Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T here had been a floorboard that creaked in one particular spot in the parlour for as long as Eva could remember. She had gotten into the habit of skipping or hopping over it as a young girl until her governess had rapped her on the knuckles for such undignified behaviour. Even so, Eva had never stopped her habit completely; she still took a longer step over it.

It was at this floorboard that Eva stared as Lady Stanton paced across the floor; Eva could time when her mother would make the floor squeak down to the second, and mentally counted them down. Five, four, three, two…and squeak. It helped to keep her mind occupied.

They had left the ball relatively early, though the hour was still quite late for those that did not keep "London hours" as they were known. Lady Stanton had clearly been hoping to avoid more of a scene, which was threatening to disrupt all of her carefully laid plans. She was so incensed that she had not even allowed Eva to change yet, even though she was in her best gown and it was in great danger of becoming creased. She had been all but flung onto the settee by Lady Stanton, who alternately paced, glowered, and lectured.

"Do you have any idea how close to the edge you came tonight? It was bad enough having to explain that—that vulgar, tawdry , display of—of—is that even dancing?" Lady Stanton demanded, stopping her pacing to stare down at Eva with hands on hips.

"You know very well it is, Mother," Eva answered tiredly.

"It was manageable, everything was manageable , but so help me Eva, if this latest tomfoolery of yours has jeopardised your chances with Mr. Cluett…" Lady Stanton paused, letting the implied threat hang in the air. It was as if she were expecting Eva to put up some argument, protest in some way, but she did not. She merely sat and stared dully at the floor. "We must move quickly," Lady Stanton said, changing tack and resuming her pacing.

"We must?" Eva asked, lifting her eyes.

"Before any rumours can begin circulating. Your reputation already hangs by a thread, and it is all that you have to trade on. Your dowry is a pittance at this stage; your settlement won't even have a dress allowance for you, no pin money, either."

Eva sighed, but did not object. She was suddenly very, very tired, too tired to mount a defence. "As you say, Mother," she said quietly.

Lady Stanton whirled, clearly anticipating that Eva had spoken in sarcasm. Eva's face was oddly blank, however, merely staring back at her. Lady Stanton's face was still suspicious, but she only harrumphed a little in response.

"We will invite Mr. Cluett over tomorrow," Lady Stanton resumed, as if she had not been interrupted. "I will leave him alone with you in the salon, and then we shall have him."

Eva winced a little, both at the prospect that her freedom would be at an end as soon as tomorrow, and the way that her mother spoke as if they were going to net a prize cod. Lady Stanton noticed, and stopped her pacing to lean over Eva, bending slightly so that their faces were closer together.

"I won't have any histrionics or further mischief from you, Eva, I mean it. You've been allowed your head for far too long, and it is time that someone checks you. Do you understand? Do not fail me—do not fail us tomorrow," Lady Stanton said, enunciating clearly.

"Yes, Mother."

"Go to bed now," Lady Stanton instructed, straightening. "We can't have you looking unwell for your future husband."

Wordlessly, Eva stood up, ready to comply. It wasn't simply her impending engagement that had sapped the spirit from her; it was everything else, too. It was the fact that she had a real taste of the sort of life she might lead, one in which she enjoyed freedom and art and dance, her body and spirit strong together, the audience's adoration…only to have it snatched away from her. That loss hurt almost as much as seeing Beatrice on Josiah's arm, the way that she had spoken about him, as if they…

What meaning would that life have for you if it wasn't with Josiah? Eva's heart demanded as she began trudging heavily up the stairs. It took monumental effort to lift one of her legs after the other, her progress upstairs slow. It was the truth: It was only with Josiah that she had felt alive , her skin electrified, her heart full. Dancing was all well and good, but ultimately meaningless without the correct partner. Much as life is, I suppose , she thought bitterly.

"Eva?"

Lady Stanton stood downstairs, holding onto the railing as she peered up at Eva, some few stairs above her. Eva looked down at her, the perspective strange and confusing. For a moment, Eva could glimpse the sort of little girl that her mother would have been, demanding and impossible, but easily frightened and always in need of reassurance.

Lady Stanton hesitated for a moment before demanding, "Are you in love with him?"

"Mr. Cluett?" Eva asked, a little confused.

"No, the dancing master, that Mr. Galpin," Lady Stanton said, pulling a face as if the words were flavoured with vinegar.

Eva looked away from her mother, staring up the darkened stairway. They could not afford to light it, so Eva had to find her way by keeping tight hold of the bannister. Upstairs was as black as pitch, the curtains drawn for the evening, and the maid not having gone up to light the solitary candle in Eva's room. Hanging on the wall of the stairs, portraits of ancestors seemed to sneer down from the gloom, displeased with Eva, the state of the house, or both.

"Does it matter now?" Eva replied finally.

Lady Stanton said nothing to that, and Eva continued her resolute march into the darkness.

Eva could not remember falling asleep last night, and waking was a strange experience: She merely opened her eyes and was suddenly completely awake and aware. She laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her hands folded on top of the quilted bedspread. She stared up at the ceiling, hoping that if she laid perfectly still, she might simply vanish from existence.

There was no such luck, however, for soon the maid was entering quietly, stirring up the fire and setting a cup of tea down on Lady Eva's dressing table. Mechanically, Eva rose, holding her arms out and allowing herself to be dressed as if she were a doll.

The smell of the tea roused her a little when she lifted the cup. It was unexpectedly strong, given that Lady Stanton had insisted on serving weaker and weaker tea when not entertaining in an effort to cut down on costs. She had even taken to using the same leaves more than once, wringing every bit of flavour from them that she could. Eva drank appreciatively, savouring the fact that there was even a bit of milk in the cup.

After she was clothed in a day dress of cream with a tiny blue flower print and her hair dressed, she descended the stairs on numb feet. Eva clung to the railing lest she take a tumble, an odd floating sensation taking hold of her entire body. It was as if she were on wheels and someone was simply pushing her along to the parlour as that was what was expected of her.

The ground floor of the house had been transformed while she was sleeping; the surfaces gleamed as they hadn't for months, left to collect dust with a lack of servants. Now, a girl with a white cap and apron was scurrying about, polishing everything furiously. Where shelves and mantles had been going bare, now a few knickknacks were back in their places; there was even a vase with a few flowers on an end table.

Unsettled, Eva continued to the parlour, where the shutters and curtains had been thrown open in defiance of Lady Stanton's fears that the sun would bleach the carpets and upholstery. Rugs, paintings, even candlesticks were back in their proper places. Walls and floors that had been bare now were comfortingly decorated again; a merry fire crackled in the little hearth.

A small tea service awaited, along with a sideboard full of cakes and pastries. Though they had no doubt been bought-in, they were arranged on platters and trays in such a way that they looked homemade; this gave the illusion that not only could they afford to keep a cook, they could afford a good cook.

Eva wanted to laugh or cry; it was all set dressing, like the backgrounds at the theatre that looked like forests or Roman temples far away, but were really just smudges of paint on ripped canvas. Eva half-fancied that if she blew hard enough, it would all float away on the wind like dandelion clocks in the spring.

"There you are," Lady Stanton said from behind Eva. Eva turned and blinked, not recognising her mother for a moment: She wore an apron, her skirt tucked up for scrubbing and her sleeves rolled to her elbows like a washerwoman. Her hair was a mess, her cheeks ruddy, and there were tired hollows around her eyes. "Don't stare," she snapped. "Sit here," she said, guiding Eva to a seat that allowed her to be silhouetted by late-morning light coming in from the windows.

Eva merely stared up at Lady Stanton as she sat, who stood back and looked at her with pursed lips. Like a doll, her mother posed her exactly so, folding her hands demurely in her lap, crossing her legs at the ankles and tucking them beneath the chair.

"There," Lady Stanton pronounced, nodding satisfactorily. "Now, smile! We mustn't let Mr. Cluett think that he is marrying a sad, dour stick, no?"

Obediently, Eva smiled without showing her teeth, as was proper for a young lady. Lady Stanton jerked her head once in a sharp nod. She issued further instructions to Eva not to move, and she would greet Mr. Cluett when he arrived. Eva was not to say anything, give no sign, with the implication being that she might try some last-minute dramatics.

"Your only concern right now is to simply say yes," Lady Stanton instructed as she left the room.

Despite admonitions not to move, Eva turned her head a little to watch her mother go. It was impossible not to see the tired stoop of her shoulders, or the state of her hair and dress. It was enough to move Eva, even in her fog of depression. How could it not, when her mother was trying so hard and sacrificing so much to ensure her security? Despite her own pain, Eva found tears welling in her eyes, which she dabbed at delicately with the back of her fingers, refusing to let them fall.

Perhaps I have merely been a selfish girl for too long , Eva thought, willing her eyes to clear before anyone could see her in such a state.

Minutes ticked by, the silence almost deafening. The for-hire scullery having been either dismissed or chased downstairs. It was an oppressive, heavy silence, which only highlighted the fact that this was Eva's life now; what else did she have to look forward to? She would marry, have children, and would be only known as a wife and mother from then on, her place determined by others.

It's strange to think that one's fate can be decided with just a few short words , she mused absently. Out of habit, she reached up to toy with the golden sun charm that she customarily wore, only to find it missing. She frowned, then immediately reached up to smooth her face, willing the lines away.

Though the room she was waiting in was at the rear of the house, she could still hear the front door being knocked on. Eva allowed her eyes to flutter closed, letting herself have this one moment before she had to perform the role assigned to her.

What a jape, Mother , Eva thought with a bitter smile, for all your worrying, I have become an actress anyway.

There was a hesitation, and then more knocking on the door. To Eva, each rap sounded like a hammer driving home the nails in her coffin.