Page 169 of The Siren of Sussex

“I noticed this garment the moment you arrived with Lady Arundell,” she said. “It’s a stunning creation.”

Evelyn couldn’t disagree.

Made of black French grenadine laid over black silk, the afternoon dress was cut and sewn to perfection. It did more than flatter Evelyn’s curves; it worshipped them, giving her the illusion of a near-perfect hourglass figure.

Full skirts swelled out from a close-fitting bodice, long sleeves skimmed her arms, and a row of delicate, silk-covered buttons traced the length of her spine.

It hadn’t much in the way of trimmings, save a little black lace and near-invisible pleating at the hem, but the gown was by no means plain. On the contrary. It was a masterpiece of artfully placed stitches, darts, and seams.

“You must have recently visited France,” Lady Seymour observed.

“No, indeed. I’ve never been out of England in my life.”

“It was made here?” Lady Seymour’s brows lifted. “You astonish me.”

“It was designed by a gentleman in London,” Evelyn said. “A brilliant dressmaker.”

“He must be. I’ve never seen a gown manage to do so much for one’s figure while still preserving the dignity of mourning. May I?”

“If you like.”

Lady Seymour reached to touch Evelyn’s skirts. “We’re all in mourning these days. The entire court. It can be quite dreary. All one sees is crepe and more crepe.” She examined Evelyn’s sleeve and bodice. “You must give me the name of this dressmaker of yours.”

“Of course.” Evelyn smiled to herself as she reached for her reticule. “I just happen to have his card.”

They departed Birmingham the following morning. On arriving at the railway station in London, Evelyn was obliged to switch trains in order to continue her journey home to Sussex. Her uncle waited as she hugged Anne goodbye.

“It’s only for a fortnight,” Evelyn said. The sound of a whistle nearly drowned out her voice. It was punctuated by the hiss of steam and the ungodly screech of metal as another train rolled into the station.

“Yes, I know,” Anne replied loudly. “You’ll be back before you know it. In the meanwhile, you must write to me.”

“I will,” Evelyn promised.

Passengers emptied from the compartments of the newly arrived train. They rushed past, some shouting to porters and others calling out to friends awaiting them on the platform. Everyone seemed to be in a spectacular hurry.

“Really, Fielding,” Lady Arundell said. “Have you no maid to send with the girl?”

“I thank you, my lady,” Evelyn said, “but I don’t require a maid. I’m an old hand at rail travel by now.” She’d made the journey up to London from Sussex alone. It would be no more difficult to make the journey back.

Uncle Harris summoned a porter to take Evelyn’s luggage to the baggage car. “A lot of to-do,” he grumbled as he escorted her to the correct platform. “All so you can return in two weeks’ time.”

She took his arm, walking with him through the clouds of smoke and steam. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

He gave an absent pat to her hand. “I won’t say there haven’t been compensations. Spiritual amplification and so forth. But a man of my age grows accustomed to his peace and quiet.”

“Yes, I know. My presence in the house has been rather disruptive, I fear.”

“Quite so. That business at Cremorne. I blame myself. When the other girls come to stay, I shall insist Nora accompany them.”

Evelyn glanced at him, frowning. She hadn’t been fully listening. Perhaps she’d misheard? “What other girls?”

“The next younger girl. What do you call her? Augusta? And the three younger ones after that. Can’t recall their names.”

“Caroline, Elizabeth, and Isobel.” Evelyn stared at him. “I’m sorry. Are you saying that . . . you’ll give each of my sisters a season?”

Uncle Harris had never committed to any such thing before. He was too eccentric. Too unwilling to disrupt his life. He’d only hosted Evelyn on sufferance. To presume anything more had never been an option.

“Seems little enough expense, providing Nora keeps them out of trouble.” He scowled at her. “Pity she didn’t accompany you.”