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 asyour 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 intothe 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.
