Page 8 of The Siren of Sussex

Evelyn had promised that she would, but since arriving in London last week, she’d found it far easier to leave her uncle to his own devices. She much preferred her independence. The same independence she exercised at home.

Unfortunately, there were some things for which Uncle Harris was necessary.

She rapped lightly at his study door.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Uncle,” she said, cracking open the door. “Evelyn.”

Harris Fielding was seated behind an enormous, and very untidy, carved mahogany desk, the surface of which was covered with so many books and papers that her uncle himself could scarcely be seen. Only the top of his tasseled cap was visible.

“Evelyn?” He repeated her name as if he’d never heard it before. “Ah, yes. Diana’s girl. Come in, come in.”

Evelyn entered and came to stand in front of his desk.

Her mother, Diana, had been Uncle Harris’s youngest sister. She’d died when Evelyn was but fifteen, a result of exhaustion, the village midwife had said. Too many children in too short a time, not all of them living. The final birth had done for her. Baby Isobel had lived, but Mama had slipped away, closing her eyes as if to rest for a moment only to never wake again.

Her death had been the start of all their problems.

She’d been their lodestar. Their ballast. Strong and pragmatic, setting the wisest course for all of their lives. Without her, things had swiftly fallen apart.

Naturally, Papa had been no help at all. Consumed by guilt, he’d consoled himself with travel, never remaining at home for more than a few days at a time. Evelyn and her sisters had been left in the care of Aunt Nora—Mama and Uncle Harris’s spinster older sister. She was a dear, sweet lady, but not the cleverest of the family.

“I’ve missed dinner again, I realize,” Uncle Harris said. “It’s this dratted paper of mine for the Antiquarian Society. Won’t write itself, you know.”

“You needn’t disturb yourself on my account,” Evelyn replied. “I do very well on my own.”

In fact, she’d only seen her uncle at dinner twice since her arrival last week. Even then, he’d left the table early, wandering out of the dining room and back to his study in a state of abstraction.

He peered up at her over the clutter on his desk. The light from the oil lamp glinted on the lenses of his half-moon spectacles. “You’re settling in, I trust? Your room and so forth?”

“Thank you, yes. I’m quite comfortable.”

“And that horse of yours?”

“He’s settling in as well. My groom is looking after him.”

“Good, good. Nora said you had a fellow. Groom, manservant, general dogsbody. What’s the chap called?”

“Lewis,” Evelyn said. He’d been her father’s groom long before he’d become hers. Indeed, it was Lewis who had accompanied Hephaestus back to England as a two-year-old after Papa had died in Spain four years ago.

“And you’ve spoken to Mrs. Quick about obtaining a . . . what do you call it?”

“A lady’s maid? Yes. She told me that I might use Agnes during my stay.”

“Eh?”

“Agnes. One of your housemaids.” Evelyn had already struck up a sort of understanding with the girl. Formerly employed in Mayfair, Agnes boasted a vast acquaintance with many of the servants in that neighborhood—including an upstairs maid working in the Park Street town house of Miss Catherine Walters. It was how Evelyn had learned where the famous courtesan bought her habits.

“Could never keep track of staff,” Uncle Harris said distractedly. “I leave that to Mrs. Quick. She’s a capital housekeeper. Always knows precisely what to do.” He paused. “Is that all?”

“I’m afraid not. There’s still the small matter of my clothing allowance for the season. I have a little money of my own set by, but Aunt Nora was hoping—”

“That I might contribute to the cause? Yes, yes. Quite right. She mentioned something to that effect.” He rifled through the papers on his desk. “Had a letter from her just this morning, reminding me of the fact.”

“Aunt Nora’s written?” Evelyn stepped forward. “What did she say?”

“A great deal, as I recollect. Ah. Here it is.” He raised a sheet of elegant pressed paper to the light. It was covered from edge to edge with Aunt Nora’s familiar spidery scrawl. “I’m to see that you’re clothed and shod, etc., etc. And to hire a maid for you, etc. Same requests she made in her last letter. Nora’s a great one for repeating herself.”