Chapter Thirteen
The drawing room was silent, the windows shut, the velvet drapes drawn back to reveal a cloudy sky. Evelyn looked up from the sewing on her lap at the sound of a footfall in the corridor.
She tensed, hastily setting her mending aside and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Her heart thudded. She was sure it must be the Duchess.
The footsteps came closer—then merely passed the door. The housekeeper walked softly by. Evelyn exhaled in a rush, her shoulders sagging. Only then did she realise, with a jolt, that she was trembling.
“I cannot do this,” she whispered.
It was late morning, just before luncheon, and Sebastian had been out riding since dawn.
Evelyn had chosen not to accompany him; the thought of joining the party made her stomach knot with insecurity.
After the duchess’s cruel remarks, she dreaded providing any fresh opportunity for criticism.
She could not shake the feeling the older woman had stirred—that she was unworthy and did not belong.
Part of her wished she could confide in Sebastian, but shame held her silent.
To admit her distress felt like admitting that the Duchess was right.
And Sebastian himself was behaving so strangely.
The memory of the previous evening’s waltz lingered vividly—too vividly.
Yet since then, he had been distant, absent for hours. Perhaps he was avoiding her.
With Sebastian, Gemma, and William all out riding, she was left alone in the house with the Dowager Duchess and Nicholas.
Nicholas was polite—earnest, even—if shy and uncertain around her.
The Duchess, however, was a constant, silent threat: never speaking, always watching, always disapproving.
Evelyn had hidden in her chamber for most of the morning, venturing to the drawing room only once she was certain it was empty.
Feeling restless, she rose and crossed to the balcony.
Three floors below, the green lawns stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with daisies and roses nodding in the breeze.
Tall irises flanked a distant fountain. She could not see the front hedge from where she leaned—only a vast rolling expanse of lawn bordered by tall trees on three sides and the manor on the fourth.
The estate was beautiful, grand, inviting—yet she barely dared to walk through it lest she meet the Duchess’s cold stare again.
“I cannot do this,” she murmured once more.
As she gazed out over the gardens, an idea struck her.
She could visit Mama. Surely no one—not even the Dowager Duchess—could deny her the right to call upon her own mother.
Mama’s melancholy alone made such visits sensible.
And it would spare her the torture of enduring luncheon at the Duchess’s table.
She rang for her maid, her spirits quickening with the decision.
Ten minutes later, dressed in a sturdier gown suitable for a long coach ride, she made her way downstairs.
Voices drifted from the drawing room. Evelyn hesitated in the doorway and peered inside.
Nicholas and the Dowager Duchess sat together.
The older woman’s eyes widened in displeasure at Evelyn’s appearance, then slid away as she returned to her book—as if Evelyn were beneath notice.
“Ah! Evelyn! Welcome,” Nicholas said warmly, standing at once. “Do come in. We were deciding what luncheon might be.”
Evelyn did not step forward. Aware of the Duchess’s stare, she cleared her throat. To her own surprise, her voice emerged steady.
“I wish to make an excursion to call upon my mother. I shall take luncheon in London with her. Might there be a coach available?”
Her voice trailed off at the last comment, as she suddenly became aware that the Dowager Duchess could easily contest her use of the coach. The older woman would not dare to if Sebastian were there, of that Evelyn was certain—but in his absence, she might do it.
“Ridiculous!” the older woman snapped. “You have been here barely a week.”
Nicholas glanced at her, then at Evelyn. His tone was courteous but decisive.
“I shall ring for the butler and request a coach at once.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn breathed—too relieved to hide it. Nicholas grinned.
“I should like to go with you—Town is infinitely more diverting than the countryside—but perhaps another day.”
Evelyn smiled back, warmed by his kindness. “Thank you,” she said again, wondering whether Nicholas’s fondness for London owed anything to the presence of a certain young lady there.
The Duchess continued to glare but said nothing further, for which Evelyn was profoundly grateful. She sat with them for a brief cup of tea while the butler was summoned.
“The barouche for her Grace, if you please,” Nicholas told him with a lofty nod.
“Of course, my lord.” The butler bowed and withdrew.
When the coach was ready, Evelyn made her way downstairs.
The butler bowed as she passed, and she returned a shy smile.
Being addressed as your Grace, being provided a barouche—it still felt unreal.
The coachman, dressed in dark brown livery, offered his hand to help her inside.
She settled into the leather seat, breathing deeply as, moments later, the coach rolled down the white gravel drive.
The leather hood was drawn up against the bright sun—a blessing, for the journey would take several hours.
Evelyn leaned back. Anything, she thought, was better than remaining in that house under the Duchess’s gaze.
And this coach—smooth, well-sprung, elegant—made even the rough road feel tolerable.
She was smiling throughout most of the journey; only upon stepping down before her old townhouse did doubt creep back.
“At what time shall I return for you, your Grace?” the coachman asked.
Evelyn hesitated. The cathedral bells had just chimed two.
“Four o’clock, please,” she decided. A short visit, but she refused to travel after dark.
“Very good, my lady.”
Evelyn mounted the familiar stairs and knocked at the door. Perhaps Mama was already asleep. She might not wake until four o’clock, in which case there would be nobody besides James to talk to; if James happened to be there—he usually took luncheon at his club.
“Good afternoon…” Mr Soames began—and then stopped. “Miss—your Grace! You’re—” His face broke into a delighted grin.
Evelyn smiled, her heart lifting. His joy was evident, and that touched her deeply. She had somehow not expected such a delighted welcome.
“Mr Soames, it’s so nice to see you. Is my mother awake?” she asked, heart twisting. Her mother had been so confused and sad when she departed, and Evelyn could not imagine in what state she might be.
“Yes, your Grace! May I escort you upstairs?” Mr Soames relieved her of her bonnet and cloak with evident pleasure.
The drawing room was bright, and Evelyn’s breath caught anew as Lucy rose from the tea table.
“Evelyn!” Lucy cried, rushing to her and throwing her arms around her. “What a delightful surprise! Come in!”
Evelyn embraced her tightly, tears pricking her eyes. She turned to her mother, seated at the table. Mama did not speak, but a radiant smile spread across her face. Evelyn bent and gathered her into her arms.
“Mama,” she whispered—unable to say more.
“Evelyn,” her mother returned softly, looking up with such love that Evelyn’s heart ached.
She joined them at the table. There were plenty of sandwiches, which was, in itself, somewhat new. While they had never starved, the fare had grown increasingly simple, and the sight of ham and cheese was a new surprise. She looked at Lucy inquiringly. Her friend shrugged.
“Consider it… a gift to your mother?” she suggested brightly.
Evelyn chuckled, shaking her head in delight. “Oh, Lucy,” she murmured. “Thank you so much.”
Lucy smiled and gestured for her to help herself to sandwiches.
They chatted happily, and though her mother spoke little, Evelyn caught her watching them—now and again a small smile flickering to her lips. Each time, Evelyn’s heart leapt.
She savoured the lunch and the easy conversation, and it was difficult to rise at last and make for the door, knowing the coach would be waiting promptly at four o’clock.
In the hallway, her mother drew her aside.
“Are you happy?” she asked quietly.
Evelyn swallowed, tears springing to her eyes. “I am, Mama,” she said gently. The concern in her mother’s face moved her deeply—but the soft relief that followed her answer moved her more.
“Good,” her mother murmured. “Good.”
Evelyn embraced her tightly. She blinked back tears as she stepped toward the door, fumbling in her reticule for a handkerchief.
“I will return soon, Mama,” she promised, her voice roughened with emotion.
“Please do, daughter,” her mother said, touching her hand.
Evelyn hugged her again—swiftly, fiercely—then hurried downstairs to the waiting barouche, ready to be carried back through the busy streets and into the cool quiet of the countryside.
When she returned to Brentfield Manor and hurried up the stairs, she heard the Dowager Duchess’s voice echoing sharply through the hallway.
“So selfish! How can someone be so selfish? Nearly dinnertime, and we have guests! No proper duchess would be so thoughtlessly late!”
Evelyn froze. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Shame rooted her to the stair, and she half-whirled to flee—intending to rush straight to the dining room without even changing her gown—but before she could move, Sebastian’s voice cut through the tirade.
“Mama. That is enough.” His tone carried a dangerous edge. “Evelyn has her reasons for calling upon her mother so soon—I am quite certain of it. I will not have you insult her.”
Evelyn stared, astonished. Tears had been threatening a moment ago; now her heart surged with stunned gratitude. He had defended her—again—and without hesitation.
Footsteps approached. She turned, ready to dart down the stairs, but Sebastian saw her.