Chapter Two #2
After bidding their mother farewell, she and Lucy made their way downstairs. Evelyn pulled on a grey pelisse, Lucy donned her white one, and they tied their bonnets firmly before stepping out into the blustery street.
A powerful gust caught Evelyn’s skirt, tugging it sharply; she shrieked, then laughed as the two of them hurried along, their pelisses and ribbons whipping in the wind.
For one glorious moment, she felt twelve again, running through the gardens of Lucy’s family estate, lighthearted and untroubled, with no weight of responsibility upon her.
“Let us run!” Lucy declared. “Look—the streets are empty. No one will see.”
Evelyn giggled, a bright flare of rebellion warming her chest. She had not felt so alive in weeks.
They ran together down the street.
The townhouse where Evelyn lived was at the edge of the Kensington district, a little more than a half hour’s walk along the edge of Hyde Park to St. James’ Park.
Their favourite bookshop was close to St. James’ Park, in Birdcage Walk.
On a pleasant, windless day, it was a tiring but enjoyable walk. In the wind, it was an adventure.
Ordinarily, the streets teemed with Londoners—fashionable ladies, hawkers, tradesmen, beggars. But the wind had driven nearly everyone indoors.
“There—look,” Lucy said, pointing. A few people huddled miserably under the corner of a shuttered teahouse. Evelyn was surprised by how invigorated she felt, buffeted by the wind; she had not felt so keenly alive in days.
“Let us see how fast we may go,” Lucy said as they slowed to a brisk walk.
“I wager we can reach Birdcage Walk in half an hour,” Evelyn replied. With the wind pushing them from behind, it might indeed be possible.
“Mayhap!” Lucy giggled.
They set off at a swift pace. The gusts rushed around them, tugging at their skirts and bonnets like mischievous hands.
They reached the bookshop just as the nearby church bell chimed.
“Hurrah!” Evelyn exclaimed, delighted.
“I knew we should manage it!” Lucy crowed.
They tumbled in through the door, shutting it briskly behind them. The little bell above the door chimed, and the proprietor, Mr Woodward, greeted them with a smile.
“Ladies! Welcome. You honour my humble shop on a day such as this?”
“It is exceedingly windy,” Evelyn agreed, breathless. She tried discreetly to smooth her hair beneath her bonnet; several dark curls had escaped.
“Have you anything new today?” Lucy asked eagerly.
“I do indeed,” Mr Woodward said, his round face glowing with pride. “Come—allow me to show you. I believe these will interest you.”
Evelyn and Lucy followed him. Relief washed over Evelyn at the quiet warmth of the shop—the shelter from the howling wind, the gentle crackle of the fire, the rows of books waiting like friends.
Comfortable chairs sat near the hearth for browsing.
The newest volumes—first editions and rare printings—were displayed near the counter.
“Here, my ladies,” Mr Woodward said happily. “Feast your eyes.”
Evelyn scanned the spines, skipping those too dear for her means. Her gaze caught on a small leather-bound volume, dark and elegant.
“Shakespeare’s Complete Works,” she murmured, lifting it. Her heart thudded. It was a pocket-sized edition—light enough to read in bed. Oh, how desperately she longed for it.
“Let me see,” Lucy said, holding out a hand. Evelyn passed it to her.
“How much is it?” Lucy asked.
“Two pounds, my lady.”
Evelyn bit her lip. She could never afford it.
She had no money in her reticule, and if she returned home to fetch the little of her pin-money she had saved up, it would not come close to covering half of it.
She reached over to put it back, but Lucy was opening her reticule.
She took out two pounds and handed them to Mr Woodward, who smiled.
“Thank you, my lady,” Mr Woodward beamed.
Lucy handed the book to Evelyn. “Only do not sit up all night reading it,” she teased.
“Lucy!” Evelyn gasped. “But—but—” Her throat closed with emotion. Tears pricked her eyes as she stared at the precious little volume. “You cannot…”
“I wished to buy you something for your birthday,” Lucy said lightly. “And it is the perfect gift.”
“Thank you, Lucy,” Evelyn whispered. “It is beautiful.”
“No need to mention it,” Lucy said with a bright smile.
Once Lucy had chosen a book for herself, they stepped back outside—and Evelyn’s emotion overcame her. She threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tightly, heedless of the wind tugging at their pelisses.
“It is beautiful, Lucy,” she murmured, blinking back tears. She was touched beyond words.
“You appreciate literature,” Lucy laughed. “How many of his other patrons do?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Evelyn giggled. “Thank you, Lucy,” she replied.
“Come—we must escape this dreadful wind,” Lucy replied, blinking. She was clearly touched by Evelyn’s delight and striving not to reveal it.
Evelyn glanced down the darkened, deserted street. A few figures lingered farther off near one of the park gates, but close by the road lay empty. As she looked behind them, her gaze caught on a man standing before a shop window.
The man was tall, and he wore a black tailcoat and black trousers, but no greatcoat.
Her heart thudded at the sheer stature of him—he had broad shoulders, long legs, and when he stepped forward to gaze through the window, he moved with a lithe grace that surprised her.
Most gentlemen she had seen—and she had little experience, having missed several Seasons since Papa’s passing—did not have that same muscled, smooth way of moving.
A creaking noise tore her gaze upward. She gasped. Above him, the heavy metal sign of Tynedale Millinery swung wildly, its chain nearly severed—only a single rusted link holding it aloft. One more strong gust, and it would fall directly upon the unsuspecting gentleman.
“I think my eye is better now—much better than it was last week,” Lucy began.
“That man—” Evelyn choked out. In the next instant, she was running. “Lucy, we must help him!”
She did not wait to see whether Lucy followed; clutching her precious book to her chest, she sprinted down the street. The wind howled around her. The sign lurched violently—and then began to fall.
Evelyn screamed. With no thought but to reach him in time, she hurled herself across nearly a yard of slick pavement, striking him full-force and knocking him aside just as the sign crashed to the cobbles with a thunderous clang where he had stood.
“What in—” the man swore, but before he could regain his footing, momentum carried them both down.
Evelyn shrieked as they tumbled, helpless. The man seized her instinctively, twisting as though to shield her from the worst of the fall, and they struck the ground together—Evelyn landing atop him.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
Evelyn became aware of the hard, lean body beneath her own, his muscled chest firm and solid under her cheek.
His arms were around her, his grip strong and hard.
His long legs stretched out under her, one of her knees trapped between them.
Heat flooded through her—not the burning heat of embarrassment, but a slow, intense, building heat that flooded from somewhere in her belly throughout her body, ending in her face.
She was sweating, though it was not hot.
Her entire body tingled with a new awareness.
Below her on the cobbles, the man gazed up. His eyes were blue—the rich, deep blue of an evening sky. His nose was thin and straight, his jaw firm, his cheekbones gaunt. It was the most handsome face she had ever seen.
She gazed into his eyes, and he gazed back.
His eyes widened in astonishment and then narrowed in a look that she would almost have thought was appreciative, if it had been directed elsewhere.
Seeing it directed at herself was infinitely puzzling, and that puzzlement brought her attention abruptly to the moment.
“Evelyn?” Lucy’s voice cut through the haze, high with alarm.
Evelyn blinked and looked around. A small crowd—eight or ten people—had hurried from the park at the sound of the crash. They now surrounded them, whispering, staring. Heat surged into Evelyn’s cheeks; she scrambled backward, mortified.
“Sir—my lord?” she stammered, though she did not even know his rank. He was rolling to his knees, rising more slowly than she, perhaps jarred by the fall. Evelyn tried desperately to focus on him instead of the murmuring onlookers.
Lucy seized Evelyn’s arm and tugged. Evelyn let herself be pulled away, stumbling around the corner to escape the speculative stares.
“They were all whispering,” Lucy said, her voice strained. “We have to get away from here. What if one of them knows you?”
Evelyn felt the colour burn hotter in her face.
Only now did the implications of the scene strike her fully.
People had seen her in the street—on top of a man.
They would think… oh, goodness, they would assume she had been attempting to lie with him.
She knew little of such matters—only snatches of giggled whispers overheard from maids—but enough to know what such a tableau suggested.
“We must go home,” she whispered miserably.
“We shall,” Lucy promised, guiding her away with gentle firmness.
They cut through the park, making the return more swiftly. When they reached the townhouse, Evelyn hurried up the steps.
“Thank you, Lucy,” she said at the doorway. She longed to retreat to her room, to try to make sense of what had happened, but politeness urged her to ask, “Will you come in for tea?”
“No, dear. I must get home—my parents will be frantic in this weather.” Lucy squeezed her hand warmly. “Rest now. You are exhausted.”
“I am,” Evelyn admitted, deeply touched by her friend’s compassion for the second time that day.
She wished Lucy good evening, then shut the front door, divested herself of pelisse and bonnet, and slipped quietly upstairs. The house was still; Mama was likely resting before dinner. Evelyn entered her chamber and closed the door behind her before collapsing onto the bed.
Her thoughts flew in panicked circles. A woman’s reputation was as fragile—and as valuable—as gold. And hers… hers might be ruined.
“Oh, I hope this does not spell trouble for me,” she whispered.
She lay where she was, shivering with fear as much as with the cold of the walk.
As she thought back over the walk, one thing returned incessantly to her mind: The strange, wondrous feeling of lying in the tall, strong man’s arms, his body pressed to hers.
Her own body flooded with intense heat and a feeling that she could only describe as longing.
Delicious, forbidden, wild longing such as she had only ever read about in the novels she and Lucy borrowed in secret.
“Don’t be foolish,” she told herself harshly, pushing the feeling away. Of all the things facing her at that moment, that was the strangest, and quite possibly the most foolish, response she could think of.
And yet, despite the danger, the fear, the humiliation… the memory that returned again and again as she lay there was the sensation of the muscled, warm arms that gripped her and the unmistakable longing she had seen in the gentleman’s eyes as he looked up at her.