8 a.m. Thursday
Evelina sat before her dressing-table mirror, not seeing the image before her. She was aware that it was a sunny morning, sparkling as champagne on ice. She could hear Imogen’s excited voice down the corridor, exclaiming about a button or a feather or some crisis of absolutely national import. She could feel the heavy richness of her presentation gown, the white folds like a blanket of snow around her.
But none of it could quite penetrate the haze in her mind. She was adrift, spiraling like a twig down a stream, powerless against the rushing force. Evelina had known even as a child that leaving the circus would take her away from all she knew, but now she understood how irrevocable that act had been. There would be no return. Even if she could go back to Ploughman’s, it would never again be the place she knew.
Gran Cooper was dead. Nick hadn’t told her. She had learned it from Old Ploughman himself, his manner kind and delighted to see her again, but unsure what to say. The winter had taken the old woman barely two years after Evelina had left. All her other kin was gone, too, taking up regular occupations or moving on in search of richer shows, though Ploughman had kept the Fabulous Flying name of the Coopers’ old act.
She hadn’t asked for any more details. Too shocked to prolong the visit, too afraid of whom else she might have lost, she’d left at once, collecting Imogen on the way. Without Gran, nothing would seem right anyway.
Evelina still hadn’t cried. She would, eventually, but the pain had gone too deep, like a splinter the flesh couldn’t eject until it had festered. All she could do was go forward, a twig in the stream, anchored to nothing.
Behind her, Lady Bancroft’s maid pushed another pin into Evelina’s dark hair, fastening in the headdress of feathers required by the Lord Chamberlain’s precise dress code. Usually Dora dressed her hair, but for the presentation Lady B was taking no chances.
“How does that look, miss?” she asked.
It would look fine, Evelina knew, because the girl was excellent at her work. Nevertheless, she forced herself to focus on her image in the mirror. A stranger looked back, the formal hairstyle and her mood conspiring to disorient her. “Lovely, Jeanette. Thank you.”
The maid left. Evelina stayed seated at her dressing table, feeling the morning flowing downstream. She was grief stricken, but nothing had changed. Not really. She would go to the presentation, make her bows, and go on. Marriage or college.
Why didn’t Nick tell me Gran had passed?
His omission hurt. But then it was old news to him, wasn’t it? Who was she to think that everything had remained the same just because she had left? And she hadn’t exactly taken the time to sit down with him and chat. No, I can’t blame Nick.
The rose was pressed between the pages of Barrett’s Guide to the Mechanics of Ancient Europe, the cover safely closed over the scarlet softness. A keepsake, and a token of what might have been. Nick was the king of his own world now, and she had no right to to drag him into danger. His weakness was his constancy, and she had to be wary of that for both their sakes. If she could wish for anything on this presentation morning—supposedly the open, O sesame to a young girl’s future—it would be a secure future for them both. Sadly, that meant leaving him be.
The clock—Magnus’s clock—chimed the quarter hour. Numbly, she rose, picking up her long white gloves and her fan.
Her mother had talked about Court. It had been Evelina’s bedtime story—the pretty dresses and nice manners, the gentry and glittering palaces, the assurance of heat and light and enough to eat. Being presented was the culmination of her father’s dreams when he ran away and took the queen’s shilling, signing up for a life of war just so he could better himself.
Evelina was completing the family mythology. She had won the brass ring.
She wished she could have been happy. To top off her gloom, there had been word that morning from Dr. Watson. Uncle Sherlock was back in England, but had stopped overnight to see Grandmamma Holmes. The old lady wasn’t well, and it was more than her usual complaints.
Despite their sometimes stormy relationship, the news had worried Evelina, but the last thing her grandmamma would thank her for was to forget Court and rush to her bedside in an excess of sentimentality. Grandmamma was expecting Evelina to eclipse her mother’s transgressions. Still, the timing couldn’t be worse, after hearing about Gran. Don’t make me lose them both. Not now.
A profound sense of loneliness engulfed her. There would be no one from either side of Evelina’s family to see her triumph.
Imogen and her mother had already departed in their carriage. Evelina would ride with the Duchess of Westlake—her sponsor and a woman she barely knew.
The duchess arrived on time, gathered Evelina into her grand equipage, and drove at a brisk pace to Buckingham Palace, where the Court Drawing Room was to be held.
The duchess was a large woman, gray-haired and without an ounce of nonsense about her. She looked Evelina up and down as if she were the latest addition to her stables. Whatever the woman’s willingness to be her sponsor, there was no doubting her preparation. She had brought a maid and two large bags filled with brushes, powders, ribbons, sewing equipment, spare gloves, and stockings. She was apparently an old hand at the debutante business and approached the affair with the vigor of a general contemplating the battlefield.
“Did you refrain from drinking tea with your breakfast?” the duchess asked sharply.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Evelina answered meekly.
“Good.”
Evelina had guessed why, and it turned out she was correct. The crush of carriages outside the palace was unimaginable. They ended up waiting for hours before they could alight and enter the stuffy antechambers, only to wait some more. The place was jammed to the rafters with women growing hungry and restless. There were no facilities of any kind for the comfort of the debutantes and their sponsors.
Evelina looked around for Imogen and Lady Bancroft, who was her daughter’s sponsor. The duchess spotted them first.
Despite the splendor of the occasion, Imogen was herself. “I can’t believe we’re doing this! And you’re doing it with me! I’d embrace you but we’d both wrinkle our gowns!”
Evelina laughed. The sheer bizarreness of the situation was lifting her mood a little, and the happy excitement of all the girls around her was contagious. Still, she wasn’t going to believe this was happening until she’d actually kissed the queen’s hand. “I’ll celebrate after, if I have any strength left. Apparently they mean this to be a test of endurance.”
“I went through this with my own daughters,” the duchess said with a sigh. “Each time I wonder how an empire that rules the world can manage to make a fifteen-minute job last all day.”
“I’m famished,” Imogen grumbled. It was nearing the three o’clock start time. They had left the house before nine that morning.
“The Lord Chamberlain is evil,” Evelina returned darkly.
The Lord Chamberlain ruled the presentations, and he did so with an iron sense of tradition. No newfangled inventions were found at these events, for all Queen Victoria’s fascination with clever devices and clockwork toys. The Lord Chamberpot—not everyone was equally in awe of the man—dictated who was acceptable to put before the queen, and what they should be wearing when it happened. To Evelina, it seemed like he had confused the whole thing with a wedding.
All the debutantes wore white dresses and long, gauzy veils. All the gowns had short sleeves and low necks. No wraps, shawls, or scarves were permitted without a doctor’s certificate. Apparently the Royal Court liked to see a bit of young female skin.
The regulation headdresses featured white ostrich plumes—three for the married ladies, two for the unwed—worn slightly to the left and curling grandly in the air. From the amount of fidgeting going on, it seemed most had trouble keeping them in place. The pins pulled at Evelina’s hair, dragging because of the weight of the ridiculous veil and feathers.
The girls were presented in order of rank. Evelin
a—daughter of an army captain—was near the end. Finally, it was time, and a sense of occasion infused her. Now was the moment she truly crossed into the world of the Quality. This was the mark of acceptance they recognized and her admission into Society. Thank you, Uncle Sherlock.
Evelina stepped into the drawing room and handed her card to the Lord Chamberlain with her left hand and clutched her bouquet with the right. The gentlemen-in-waiting rushed forward to spread out the wealth of her long train—regulation three yards long, fifty-four inches wide—behind her.
“Miss Evelina Cooper,” announced the Lord Chamberlain.
Evelina was suddenly faced with a large room filled with the pale butterfly forms of the court ladies and debutantes. Men in dark suits and uniforms punctuated the scene like exclamation points. But what fixed her attention was the group of figures at the opposite end of the room. Queen Victoria and two of the princesses were there, flanked by their attendants.
Small, plump, and gray-haired, the queen had celebrated her Golden Jubilee the summer before. Now, in her dark dress, she reminded Evelina just a little of Gran Cooper, a thought that brought a fresh wave of sadness.
As she drew closer, Evelina could see the old woman’s face. Shrewd eyes held a glint of humor. There was something in the endless parade of girls bravely struggling with their feathers and trains that amused the queen. She’s just like Gran. Stern, but there’s kindness there, too.
Evelina came to a stop before Queen Victoria, and nearly forgot what to do next. Her hesitation only lasted an eye blink, but it was enough to jolt her back to the task at hand. Now came the curtsy. It had to be low, almost until her knee touched the ground, but only almost. She bowed, and the queen presented her hand to be kissed. Daughters of aristocrats received a kiss on the brow. Those who came from common stock did the kissing.
Evelina bent her head over the plump hand with its glittering rings, feeling the drift of her veil as she moved. The queen smelled of rosewater.
“The Duchess of Westlake is your sponsor,” Victoria said. “Where is your mother? I do not remember her.”
That, she supposed, should be a relief. Evelina had heard the queen reviewed the list of girls before each ceremony. She must have grown curious when she came across an unknown as the protégée of a duchess.
Evelina bowed her head, tears suddenly springing to her eyes. She hadn’t cried yet, so why, oh why was it happening in front of the queen?
She blinked hard, sternly banishing the wetness before it could fall. “I’m afraid my mother died of a fever long ago, Your Majesty.”
Victoria raised Evelina’s chin with the hand just kissed. “Poor chick. You’ve a pretty face. A difficult thing to have when there is no mother.”
“I do my best to keep my wits about me, Your Majesty.”
“We are pleased to hear it, Miss Cooper.” That thread of sharp—but not unkind—wit was in the queen’s voice now, as well as her bright eyes.
Evelina rose again, careful not to lose her balance or trip on her gown and its huge train. Then she curtsied again to the other royals. They looked slightly bemused. Her Majesty rarely spoke to the girls. Evelina finished with another, brief curtsy to the queen.
One of the gentlemen-in-waiting hurried forward to retrieve Evelina’s train and drape it over her arm. From there, with a bouquet and feathers and a deal more bowing and scraping, she had to walk backward away from the throne and successfully exit the door without turning. One did not turn one’s back on royalty.
Evelina counted her blessings that she had spent her early years studying acrobatics. She needed that good sense of balance. By the time she had left, the next debutante was already making her way forward. Evelina finally turned, to find the duchess already at her side.
“So, young lady, do you feel any different?”
No. She had expected more, and was vaguely disappointed. And yet she did feel a change, as if the twig she’d been thinking about that morning had gone over a waterfall, never to find its way back upstream, for good or ill.
But that was too complicated an answer to give, so Evelina reconsidered. “I feel that I have been granted an extraordinary privilege.”
“You have.” The duchess looked down her impressive nose at Evelina, sizing her up anew. “I will be pleased to see a bright thing like you in my drawing room.”
They were leaving the palace, moving outside so their carriage could be brought. Food, drink, and—best of all—a water closet were in their future. The breeze caught Evelina’s veil, and for a moment it blinded her.
Evelina dragged it out of the way. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“I knew your mother, you know.”
That startled her. “You did?”
Some distance off, a steam tram huffed by on the public roadway. The passengers hooted and waved at all the feathered girls standing about waiting for their rides.
“I’m sure the queen does as well, whatever she says. She’s giving you a chance.” The duchess’s iron-gray eyebrows drew together. “You look just like Marianne. Mind that you don’t make the same mistakes.”
Evelina’s lips parted, an angry retort coming from deep in her belly. All her grief about Gran came back, darkened by anger and too raw for politeness.
The duchess must have seen it on her face. She put a gloved hand on Evelina’s arm, quelling whatever disastrous thing she was about to say. “Don’t mistake me. I understand wanting love and happiness, believe me I do, but Society is a treacherous sea. I say the same thing to my own daughters. A young woman must find a ship that can weather the storms. Choose your husband as much for durability as for fine rigging.”
Evelina lowered her eyes. “I understand.”
The duchess smiled almost fondly, tapping her fan in an admonishing gesture. “I want you to be thinking about that at my ball tonight, because I think Society will take to you, Evelina Cooper. There will be no shortage of young men wanting to dance. Look, here is our carriage.”
And a surprise to finish off the afternoon. They got in, but there was something on the seat. The duchess picked it up, after almost sitting on it.
It was a single flower tied with a white bow. “How did this get here? There is a tag on it for you, Miss Cooper.”
Evelina raised a hand to take it, but the duchess chose to read the message first. She held it at arm’s length to focus on the writing. “To congratulate you on this auspicious day. How proud you must be to have achieved so much.”
The duchess flipped the tag over with a sniff. “Rather pompous, whoever it is. Aha, it is addressed from Dr. Magnus. Can’t say I like the fellow.”
Evelina accepted the flower as gingerly as if it had been a viper. The words were all civility, but the rose was identical to the one she had received from Nick. Somehow Magnus knew where she’d been and what she’d done yesterday. And he was here now, somewhere close, showing her what he could do.
Tension prickled across her shoulders, knotting the muscles in the back of her neck. She felt exposed in the low-cut dress, as if her magic and her past at Ploughman’s were tattooed on her skin. “I don’t like him, either.”
“That shows you’ve got some wits,” the Duchess of Westlake said crisply. “For all his fine airs, there’s something dodgy about the man. To go back to our discussion of men and ships, that one reminds me of a doomed vessel, like the Flying Dutchman. All very fascinating until you find yourself keelhauled straight to hell.”
Despite the tension cramping her stomach, Evelina had a sudden impulse to laugh. Well, then, Tobias had better start building another squid!
Chapter Thirty-three
The Duke and Duchess of Westlake’s ball, held at their grand address in Mayfair, was the first big event for the debutantes of the Season. Although most of the girls, including Imogen, would also have a debut ball hosted by their families, this first whirl on the dance floor was as eagerly anticipated as their visit to the palace earlier that day. The duchess made full use of her guest lis
t, and her power as a hostess was formidable—few dared to refuse her summons. The cream of Society would all be there to welcome the newcomers fresh from Queen Victoria’s Court Drawing Room. And with this event, the hunt for husbands was officially on. Evelina had ached to go to the Duchess of Westlake’s ball—yearned for it with her whole heart ever since she knew it existed. But now she understood how fillies felt, carefully brushed and with ribbons braided in their manes, before being led to the auction block.
Nervous, she was waiting outside for the carriage, catching a breath of air before they were due to depart. Maybe it was a risk, but she still felt asphyxiated after the long hours at the palace. She wanted to climb something, to feel the wind from twenty feet above the ground.
Clouds deepened the dark of the sky, promising rain to come, but thankfully it had not yet arrived. Custom required debutantes to wear white for the Westlakes’ event, so Evelina stood almost immobile, her dancing shoes in a dainty sequined bag, her cloak covering every inch of the pristine white ruffles of her skirt. Somewhere in the elaborate mass of her coiffure, a hairpin was digging painfully into Evelina’s scalp.
It was her first real ball, and she was so apprehensive, her stomach hurt. She wouldn’t mind if a few spaces on her dance card went empty, but what if no one asked her at all? She wasn’t a great beauty or a great heiress. What if all the men walked right past her? What if she was left standing alone all night? The thought of it made a corkscrew of her insides. She’d already fought off one attack of the hiccups. Give her a tightrope to walk, or a dragon to vanquish. This was agony.
A low whistle sounded from beyond the gate—a long note, then three short ones. Nick!
Or not. With Magnus lurking about, she wasn’t taking anything for granted. Cautiously, she crept a few steps down the walkway to the metal gate that opened onto the street—or would have opened, had it been daytime. Since the murder, Bigelow had taken to locking it at sundown. She didn’t cover more distance than she could make in a quick dash back to the door.
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