Chapter Two
Evelyn stood at the great desk that had once been her father’s.
The windows before her looked out onto the grey, rain-slicked London street.
Her big, dark eyes travelled over the familiar room—the shelves crowded with books, the low fire glowing in the grate, the two worn leather chairs beneath the window. She drew a steadying breath.
“You are trying to tell me it is worse than you first imagined?” Evelyn asked carefully. She heard the tremor in her own voice and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear.
James—her elder brother, now Viscount Calperton—looked up at her, his dark eyes clouded.
“Well… yes. In a manner of speaking.” He stammered and quickly dropped his gaze, as though she were the viscount and he the younger sibling caught in some mischief.
“How much, James?” Evelyn asked gently. “Tell me plainly.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the desk. “Three thousand.”
“Pounds?” She knew it must be, yet some desperate part of her wished for another answer.
“Pounds,” he murmured.
Evelyn set her palms against the mahogany surface as the world seemed to reel.
It was an impossible sum. They had already sold everything that could be parted with—Mother’s jewels, the paintings, the coach, several pieces of furniture, even the porcelain.
Only Father’s books remained, and Evelyn could not bring herself to see those dispersed.
She drew another breath, seeking composure.
“We must still have something left?” James asked in anguish. “The jewels. The paintings in the gallery? What about the pistols that make up Grandpapa’s collection?”
“All sold, James,” she replied softly. He knew it already; he was simply grasping at anything, as she was.
“Sold?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Evelyn replied. Her heart ached for him, not in anger but in sorrow.
James was a good man—kind, earnest, never willing to wound another soul.
The gaming tables were his weakness. For years, he had tried to win Father’s approval through a deceptive mastery of the cards, sinking deeper and deeper into play with ever higher stakes.
After Father’s death and their mother’s collapse into grief, he had sought escape in the one thing he understood—cards—and others had exploited that weakness mercilessly. The result was ruinous, unpayable debt.
“But…” James’s voice broke. His brown eyes were wide with fear.
“To whom is this money owed? What has he said to you?” Evelyn asked. Her heart clenched. Her brother—so handsome, so capable—should never look so frightened.
“Sister, I cannot refuse to pay. He’ll kill me.”
“What?” The word tore from her, sharp in the room’s stillness. Her hand went instinctively to the pearl-drop pendant at her throat—a keepsake from her grandmother, a small anchor of comfort. It was the only piece of her grandmother’s that had not been sold.
“He said so,” James whispered. “If I cannot produce the money in a fortnight—he gave me only that—then he will kill me.” His face was chalk-white, his eyes dark and terrified.
Evelyn felt the breath leave her lungs. She could not imagine losing James. He and their mother were all she had left in a world that had grown cold and unwelcoming. She had nearly lost her own sanity four years earlier when her father died; she could not endure such devastation again.
“A fortnight,” she repeated, her mind racing.
Could they borrow against the remainder of the furnishings?
Against the book collection? Could they sell the house?
No—the house was already mortgaged, the only surety securing the loan they struggled to repay.
No further borrowing was possible. She sagged against the desk.
“He said ten days,” James added, his voice raw. “I begged four more.”
“Good,” she replied gently, though her heart felt near to breaking. “We shall think of something, James. There will be a way.”
Though she had no idea what it could be. Three thousand pounds was staggering—more than half the annual cost of maintaining the townhouse, paying staff, and feeding the household.
“I hope you are right,” James murmured.
Evelyn shut her eyes for a moment, echoing that silent hope in her heart. Then she went to the door.
“It is four o’clock,” she said softly. “I must take Mama her tea.”
“I will come with you,” James offered.
Evelyn inclined her head. James and their mother did not often spend time together; both were sunk in their own deep melancholies, and being together rarely lifted either of them.
Still, company was always better than solitude.
She led the way into the corridor, relieved when James followed toward their mother’s small parlour.
Mr Soames—the butler and one of only three remaining servants steadfast enough to stay despite drastically reduced wages—had already placed the tea trolley in its usual place. The teapot rested beneath a warmed cloth. Evelyn took the handles, and James held the parlour door open for her.
“Mama?” she called softly.
“Yes?” came the reply.
Evelyn’s eyes adjusted to the dim room. Net curtains veiled the grey afternoon light, and the fire cast a pale glow upon their mother’s face.
She was still beautiful—high cheekbones, expressive dark eyes, thick grey hair drawn into a simple knot—but her gaze was vacant, her posture rigid in the large chair.
“Tea, Mama—and look, James is with me,” Evelyn said.
Any small thing that might ease her mother’s mood was worth mentioning.
Her mother had once asked Evelyn not to try to make her cheerful—it only heightened her sense of failing—but it was difficult not to grasp at any chance to lighten the oppressive sadness.
“Mama, did you see the papers?” James asked, taking a seat beside her. In truth, he managed her better than Evelyn did; neither attempted to brighten the other, and news of the world was the one subject that still held their mother’s interest.
“Papers are there,” she said hollowly.
Evelyn’s heart tightened. It must be a particularly bad day. Cloudy weather always deepened her mother’s despair. Evelyn moved to the curtains, hesitating—her mother disliked the brightness—but oh, how tempting it was to admit even a sliver of daylight.
“I read them,” James said quietly. “Did you see the scandal sheets?”
“No.” Her voice was flat. “The Whisperer comes out tomorrow.”
Though money was desperately tight, Evelyn ensured all the newspapers—including the scandal sheets—were still delivered. They were one of her mother’s few remaining pleasures.
“We shall read it then,” James said soothingly, before lapsing into silence.
Evelyn poured tea for both of them, then herself, and took a seat across the room.
She needed to think, though the dim parlour—with its flickering firelight and heavy shadows—offered little encouragement.
Dark possibilities plagued her: fleeing England, though where could they go?
And how could she take her mother from the only home she understood?
Work was impossible—no governess could earn such a sum in a lifetime, and leaving her mother unattended was unthinkable.
A sharp ache formed behind her eyes. She rose and wandered toward the curtained window.
A knock at the parlour door broke her bleak thoughts. Her heart leapt—perhaps the scandal sheet had arrived early. It would cheer her mother, if only for a few minutes.
“Come in,” she called.
“My lady?” Mr Soames’s voice carried a tense note. “You have a visitor.”
“Who is it?” Evelyn asked quickly. She glanced at James—he had gone rigid, his face ashen. He clearly feared the worst.
“It is Miss Harwick, my lady,” Mr Soames replied.
“Lucy!” Evelyn’s heart soared. Lucy was her dearest friend. The daughter of a baron who had been a close friend of their father, Lucy was like a sister. They had known one another since they were both twelve years old—fourteen long years.
“Please show her in,” Evelyn said warmly, suddenly remembering to address the butler.
The door opened, and Lucy stepped inside.
Her reddish-blonde hair remained neatly drawn back in a chignon, fastened with blue ribbons despite the wind outdoors; her blue gown shone vividly in the dim room.
She gave Evelyn a radiant smile before turning a warm, courteous expression toward James and Lady Calperton.
“Lady Calperton. Lord Calperton,” she said with cheerful respect. “How good it is to see you.”
Her open, friendly tone warmed the room, and Evelyn felt a wave of gratitude simply to have her friend there.
“Lucy,” she said warmly. “What brings you here? Do sit down.”
“I was on my way to St. James’s Park and thought I would stop to see if you might like to accompany me,” Lucy said brightly. “We could even do a little shopping. I have a mind to visit that bookshop near Birdcage Walk.”
“Oh?” Evelyn’s spirits lifted at once. Any reason to visit a bookshop was a welcome one.
Her gaze drifted toward her mother. Once they had shared a deep love of reading; her father too had been an avid lover of literature.
But now her mother claimed that reading strained her eyes, and she derived no pleasure from it.
Evelyn missed discussing books with her more than she could say.
“Yes,” Lucy continued. “I should like to find a copy of Byron. Anything you fancy yourself?” She crossed to the hearth and stirred the fire.
“No,” Evelyn murmured. “I cannot—” She meant to remind Lucy that she had no allowance to spend.
“It was your birthday last week, and I bought you nothing,” Lucy said quickly. “Do come. James, Lady Calperton—you will not mind our going?” She smiled at them pleasantly.
James inclined his head. “Go, Evelyn,” he said gently. She knew he spoke out of guilt and a desire to ease her burden in whatever small ways he could.
“Thank you, James,” she said softly.