Page 23 of The Siren of Sussex

Drawing out the long hatpin that secured it, she carefully removed her new leghorn hat and placed it on the hall table. A gilt-edged looking glass hung above it. She surveyed her reflection.

Like Mr. Malik, Monsieur Phillipe had been all business. The mustachioed little Frenchman had examined her this way and that, turning her head to all angles. And then, at last, he’d cut, wielding his scissors with all the decisiveness of a master.

Her hair was still long, falling well past her shoulder blades, but it was no longer an unruly mass of bushy curls. Now what curls she had appeared soft and glossy, gently framing her face in a flattering style.

And such a style!

He’d rolled her hair at the sides and wrapped it up at the back over a cushion to make a large roll at her nape. The whole of it was gleaming and thick, secured with an invisible hairnet and more than a dozen metal hairpins, and then lightly misted into place with a clear, liquid gum solution called bandoline.

Agnes had watched the process with keen attention, knowing she’d be required to replicate the coiffure in the days to come.

Evelyn smoothed back a stray curl with her hand. She still couldn’t quite take it in. When paired with one of her new dresses from Madame Lorraine, she was beginning to feel like quite another person.

“Miss Maltravers.”

Evelyn turned from the glass to find her uncle’s housekeeper descending the stairs.

Mrs. Quick was an older woman of keen efficiency, as thin and sharp as a whittled branch. She wore a spotless starched cap over her iron-gray hair. “It’s half past one.”

“Is it?” Evelyn glanced at the long walnut-case clock that stood in the hall.

“Mr. Fielding informed me you would be receiving from one to three.”

“Eventually. Once I’ve been introduced to people.” In the meanwhile, Evelyn hadn’t thought it necessary to make herself available for receiving hours, certainly not on a Saturday. “Why? Did someone call?”

“Lady Arundell and her daughter have come.”

Evelyn stilled. “To see me?”

“And Mr. Fielding. Though at the moment, he’s nowhere to be found.”

“He’s not in his study?”

“He’s not in the house.”

“Perhaps he’s gone to the museum?” Evelyn suggested. He sometimes did. The British Museum was practically next door. An easy walking distance if he had a bit of research to do.

“He might have done.” Mrs. Quick didn’t appear overly concerned. No doubt she was accustomed to Uncle Harris’s strange behavior. “I’ve put your guests in the drawing room and brought in the tea tray. If you’d care to join them?”

“Of course.” Evelyn straightened the flounced skirts of her new silk gown. It had originally been made for someone else, a lady who hadn’t wanted it. Madame Lorraine had altered it for Evelyn on the spot, insisting that the deep rose shade was complementary to her complexion. Evelyn had her doubts, but in matters of dress, she was resolved to defer to the experts.

She followed Mrs. Quick upstairs to the drawing room. Like the rest of Uncle Harris’s house, it was well furnished, if not fashionably so. Heavy mahogany tables laden with bric-a-brac resided next to sofas and chairs upholstered in faded silk. Dark damask drapes framed the tall windows and well-worn carpets covered the expansive floor, the pile nearly threadbare in places.

Lady Arundell and her daughter were seated beside each other on a scroll-armed sofa near the fireplace. Flames flickered in the grate, casting a faint glow of warmth in a room that was, otherwise, cold and stale from disuse.

“Miss Maltravers, my lady,” Mrs. Quick said by way of introduction.

Lady Arundell rose in a rustle of expensive fabric. She was a stately dark-haired woman, clad entirely in black crepe, with a slight double chin and a magnificent bosom. A carved stone cameo glinted at her pale white throat.

Evelyn curtsied. “Lady Arundell.”

Lady Arundell inclined her head. “Miss Maltravers.” She gestured to the young woman beside her. “My daughter, Lady Anne.”

Lady Anne briefly emerged from her mother’s shadow. She was wearing the same black crepe—and possessed of the same magnificent bosom. There the similarities ended. Lady Anne had a delicate frame, not a stately one, and her hair wasn’t dark like her mother’s. It was the color of spun gold, drawn back in a pair of jet combs.

“You don’t look a thing like your uncle,” Lady Arundell said after Mrs. Quick had withdrawn. “He’s still not returned, I gather?”

“No, ma’am,” Evelyn replied. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”