no answer. Matilda could quote from Aristotle and point to Timbuktu on the globe yet not notice the handsome Mr Beau Brummel strutting past. Gentlemen, with their pastimes of horses, pugilism and gambling, were of little interest and hence not retained in her astute black-haired noggin.
“I don’t recall any warts,” her friend said graciously. “At least…not upon areas that were visible to me.”
With a grin, Evelyn sprawled flat, savouring the plushness before they returned to their spartan lodgings with its lone wonky chair.
After the Pearce’s topple into poverty, Matilda had been the only one of their previous acquaintances from society to still receive them, to not care where they lived or that their pelisses remained four seasons out of fashion. She sent a note if the Clod-skull was to be absent, and the sisters shrouded themselves in their cloaks to sail past the vigilant butler.
They strived to help one another: Matilda squirreled away as much food for them as was possible beneath the noses of the Clod-skull’s loyal staff, but all Evelyn could do in return was listen, encourage and try to cheer whenever he appeared.
Women’s options were few. Upon Father’s death, Evelyn had thought to earn a wage from her own artistic talent, but the first buyer she’d approached had scorned that a woman’s scrawls would never be worth collecting, their eye inferior, their brains too delicate. And then, with the passing of time, she’d come to realise he’d merely been one of many.
Evelyn breathed deep. Tomorrow, she’d an appointment with the Duke of Rothwell. An appointment that she’d achieved after promising his secretary the best seats in the theatre she worked at, and even then, the earliest breach in his schedule had been seven days hence.
Mr Filgrave’s ability to count days, she hoped, was like his breeches – slightly askew and a smidgeon murky.
“Evelyn?” rasped Artemisia with a sudden catch to her chest. “Shall we head home now? I have a few repairs for your dress tomorrow before we lose the light.”
Home… Where the fire lay unlit through lack of coal, where the very air hummed with desperation, where the vile landlord pinched her backside and refused to fix the lock to their door. Where tonight they’d sew until the light waned, eat supper by the meagre tallow candle and where Artemisia would lay her head, covered with every blanket they possessed.
And while she slept, Evelyn would prepare her lines for tomorrow, shape a fashionable hat similar to the ladies who attended the theatre and dream of a warm cottage with unfettered air.
Rubbing her sister’s back, she gave a bright and untroubled smile – as false as the portrait.
“Of course, dearest, and thank you for your help. Together we’ll bedazzle this Duke of Diamonds.”
With fingers aching,Evelyn sleepily sprawled forward as she dumped the newly decorated hat on the table and rested her forehead to the surface. Although decidedlypas à la mode, the hat would have to do, and Matilda’s ribbons had at least lent an air of freshness.
Distant church bells clanged eleven, and she yawned, knowing she must sleep if the morrow was to bring success. The theatre manager had sullenly consented to her morning off but no doubt it would come with consequences.
Sliding her chin forward, she gazed up at the portrait which lay propped in the corner, shadow and light flickering upon it as the sole dim candle danced to the tune of the draughty window.
Situated alongside Father’s charcoal sketch, her painting shone with life, the rich crimson skirts and porcelain skin. But as she squinted, endeavouring to view what others would see, a tinge of wrongness shivered her limbs.
Exact brushwork akin to her father’s. Correct shades of paint that had cost her three days’ wages. Perfect technical artistry.
And yet…
Maisie Pilkington’s expression had lent an air of strained wantonness and harsh experience to the portrait that did not exist in Father’s sketch.
He’d rendered Evelyn’s posture with delicacy, fingers shyly brushing the ribbon at her throat – not wanton at all. In contrast, her shoulders had been drawn straight and fearless – ready for the future which fate had bestowed, not harshened to life but determined to best it.
Maybe she should have–
A raked fit of coughs from the cot jammed to the wall compelled her doubts to dissolve. It was too late now.
No one but Artemisia mattered, and she’d be dammed if Filgrave would ever lay mere breath on her sister.
