A log from the roaring fire teetered upon the edge of the grate but not one of them could quite summon the effort to attend to it, goblets of Madeira wine clutched close.
“The earl,” her friend mused, “does seem to have quite a penchant for medieval weaponry.”
Flora snickered, waggling toes as crimson as her cheeks.
Evelyn’s lips endeavoured to form a smile but were still weighted by her confession and hen-hearted flight.
With mind so beset and heart so pained, she’d known she required the excellent judgement and steady guidance of Matilda, a female who never did anything without clearly considering the consequences. A woman of wisdom and level-headed sensibleness.
“But no matter,” her friend began, goblet tipping, “as I have an interview for governess at a boxing club.”
Or perhaps not.
“A boxing club, Matilda?”
“Hmm. No one will find me there.”
“All them bruisers in the buff…” Flora enthused, “…with all them bulges.”
“Pectoralis Major?” enquired Matilda.
“Ain’t never heard it called that before but if you say so.”
“I cannot fathom the attraction of muscles.” Matilda flung her glasses off. “I find they belong to men of little brain. But I’m so desperate to escape this marriage that I’ll tolerate them, if I must.”
“But a boxing club full of men. Will you be safe, Matilda?”
“I’ve no option,” she bewailed, arms flailing and toes toasting. “I need somewhere my cousin won’t find me and ’tis only until my birthday. Then I can find a proper position with a noble family and forge ahead as an independent woman, governessing.”
Evelyn had no wish to ruin her friend’s view of a working life: that governesses were oft treated worse than the scullery maids. So, she drained her goblet instead, the hour for them to depart and return to Artemisia growing near.
Yet a rare faint-heartedness rose within her, listless thoughts seeping and fashioning impossible endings.
Had the Pearce family not fallen into ruin, perchance she might have met the duke at some elegant ball or soiree. Would their eyes have met? Would this same attraction have surged? Would love have formed through sincerity and mutual trust? Or did fate and circumstance have their part to play?
If so, fate was a cruel mistress.
Her friend sighed, faring no better along its twisting trail.
“Which boxing club is it, Matilda? Mayhap one of us could accompany you to the interview.”
“Hawkins in Arlington Street.”
“Ooh. I’ll come along.” They peered to Flora who waved her empty goblet merrily. “Seth Hawkins is a finely built hunk of man. I saw him fight years ago, and I can tell you, I’d let him stick his tongue in me gob any time he pleased.”
Matilda mewed in distaste. “Honestly, Flora, you mustn’t pick up these continental habits.” She rose from the chair to stagger for the decanter on the mantelpiece. “I’m quite sure dukes do not engage in such behaviour.”
Evelyn kept silent.
Flora did not. “Well, ask Evie. She was the one who got flattened to a soddin’ desk by one.”
“Really?” Matilda gawped, swaying. “You never said.” She flumped herself in the small gap between them on the chaise. “So, did he insert it all the way in?”
Evelyn could only hope the Madeira wine would erase this conversation by morning.
“I think,” she asserted, glaring at Flora, “that wagging tongues should remain silent, and that you, Matilda, should wait until you meet a man you wish to kiss and then see if your opinions change.”
Matilda shuddered.
