Evelyn nodded. “Indeed we do.”
The family could not afford new things for the ball, so Evelyn had decided to adjust one of her old gowns to attempt to make it more fashionable. Lucy often attended balls and parties in London, and so her insight into what was modish and what was not was most welcome. The rest of the morning was spent gazing at Lucy’s copy of theLady’s Gazette, studying the colourful illustrations of ladies’ outfits.
“I will try to refashion the neckline and add an overskirt.” That seemed like the only way to modify her old gown to make it seem more fashionable.
“A good notion,” Lucy agreed, nodding.
Once their plan was settled, Lucy took her leave, and Evelyn set to work. Her mother seemed heartened by the prospect of the ball; the faint spark of pleasure in her eyes made Evelyn’s throat tighten with gratitude. Mama settled in a nearby chair to watch her daughter stitch, and even that small flicker of interest felt like a blessing.
Two days of tireless work followed—stitched between meetings with the housekeeper about the week’s meals, checking accounts with the butler, and supervising the household chores—but at last, the gown was finished.
“Miss Caldwell! ’Tis a fine gown—truly it is,” the housekeeper murmured as she carried it in. With no lady’s maid remaining in their employ, the housekeeper attended both Evelyn and Mama, seeing that their garments were clean, mended, and pressed.
“Thank you, Mrs Hitchin,” Evelyn said, studying her handiwork.
The dress, once plain white silk, now bore a gauzy overskirt edged in lace, falling from a white silk band just beneath the bust as fashion dictated. She had lowered the neckline into a modest oval—far less demure than she usually wore—and felt anuneasy flutter of shyness and excitement at the exposed curve it revealed.
“You have done a grand task, Miss Caldwell. A grand task,” Mrs Hitchin said fondly, her pale eyes warm.
“Thank you,” Evelyn replied with real affection.
When the housekeeper left, Evelyn dressed. She was used to managing without assistance, and within twenty minutes she wore the gown and had arranged her hair. She paused before the mirror, breath catching.
The pearly silk skimmed her ankles, whispering as she moved. The gauzy overskirt caught the candlelight, shimmering gently and enhancing the sway of her walk. The sleeves were small cap-sleeves, elegant and delicate. The neckline showed the swell of her cleavage. Her hair was arranged in an elegant chignon, leaving her long neck bare. She had decorated her hair with a silver clasp.
She stared at her reflection, her brown eyes wide. An elegant, delicate stranger gazed back at her. Her skin was pearly in the light, her soft oval face sweet and pretty. Her brown hair framed it, just covering the tips of her ears. She smiled, her full lips drawing back from white teeth; her eyes glowing with a mix of excitement and shy pride.
She looked away, her stomach twisting with excitement. It had been years since she had attended a ball. She would not have attended any, but Lady Evandale had insisted that she, Mama and James attend her annual party.
She drew in a breath and left her chamber.
The gown whispered around her legs as she descended, her silk shoes doing little to shield her feet from the cold of the stone steps.
James waited below, dressed in a well-cut black tailcoat, his cravat tied with unusual precision. He looked up—and went still.
“Sister… you look—” He paused, awed. “You look fit for court.”
She laughed softly, touched. “Thank you, brother. And you look fit to escort me to the palace.”
James snorted, but he looked pleased.
A few moments later, their mother descended. Mrs Hitchin had arranged her greying hair into a neat chignon that softened and refined her features. She wore pale blue; her jewellery simple and tasteful. Evelyn’s heart lifted.
“Mama, you look lovely,” she said warmly. “Come—we mustn’t keep the coach waiting.”
James offered his arm to steady their mother, and Evelyn followed them down to the small barouche they now used, their grander carriage long since sold.
They arrived at Lady Evandale’s townhouse within twenty minutes. Though it lay on the far side of Kensington, the streets were congested with evening traffic bound for the opera and various entertainments. Evelyn’s palms dampened with anxiety as she stepped from the coach and mounted the steps.
Pine torches flamed in sconces on either side of the door, casting a warm glow over the stone façade. Inside, Lady Evandale herself stood ready to greet them.
“Good evening, my dear,” she said, taking Mama’s gloved hand. “Good evening, sweet Evelyn.”
“Good evening, my lady,” Evelyn greeted her gratefully.
She wished she could linger on the steps. As she walked down into the ballroom, her heart thudded with fear and tension, and she could hardly breathe, though she wore no stays that might have impeded her ability to breathe in.
She reached the floor of the ballroom and gazed around.
