one has ever liked that mud-colored atrocity. For years it’s hung at the back of Miss Charlotte’s wardrobe.”
“Beggars cannot be choosers, Celeste.” Evleen perceived exactly what the lady’s maid was hinting at, yet after her transgression today, she had no wish to find fault with anyone.
“You will need a fan,” said Celeste. “I shall go borrow—”
“I don’t need a fan. I carried that silly plume thing to dinner the other night, and found it nothing but a bother. All it did was tickle my nose.”
Celeste persisted, but Evleen was adamant. Shortly, wearing the mud-colored dress, not carrying a fan, Evleen descended the stairs to the drawing room, wishing heartily she could just stay home.
* * *
Evleen was relieved Lord Trevlyn had forgiven her, but now, as she sat in the drawing room with the Trevlyn ladies, waiting for their carriage to come around, she felt like an accused prisoner in the Old Baily docks. Except for Amanda, how formidable they looked, all dressed to the nines for the rout tonight. Lydia Trevlyn was a study in mirthless severity in severe black; Charlotte looked more like a beautiful wax doll than a real person in her peach satin gown, her blonde hair perfectly arranged; Bettina was all frills, lace, and tiny bouncy curls. Only Amanda, unattractive in a plain, dull-colored gown, did not have that accusing gleam in her eyes. It occurred to Evleen that Amanda would actually be pretty if she sat straight, not hunched over with her shoulders slumped.
Lydia spoke to Evleen, her lips pursed in disapproval. “What I cannot understand is what possessed you to go wandering about the streets, especially at that indecent hour of the morning.”
Evleen wondered how she could possibly explain that at the time, she had not given her and Patrick’s “little stroll” a thought. And how was she to know whether an hour was “indecent” or not? There was no such thing as an indecent hour in County Clare since most of its citizens arose early in order to do their work. She would try to explain. “You see, in Ireland—”
“It simply is not done,” interrupted Bettina, looking down her nose. “A lady on the streets alone? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“And on Saint James Street,” Charlotte contributed, her expression properly horrified. “Everyone knows a lady must never show her face on Saint James’s Street.”
“Yet there you were,” Lydia went on, “wandering alone, with only a little boy for company—hardly a chaperone—going wherever you pleased for the world to see.”
“I cannot see the harm,” Evleen answered, knowing in advance they wouldn’t like her answer.
“You cannot see the harm?” repeated Lydia in horror. “We are only concerned for your welfare, Miss O’Fallon, and can only hope the people who count didn’t see you on Saint James Street alone. If they did, your reputation is in shreds before you’ve hardly started.”
Charlotte bobbed her head in agreement. “And furthermore, you have endangered the reputation of the entire Trevlyn family.”
And just who were “the people that count?” Evleen wondered. Best not to ask. “Perhaps I should be drawn and quartered,” she murmured, seeing the humor despite her discomfit.
Only Amanda caught the whimsy in her remark, and to Evleen’s surprise, threw her a fleeting smile. Alas, her mother caught it, and demanded, “What is funny, Amanda?”
“Nothing, Mama.” Amanda pulled herself straight, obviously gathering her courage, and burst out, “But perhaps we should remember that Evleen just arrived from Ireland, where things are different, and she cannot possibly be expected to learn all our customs at once.”
The sound of Lydia’s sigh of exasperation filled the room. “I am surprised at you, Amanda. Henceforth, I suggest that you, not being knowledgeable of the situation, would do well to remain silent.” Lydia turned back to Evleen. “You are not in Ireland now, are you? I trust you’ll know how to conduct yourself at Lord and Lady Beckford’s rout tonight.”
“Also called an ‘at-home,’ Evleen,” Charlotte loftily informed her, “just in case you didn’t know.”
Evleen heartily wished she had not promised Lord Trevlyn she would go to the rout, or at-home, or whatever it was called, but she had promised, and there was no getting around it. “I shall do my best, Mrs. Trevyln. That’s all I can do. You may as well know, I am not keen on going.”
Lydia gazed pointedly at the mud-colored gown. “You don’t wish to attend? After we took all the trouble to find something suitable for you to wear?”