But this was wrong, thinking so much about him. If Mama wanted her to marry a rich, titled Englishman, she would try, and in the process forget about Thomas.
Lydia entered as the dressmaker was leaving. “Well, Evleen, I see your dress is nearly complete. Let me look at you.”
Evleen dutifully turned and stood quietly as the older woman examined her with a critical eye. “Hmm, that should do for the ball next week.” Her remark carried all the warmth of a frost-covered tombstone.
“If only it were ready for tonight,” Evleen said wistfully.
“Charlotte’s gown is perfectly suitable for tonight,” Lydia replied, her voice devoid of sympathy. “I trust you’re aware Lady Claremont’s ball is one of the most important events of the Season. Everybody who is anybody will be there, and I advise you act accordingly.”
Evleen stiffened, sensing immediately the implied insult.
“Just what do you mean by ‘accordingly,’ Mrs. Trevlyn? That I not spit on the floor? That I not rip my clothes off and dance in my chemise? That I—?” Oh-oh. She had gone to far. She could tell because Lydia’s mouth had dropped open and her face was turning purple.
“You know what I mean,” snapped Lydia. That she was annoyed was an understatement. “You would be wise to stay away from Montague. And might I suggest you say as little as possible? That way, no one will know you come from Ireland.”
I’ve done it now, thought Evleen, regretting her impudent answer. She must keep reminding herself of her vow to maintain good relations with the Trevlyns, no matter what. She didn’t want to apologize but knew she must. “I am truly sorry for my frivolous answer, Mrs. Trevlyn. Have no fear, I shall be as circumspect as a nun.”
“That’s good to hear, Evleen.”
Hearing a trace of softening in Lydia’s voice, Evleen decided to go a step farther. “I want you to know how sorry I am about... well, everything. It must have been very difficult—I mean, expecting your husband would be the heir to Lord Trevlyn’s estate, and then here came Patrick, without so much as a warning.”
After an awkward moment of silence, Lydia’s face twisted with emotion. “You have no idea how difficult. We’ve lost our fortune. If we’re not careful, the girls won’t marry nearly as well. And I... I...” She gulped, rigidly holding tears in check. “All these years I expected that some day I would have a title. My dear friend, Mrs. Drummond-Burrel, expects a title. Some day she’ll become Lady Willoughby de Eresby, but will I ever become Lady Trevlyn? No! Because of Patrick, I am doomed to being nothing more than plain Mrs. Trevlyn—” her voice began to rise “—for the rest of my life.”
How amazing. Evleen found it hard to believe Lydia’s main concern in life appeared to be the loss of a title she never had. How shallow to put such value on a mere word in front of one’s name. And yet, it was clear her anguish was genuine. Evleen had never expected she’d feel sympathy for this bitter, mirthless woman, but now she did. “I am so sorry,” she began, but Lydia raised a hand to silence her.
“Don’t. There’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” In complete control of herself once again, Lydia squared her shoulders. “Was there anything else, Evleen?”
After allowing that one brief crack in her armor, Lydia was obviously back to her old self again. To say anything more on the subject would be useless. Instead, Evleen decided to voice a small fear that had been nagging her. “In Ireland, we did the country dances. Is it the same here?”
For a fleeting moment, Evleen could have sworn she saw a tiny glitter of triumph in Lydia’s eyes, but she must have been mistaken because the older woman smiled and said, “You’ll do fine. You shouldn’t have a bit of trouble with the dances. They are all quite easy and you can simply learn as you go along.”
“Then I shall do my best,” Evleen said, greatly relieved.
“I’m sure you will.” Lydia’s jaw tightened. “Remember, our family’s reputation is at stake. We cannot tolerate another of your little escapades.”
“Now you’ve done it,” said Patrick after Lydia left. He had listened silently, still perched on Evleen’s bed.
“Yes, I’ve made her angry, haven’t I?” Evleen answered thoughtfully. “It’s my own fault, too.”
“You shouldn’t have been so impudent.”
“That’s quite perceptive of you, Patrick,” she answered, not happy hearing the truth from an ten-year-old. Hands on hips, she advised, “Well,