“Spill the beans, Flora.”
“Well…yer see, Jeremy…”
Evelyn creased her brow until, with a nudge, her sister mouthed “Copperhouse” in her direction.
“Well…” Flora breathed deep and then in a sudden gush, “…Jeremy has asked to court me! Proper like. With… I dunno. Flowers and stuff, I suppose. Says he’s never met anyone like me.”
A squeal from Artemisia and they all landed in a heap on top of their friend, Cleopatra scarpering for the chaise.
“Will he take you for walks in Hyde Park and such?” questioned Artemisia, cheeks aglow.
Flora’s lashes fluttered. “He can take me anywhere he pleases. He’s so handsome and caring and…masterful.” She rose from the bed, bodice gaping from all those wagered buttons. “I might go and hunt him out now fer me bunch of flowers, but I’ll pop a hot spiced milk in yer room beforehand, Evie.”
And after a buss for the both of them, she skipped from the room.
Artemisia smiled. “I pity that poor Copperhouse.”
“That butler can take care of himself, don’t you worry,” Evelyn declared, crossing to the wardrobe to fetch a coverlet for the bed.
“And what about you and the duke?”
Evelyn stilled, that unease to her chest returning. “Well, yes, although I don’t really know… I’m sure he still needs time to… He must have lots of questions. Important ones.” Artemisia tutted in that same Lady Owlswick manner whilst Evelyn fluffed the coverlet and yanked it tight to her sister’s neck. “Now, you rest.”
“I’m not tired in the least, Evie,” stated her sister with a mutinous press of her lips whilst shoving the coverlet back down. “So believe I’ll read awhile. ’Tis only just past nine.”
Evelyn hid her grin and did not dispute. To hear Artemisia argue like any other girl of sixteen years cheered her soul. The memories of those desperate months, when her sister had been so ill and food had been so scarce, would begin to fade – not to be forgotten but like stones in a river they would sink to the bottom, yielding a foundation of strength as time flowed over them.
“As you wish. You do have eight books by your bed to get through.”
Evelyn bent to lay a tender kiss upon her sister’s forehead, but a delicate hand caught hers and squeezed. “Thank you, Evie.”
“For what, dearest?”
Green eyes shone clear. “For being my sister. For all the years you worked to bring food to our table. The sacrifices you have made to tend to me. I aspire to be just like you because you are so brave and fearless.”
Evelyn bit her lip, eyes smarting. “But I could not stay brave without you, sister. We survive together – our parents’ deaths, Hop Gardens – and I aspire to be like you. Your courage through illness, your constant cheer in our times of sorrow…your inventiveness with potatoes and hodgepodge stew.”
They giggled, and after a final embrace – tight and comforting – Evelyn whispered her good night. She left the lit lantern by the bed but blew out the dressing table candle and softly departed to the rustle of pages.
Much like the rest of the house, the corridor mingled grandeur and intimacy: her feet soundless on luxuriant rugs, a wonky side table displaying figurines and the burgundy flock wallpaper closing in about her like a warm winter cloak.
Yet…
It was ridiculous, but alone once more, that sense of unease settled anew…
Perhaps she should return to the Rothwell house? Be bold and find the duke. But no doubt after the tumultuous day, he’d be working late with the housekeeper to plan for all their needs in the coming days.
The delicate porcelain of her bedchamber doorknob twisted without creak or effort, and Evelyn gazed in at the beautiful room she’d been assigned. It belonged to the absent Dowager Duchess, its ornateness and lavish finery only serving to heighten her unease.
Blue drapery of premium silk adorned the four poster, antique volumes on Egypt filled the shelves and expert paintings of Welsh castles graced the walls, all lit by marble sconces and silver candlesticks.
Refined, graceful, ladylike… A duchess’s bedchamber.
But when all was said and done, standing here in this room, Miss Evelyn Pearce was a mere nobody dressed in borrowed finery.
Heavy velvet curtains held the night at bay, and she crossed to haul them aside, a modern sash window overlooking the square. Peeking into the black, she noticed one lone light shining within the second floor of No. 6.
Casper toiling still? Or a servant, making their last checks for the night?
