That meant, therefore, she would be spared several hours in close confines with him.
“I still don’t know about these trains,” her father grumbled as they set off for the station. “Nothing like it in my day. All that metal and oil and smoke. Can’t be good for one. And what if it comes off the rails? They go so fast.”
“Not all that fast, Papa. And you know they’re perfectly safe. You’ve ridden them plenty of times.”
“Can you believe that the village of Havercroft now has a station? Heavens, it feels as though they’ve infiltrated everywhere.”
“But you must admit it’s more convenient than travelling everywhere by carriage.”
“Carriages take longer, perhaps, but mark my words, they are a great deal safer than these newfangled machines. And if a carriage was properly sprung, you would hardly notice the unevenness of the road.” He scowled, and Evelyn tried not to smile. Every time they travelled, he brought out the same complaints, though ten years ago they could not have travelled almost directly to Charles’s estate—and their own—so conveniently.
“Don’t forget we don’t have to change horses,” she reminded him. “And there is a dining car if we should find ourselves in need of sustenance.”
“Bah! Eating on a metal contraption like that? It can’t be borne.”
Knowing she would get nowhere with him in this mood, Evelyn settled back against the cushions and stared out across the city as it slid past. Smog hung between the houses, the air thick with the city scents—not all of them pleasant. She had no issues with the advancement of technology, and indeed the train had been a particularly convenient introduction to their lives, but she wished there was not somuch coal dust everywhere.
At the station, they boarded the train and took their seats, one opposite the other, an unlit lamp perched on the table between them. Whatever her father said, this was positively luxurious compared to a carriage.
“Well,” he said, fussing with the rug over his lap. “It’s good of dear Charles to invite us. I always did think he was a good boy.”
Although Evelyn’s stomach lurched at the sound of Charles’s name, she merely shook her head and smiled a little. “I suspect the duke does not think the same.”
“Norfolk? He wanted the boy to grow into a miniature version of himself, that’s all. A mistake, if you ask me. No man should expect his son to behave just as he did, and don’t forget what Charles was like when he was younger.” He chuckled. “Liked to run wild, he did, and dragged you into all sorts of scrapes into the bargain. Your mother wanted to separate the two of you, but you always came back covered in dirt and shining. Very little made you shine like that, and I thought better not to tarnish it.” His watery gaze turned distant and affectionate. “Your mother made the same mistake the duke did and wanted you to turn out just like her. But you have always been your own person, stubbornly so. I never saw reason to argue with that.”
A lump rose in her throat, and she spoke before she could hold herself back. “Do you ever wish I married? That is to say—would you have preferred it if I had been as Mama was, a diamond of the first water who made a beneficial marriage and left you alone so you didn’t have to provide for me all this time?”
Her father’s bushy brows descended over his eyes as he reached out to take her hand in both of his. “Oh, Evelyn. Is that how I’ve made you feel?”
“No. No, no, you have never said a thing to make me feel like a disappointment, but I know you and Mama were so excited to present me, and you hoped I would make an advantageous match, and instead I’m here.”
Women did not have much to their names except for that of their father or husband. Evelyn had never married, never even wanted to—except for that impossible daydream she had of Charles—but she knew it reflectedpoorly on her status. And thus, by extension, her father’s. No parent wanted an unmarried daughter. Thinking of her mother, the bright spark she was, made Evelyn remember all the ways she could never live up to that.
Her father squeezed her gloved fingers gently. “Doyouwish you had married?”
Her laugh sounded a trifle thick. “Not to any of the gentlemen who asked for my hand.”
“Then why should I wish you into a life with them? You know your own mind, now just as you did as a child, when you climbed trees with Charles and covered your dress in moss and lichen stains.”
“Thank you,” she said, attempting a smile. “I suppose it’s just that I know Mama dreamt of me making some great match, and—”
“Your mother only ever wanted to see youhappy. But the thing about people is that they equate happiness to their experience of it. She shone in the light of theton, and so she thought that, given the opportunity, you would do the same. But you shine in different ways, and you derive joy from different places, and that is not to say that you are wrong, or that she was wrong for wanting you to experience her life.” His eyes glistened with tears in the cold blue light from the windows. Winter had given the world a hard-edged glow, but inside the train, everything felt soft and warm. “It just meant she loved you very much. But if you are happier with your life the way it is than you would have been if you were society’s darling, then she would have been delighted for you. Marriage is not the measure of a life well-lived.”
“Oh,” Evie said stupidly.
People equate happiness to their experience of it.
Her father tucked her blanket more firmly around her the way she so often did to him, his movements weak but his intentions strong. “So long as you are true to yourself, you could not fail to make me proud, Evie,” he said, sitting back with a huff that spoke of his exhaustion. He found travel so tiring, especially during the winter when they had to battle the chill. “You should know that.”
Absurdly, though she knew it was foolish of her to give into fancies, she felt as though she was eighteen all over again, so worried about the prospect of her Season the next year that she felt as though she might vomit every time she thought about it.
“So don’t do it,” Charles had said with a shrug when she had confided in him about it. He’d looked so tall and strong that year, back from university, half stranger, half friend, a drawl in his voice she had not yet become accustomed to. “Carve your own path. Do what makes you happy.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not, Pidge?” He used the blade of a knife to carve an apple, fingers nimble. That summer, she had found him utterly captivating. Every lanky, over-long line of him. The heavy brows, the deep eyes that she always felt she was in danger of falling straight into.
“Because,” she’d said helplessly.
