“I will find another way to improve our lot, should that happen. You are not to worry.”
“I do worry. You may see improvement, but I see more of the same for years on end. I say we make big changes, not your little ones. Let us make the best of our breeding and youth and blaze another trail while we still can.”
Eva looked up at her sister. Rebecca’s face flushed and her posture stiffened, but she met Eva’s gaze boldly.
“You refer to your improper proposal from the other day, I fear.” She should have paid more attention at the time, and pulled that particular weed at once. “You cannot be serious, Rebecca.”
“Why not? The sisters Neville say such a life can bring a woman security and even riches.”
Eva laughed and stood. “Darling, you do not even comprehend what such a life entails. I wonder if the sisters Neville really do either. I cannot imagine why they would speak of such things to you.”
“I asked them, and they answered frankly. Not everyone thinks women should remain ignorant.”
“You are not a woman. You are a child.”
“Oh, tosh! Look at me, Eva. Really look at me. Do not let the memories obscure what you see.” Tears sparkled in Rebecca’s eyes. Her defiant expression turned into one of pitiable unhappiness. “I am no child. I will be nineteen soon. Not one man has proposed. Not one. I have not even had a tragic love, like you did. And look at yourself. You used to have dreams of being an artist, but you have only done copies for years now. And I cannot remember the last time I saw you sketch.”
Turning on her heel, Rebecca ran to the house.
Eva gazed over the garden she had known all her life. A memory came to her of playing with a much younger Rebecca amid the shrubbery. Then others flowed, of comforting her little sister when their father passed away.
She dropped to her knees and continued pulling weeds. As her gloved hands yanked the tiny intruders out, her heart accommodated the words with which Rebecca had slapped her, hard.
Her sister did not really want to become a fallen woman. Rebecca just wanted to know she would have some kind of life besides this one. The lack of suitors would weigh on any young woman Rebecca’s age, and cause a restlessness that made her vulnerable.
Her thoughts turned to Charles, the “tragic love” Rebecca had thrown in her face. Not really tragic. Rebecca had been too dramatic. After all, Charles had not died. He had not forsaken her. He had merely gone away as he had planned, only without her because she could not—no,wouldnot—marry him and go too. To do so would mean leaving her brother alone and sick, weak from that pistol wound that forever after affected his health.
That duty had cost her dearly. Marriage, her youth, her art—
She avoided thinking about all of it, because when she did her heart turned angry and frightened.
She almost never thought about Charles anymore. She rarely grew wistful with thoughts of what might have been. She hated that she did now.
She shut the memories away and thought about her plans for the future, plans she did not confide to Rebecca lest they not come to pass. With her sister’s unhappiness, it might be time to embark on that path sooner than intended.
She returned to the house, washed her hands, and mounted the stairs to her bedchamber. She pried up a loose floorboard in the corner, and fished out a little sack hanging on a nail she had pounded into a joist. She sat on her bed and emptied its contents in her lap. The shillings clinked as they fell into a little mound.
Coins entered this sack, but never left. She saved them for a purpose other than security, although they provided that too. With this money, she intended to give Rebecca the better she deserved. She had planned to have more before taking the first step, but now she decided more boldness was in order.
Surely if a decent, established man met Rebecca, he would fall in love and offer marriage despite her lack of fortune. She merely had to find a way for worthy prospects to see Rebecca. She also needed Rebecca to look very, very lovely when they did.
And once Rebecca was settled, Eva would be free to make her own future different as well.
***
Gareth surveyed the shelves holding bolts of fabric in Duran’s Cloths, a draper’s store in Langdon’s End. He had already waited half an hour for the proprietor to serve him. From the look of things it would be quite a while longer. The woman commanding Mr. Duran’s attention must have examined every bolt of fabric in the place, and showed no indication of knowing her mind yet.
While he practiced patience, he mentally made a list of the items he needed if he were to spend even one more day in Albany Lodge. That was not the historic name of the property. It actually had none that he knew of. In the will, it had only been called the Warwickshire hunting lodge. On his ride here he had sorted through names until he found one he liked. Considering how he had come to own it, naming it after his mother seemed fitting.
As he anticipated, Albany Lodge had been emptied of almost everything that could be moved and much that should never be. Most critically he needed bedclothes. He had only had serviceable linens the past few nights because he had stopped in Coventry again and, expecting what he would find, begged some off his mother. He should have hired a wagon and cajoled her out of much more.
He needed to purchase pots, soap, flints, kitchenware—everything. Tools, too, he reminded himself. He would hire craftsmen to do the skilled work, but he could manage a few repairs himself. Expensive, all of it. The count’s collection had better make it to Honfleur in time for Hendrika’s ship.
Gareth glanced over to see Mr. Duran, the proprietor, fold some muslin. Thin feminine fingers plucked coins out of a reticule and set them down. He could not see the woman’s face, but something about her feathered at his memory. Then he recognized the pelisse and bonnet. It was the woman he had forced off the road near Albany Lodge. His mind saw her again, her eyes throwing daggers of fire while she upbraided him for carelessness.
She wore the same bonnet and pelisse today. Both had seen current style some years ago. Their brown hues proved unfortunate to her coloring. They turned her into a winter palette that begged for red or bright blue. There were birds whose feathers helped them hide on tree trunks, and these garments had done the same on a road flanked by woods.
He doubted that camouflage was her goal. Most likely she wore this because she possessed little else that was presentable. If so, ruining those shoes had been no small matter to her. No wonder she had cursed him.
