“Nothing as interesting as nursing royalty back to health.” She smiled. “There has been little to disrupt our days since the New Year began.” It was said placidly enough, but there was a tension that belied her words.
“However, there have been some … developments since your departure.”
My heart raced slightly, a dum-DUM, dum-DUM, dum-DUM that felt like a miniature horse trotting along my chest. Mae’s pewter eyes gave away nothing. Was it news of Sebastian?
“Your parents are in town,” she said. “They asked me to contact them the second you are well.”
My heart’s premature gallop began to slow again. My parents. I had grown hard since the funeral, thinking about them as little as possible, spending the holidays with Mae and her family, choosing to pretend I had no home.
How could I forgive them when their negligence and care for appearances had led to Rose’s death? I stood up and began walking the length of the Lodges’ drawing room. Sunlight streamed in through the gauzy curtains but I barely noticed. Mae studiously stared at a painting on the faded wallpaper across the room, giving me time to collect my thoughts.
“You told them I was sick?”
“Yes.” Mae looked grave, for one moment reminding me of Rose’s sweet seriousness. “However, it has been a number of days now, and your mother wants to see you. I said it was infectious but not life-threatening, but I don’t think the excuse will last much longer.”
“Oh, botheration and damnation—pardon me.” I put a hand to my eyes, squeezing the pressure from my temples. “There is nothing for it, then. Do you know if they are staying with my aunt and uncle?”
“Your mother left a card. It appears they have let a London residence.”
She went to a silver bowl on the marble-topped side table and pulled out a small stack of letters. Most of them were from Robert, still on a poetic mourning trip around the Continent. But on top was a creamy linen card from my mother.
Lady Wyndham, 43 Belgrave Square. My eyes couldn’t help bulging at the ever-so-fashionable address. There was no way they could afford this extravagance after all that talk of debt.
“It … exhausts me even thinking of seeing them. I don’t know what to say. Or how to say it,” I murmured.
“You don’t need to say anything,” Mae replied, her sharp eyes following as I trod the silk rug. “I understand that there are many painful reminders there. But they are your family. They lost her, too.”
I sat down hard on the settee near Mae. As much as I wished to, it was hard to dismiss her advice. She’d been through this with her own family.
Though her parents had not betrayed her the way mine had betrayed Rose and me.
“Well. It appears I shall no longer be intruding upon your hospitality.”
She gave me a small, true smile. “You have always been and will continue to be welcome to intrude. Oh! I almost forgot! I wanted to give you this, in case you missed them in your travels.”
She walked over to a small table next to the piano and picked up what looked like a scrapbook.
“I collected as many as I could,” she said with a small wink, handing me the book. I gave her a hug in return, promising to call soon. She rang for Cushing, and the poor servants quickly undid everything they’d done in getting me settled. As I made my way back outside, already dreading the journey to my family’s new address, I heard Mae resume playing the same melancholy tune that had welcomed me inside.
Once I was in the carriage, I opened the scrapbook and felt my heart swell at the kind gesture. Mae had cut out and compiled the last two weeks’ worth of Agony Columns from The London Times I had missed.
During my months with her, when my lying in bed and crying had become worrying, a very concerned Mae had tried to distract me with the collection of sad and mysterious advertisements from strangers. Brothers would write in pleas to their runaway sisters to return home. A secretive girl would write to her beau to arrange a romantic tryst. A lovestruck pedestrian would describe the exact time and location of when he met the eyes of a beautiful stranger, in the hopes she would see the note and feel similarly. I started out reading these half stories for the mutual misery, to see all the other people desperately reaching out with their hopeless problems. But somewhere along the way, I found myself appreciating the lack of resolutions. That way I could imagine my own happy conclusions. Mae had sometimes sat with me, laughing as we created fantastical endings to the most hopeless of situations.
I sometimes wondered if Mae read them in the hopes of finding a note from Sebastian.
We hadn’t said his name once that entire conversation, but after everything she’d said about my mysterious travels and the importance of home, I knew he’d been on her mind the whole time. She was waiting for her fiancé to return, but from the look in his eyes the last time I saw him, I feared he might still be running. I tried to pretend that the thought didn’t bring me pain. But it did. Losing Rose was hard enough. But I had lost the fragile, tentative thing that had grown between Sebastian and myself as well.
I sighed, leaning against the carriage seat. Perhaps I should take out a full-page advertisement that read: TO SEBASTIAN BRADDOCK: COME BACK, YOU BROODING FOOL.
* * *
The moment I stepped into my parents’ grand townhouse, I knew I had made a mistake coming here. Despite everything we’d been through, despite everything my mother had said about our dire straits, despite her black mourning garb, she pleasantly sat in the bright morning room with guests, as if all were well.
“Evelyn! We were just talking about you,” Mother said, her voice hitting that strident, cheery note that had always grated on me so. “You remember the Earl of Atherton, yes? And his mother, Lady Atherton?”
Across from her, a thin, angular young man stood up, eyeing me down his long nose, which was a feat, given that he was about my own height. A shock of springy blond hair flopped artfully over his forehead. As he bowed, I was strongly reminded of a finicky, high-strung lady’s mare.
Next to him sat a familiar woman who had the same blond hair (though hers had lost some luster), the same thin-boned, long nose, and the same blue eyes, except hers were observing me with curiosity.
I made my curtsy, inwardly fuming. One daughter dead, the other “sick,” and my mother still cared more about society. Of course, she would surely defend her actions with the fact that Lord Atherton was a young, eligible earl and his mother was one of the most respected matrons in London society.
Which begged another question: Why would they deign to be here? Hadn’t Miss Verinder ruined my reputation completely these last few months? Even before that, we were not at such a level that Lady Atherton would pay us any notice. We had not traveled in the same sphere.
“I did not know you were acquainted,” I said, taking a seat to the side of my mother.
“A recent friendship,” Mother answered. Her eyes were bright and hard and giddy, as though she were perhaps drunk. She smelled of a cloying perfume that I had never noticed before. “Lady Atherton called to welcome us to the neighborhood.”
“As my late husband said, ‘life would be utterly lifeless without a friend.’” Lady Atherton paused significantly, nodding archly at me. “He always came up with such clever sayings.”
Apparently, Lady Atherton had been married to Cicero. I was about to ask her about life during the Roman Republic, but her son spoke up.
“Miss Wyndham. You have been unwell. The weather has been cold lately.” Lord Atherton sniffed as he made his proclamation. Responding to such statements, which are not actual questions or inquiries of concern, is always difficult.
“Indeed, thank you, Lord Atherton. I am feeling fully myself again.”
“Wonderful,” Lady Atherton said. “We were just discussing the coming Little Season.”
As if the Season weren’t interminable enough, someone had decided there should be a two-month prelude. While most of the ton was still out of town, the more political families returned for the reopen
ing of Parliament. “It’s a shame to miss it,” I said, beginning to wonder if I should perhaps panic.
“Well, you shall have more luck this year.”
Mother gave her a darting glance. “With your kind offer, I am sure she will.”
Both women smiled and I could swear the bones in my corset knitted themselves tighter.
“Offer?” I croaked.
“Lady Atherton has generously suggested she be your companion for the Little Season, as your father and I will still be in mourning.”
Yes, definitely time to panic.
Lady Atherton continued before I could refuse. “Yes, the first step, Lady Wyndham, will be to take your daughter to my modiste. She’s extremely exclusive. I have quite the list, Miss Wyndham. You’ll need seven day dresses, and another eight should suffice for the evening gowns, with, of course, handkerchiefs, slippers, a variety of hats with trimmings—that should keep you through the next three months, but we will certainly need warmer-weather additions before the spring.”
Mother bobbed her head furiously throughout, while somehow managing to pour our guests another cup of tea. “As always, your help is invaluable.”
“With the right hairstyle, neckline, and colors, we will draw everyone’s eyes to her more pleasing features.” Lady Atherton paused to sip her tea.
I seized the moment of silence. “I really don’t think I am up to this yet, not so soon after my sister passed.”
Lord Atherton blanched, looking deeply affronted at my boldness.
But Lady Atherton paused, fixing me with a simpering smile. “Indeed, it is so hard. Still, I am sure your sister would want you to find happiness!”
I refused to let the matter go, despite the cake my mother slid in front of me for appeasement. “I am truly not—”
“I do not mean to be forward,” Lady Atherton interrupted. “But your reputation is still shaky. You have my deepest condolences, but we must reintroduce you to society and as soon as possible. The late Lord Atherton had a saying, ‘Lost time is never found again.’”
I would give up cake if that saying was coined by Lord Atherton.
She beamed proudly at my mother. “It will be helpful, of course, with my chaperonage. We will call on many of my acquaintances and make a statement, of sorts. A ball, just before the Season begins in full, will strike the perfect chord.”
I had to put my fork down, unable to take another bite of the cake. “We are all still very much in mourning. I don’t think London society would approve of breaking such a custom.”
Lady Atherton looked at least somewhat annoyed and Lord Atherton was staring at me as though I had just suggested that I run through the streets in my chemise. But still, his mother had an answer ready. “I believe you are nearly at the end of your mourning period, Miss Wyndham. And as for you, Lady Wyndham, you are very much in the same spot I was when my dear husband left us five years ago, and when I ended my mourning period early, it was regarded as brave, not heartless. It’s unhealthy to mourn for so long. A ball, I think, held here in three weeks’ time, with me as your guide, of course—it should be just right.”
“Indeed, three weeks is exactly right,” Lord Atherton put in, doing a remarkable impression of an etiquette book.
“Splendid,” Mother said, and my stomach tied itself in further knots at the idea.
“Three weeks, then,” Lady Atherton continued. “In the meantime, we shall take full advantage of the Little Season and you will make many new acquaintances as families return to town. By the ball, you and my son will be all anyone is talking about.” Lady Atherton gave her son a slight smile at that.
Was this … a matchmaking? But no, he looked uninterested at best and fully disgusted at worst. He faced his tea as though it were a challenge to be withstood and only gave his mother a polite grimace. Surely not a man looking to marry?
And then I noticed the small cake that still sat uneaten next to him. And another in front of his mother. That was the last straw. I fully disliked them. How dare they leave perfectly good cake untouched?
I cleared my throat, wanting to be done with this, shake her loose. “What I never quite understand about the Season, though, is why does anyone want to get married? It seems to me very much like a slightly more pleasant prison, except the guard never changes.”
Lord Atherton looked as if he might spit out his tea.
Lady Atherton simply sighed and stood up. “Miss Wyndham, you are tired and still recovering. We will leave you to rest. Lady Wyndham, thank you for the pleasant visit. We will speak tomorrow about our shopping expedition.”
Lord Atherton gave a bow and followed his mother out of the room.
Leaving me alone with my mother, glaring burning holes through me. “Well. I see little has changed.” She walked to the door and rang the bell before turning back to me. “Have you forgotten what little civility you used to have, Evelyn? Lord Atherton is an earl and—”
A knock at the door came and cut my mother off. “Yes?” she said impatiently, and Pretton immediately appeared.
“Please ask Sir Philip to join us,” she said, calling for my father. I barely managed to contain myself until Pretton left.
“Where is your civility? It hasn’t even been three months and you’re talking about marriage and the Season like everything is perfectly fine? Like Rose didn’t—”
“I am trying to move forward and help you, Evelyn,” she interrupted, her jaw tight. “I can’t just wander around an empty house mourning her forever.”
I didn’t expect her to. That wasn’t why I was angry with her. It was the fact that it didn’t seem to have changed her at all. That she didn’t seem to hold herself at all responsible. That she didn’t bother to let Rose’s death affect her in any way.
“You didn’t need to come to London,” I said. “How can we afford this house? You said there was no money left.”
“Evelyn.” My father appeared at the doorway. He seemed to have expanded as Mother hollowed. Crumbs from his breakfast still stuck to his mustache, which seemed somehow wilted against his fattened cheeks.
“Hello, Father,” I said stiffly. He awkwardly approached and gave me a gentle hug. The smell of alcohol enveloped me.
Mother sighed. “Evelyn has just been quite rude to Lady Atherton.”
He frowned as he stepped back. “Lady Atherton is not someone to make an enemy of.”
“She would never have paid us any mind before,” I said. “How did we come by this wealth?” I repeated.
“Your father’s accountant. He discovered some investment your father had made that they both forgot about, it seems.” Mother and Father exchanged a glance.
I stared, too flabbergasted to readily explode. “So … After Rose disappeared, after you told me that we had no money and that our reputations were all we had left, after you decided to do nothing to help find Rose in order to avoid a scandal, after Rose died—now you’re telling me we actually had money and no one knew about it?”
She nodded, stiffening every time I said Rose’s name. Father was looking vacantly across the room and I felt sure he was no longer listening. I wanted to keep repeating her name, to force their attention to me. But I had been awake too long and this took the last shred of energy out of me.
“Excuse me, the inimitable Lady Atherton suggested I rest.” I shouldered past my mother, tired and furious and too tired to be furious.
“We are glad you are home,” my father mumbled behind me.
I didn’t turn around, just wound my way up the stairs, passing room after room. My parents had tried to move to this new house and fill it with all the heavy furnishings, paintings, tapestries, silk tassels, intricate fire screens, doorplates—fill it to the very limit so it wouldn’t seem like anything was missing, so there wouldn’t be that void. But it only made the problem more apparent. The meticulously arranged rooms were strained, artificial attempts at normalcy. The crowded furnishings looked like they were hiding something.
Or perhaps it was me.
Perhaps grief was my companion now, to be dragged behind me as intrusive and burdensome as a heavy trunk.
The silent maid showed me into my room and I put my crushed hat down on the vanity, flinching, as usual, at my reflection. Haunted, bloodshot eyes peered suspiciously at me, blue-black crescents punched below, stark against my overly pale skin. Before, I thought myself capable of disguising my emotions, careful to be sure the world didn’t discern my true self with ease. But the loss of Rose was written into every crease of my skin, every part of my body. Some days my right hand trembled ceaselessly. Other times my head pounded. Sometimes I woke in the middle of the night gasping for air, as if I had tried to stop breathing in my dreams.
But as miserable as it was, there was some comfort in the physicalization of my heartache. It almost seemed Rose was still here, pressing against me, refusing to let me go and forget her. As I ached my way into bed today, it wasn’t just one part. I could feel it in every bone. She followed me to bed, curled up beside me, and hugged me tight until I fell into my dreams, where I saved her, over and over again.
Chapter 4
“EVELYN MARGARET WYNDHAM! Wake up! I know you’re here!”
The faint sound of footsteps stomping up the stairs vibrated into my room.
“Evelyn!” the voice continued yelling. “Show yourself this instant!”
Oh dear. She sounded angry. I shoved my head back under my pillow.
A distant door opened and slammed.
“Please, miss, I—if you wait downstairs—” a soft voice protested.
Another door opened and slammed. The footsteps grew louder, closer. My door flew open.
“There you are,” I heard the intruder sweetly say. “Thank you, Pretton.” And then the door closed.
A bounce shook the bed as the girl jumped next to me and yanked the pillow off my face. I squinted up at her chestnut hair, already falling out of its untidy chignon; the spectacles perched crookedly on her nose; the sprinkling of freckles and the slightly chipped front tooth that only made her wide grin even more endearing.
These Ruthless Deeds Page 4