“I’ve terrible trouble feeding her,” she said. “Uncle James said she’d have to be sent away, if she wouldn’t eat. And me, too, for not looking after her well enough. I think he’d like that. He was saying how expensive everything was getting. If we both get sent away, he said he wouldn’t need nearly so many servants to keep things up.”
Harriet’s jaw tightened. “Don’t you worry, miss,” she said. “I’ll fatten her up nice.” She picked the little girl up, and her weary, rigid face softened. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”
“Yes, she is. Much prettier than me. She’s got hair like yours.”
“Oh, and how would you know under this cap?” Harriet said.
“I saw that day it blew off when you were hanging the washing. It’s all yellow curls.” She’d actually first seen Harriet brushing it when, lonely and bored of being with Charlotte who couldn’t have a proper conversation, she had sneaked up to listen outside the servants’ rooms.
“Much good it does me. And you’re not so bad, miss; you just need some weight on you and a pretty dress or two.”
Now Eveline felt bad for what she’d said – Uncle James complained about money a great deal, but he’d said nothing about turning off any servants – but she hardened her heart. Charlotte was more important than anybody.
She had no pretty dresses, but went down to dinner in the yellow dress Mama had altered for her. It fitted even worse than before, since she’d grown, but it was a little like having Mama with her.
She could hear their voices coming from the drawing-room and stood for a moment outside, listening to them. Fragments of conversation about India and China, about tea and Sepoys and clippers, whatever they were. Someone mentioned the Folk, and Eveline edged the tall door open and peered in.
“It seems they’re dying out,” Crow Man said. “Fewer and fewer sightings, especially in the cities.”
“But how sad!” the Sugar Lady said, pouting and shaking her curls. “Can nothing be done?”
“Oh, well, my dear, sentiment is all very well,” Crow Man said, patting her hand, “but they are the last remnant of a fading world, you know. They couldn’t move forward, so must be left behind.”
“I don’t believe you,” Eveline said.
“Why, who is this?” Sugar Lady said. She looked Eveline over and hid her face behind her fan, but her eyes crinkled up with amusement.
“Don’t believe what, my dear?” Dog Man came over and bowed to Eveline. “You must be Eveline. How charming. Is that your mama’s dress?”
“Yes. What did you mean about the Folk?” She turned to Crow Man. “They’re not dying, don’t say that!”
“Ah, you ladies, so sentimental!” Crow Man said. “You mustn’t be sad, my dear. It’s not as though they’re like us, after all – why, they probably don’t even know what’s happening.”
Eveline felt her chin start to shake. The thought of all the Folk, dead like Papa, dead like her pet rabbit that had simply fallen over one day, its bright eyes gone dull and its warm fur chill under her hand... and Aiden. Aiden couldn’t be dead. Even though she hadn’t seen him for so long, he was part of the old days, back when everything was better.
“Now, now, Peter, you’ve upset the poor child,” Dog Man said. “Come, my dear, I’m sure that it’s not true – the Folk are very cunning, you know. I expect they’re well able to take care of themselves. Why don’t you have one of these delicious almonds, and you shall sit next to me at dinner and tell me all about yourself and your little sister, hmm?” His moustache quivered at her and it made her smile. He gave her his handkerchief, which was so very clean and crisp that she was hesitant to blow her nose on it, but he smiled and nodded and she knew it was all right.
He did indeed make her sit next to him at dinner, though Uncle James sniffed and glared, but soon they were all talking of other things, except for Eveline and Dog Man, who turned out to be called Everard. “Everard and Eveline!” he said. “Why, it sounds like an old romance, does it not? We were clearly fated to be the best of friends.”
He paid a great deal of attention to her throughout dinner, even giving her a little wine from his own glass, well mixed with water. Sugar Lady, whose real name Eveline never bothered to learn, said, “Really, Everard, do you think it’s quite the thing? She can’t be more than six.”
“I’m eight,” Eveline said sharply. She didn’t like the taste of the watered wine very much, but drank it anyway, to prove that Everard the Dog Man had been right to give it to her, and he patted her hand and said she was quite the sophisticated young lady.
She began to look forward to his visits. No-one else ever paid the slightest attention to her except for Charlotte. She had read all her books several times over and he brought her more, and a new dress, with blue silk ribbons. She put it on for the next dinner party, and he told her how pretty it was, and stroked her hair, and said it was silkier than the ribbons.
He wasn’t Mama, but he was her only grown-up friend. Her only friend at all, apart from Charlotte, who hardly counted.
O
NE DAY
E
VERARD
the Dog Man had come up to see Charlotte, and had petted her cheek, and said she was going to be as pretty as her sister.
And he had put his hand on the back of Eveline’s neck, and run his fingers under the collar of her dress, and her nape had shivered. The feel of his fingers was wrong, like a spider running over her neck. “Pretty dears,” he said. “My pretty little dears.”
Then Harriet had come in, and he had snatched his hand away so fast a stitch in Eveline’s collar had ripped.
He started to come around at odd times, after that, bringing some apples from his garden or a clipping from the paper he thought Uncle James might like. And he always brought something for Eveline and Charlotte, like ribbons, or marzipan.
Harriet seemed often to find something to do in their room when he was there, and Eveline wondered if she liked him too. But she didn’t act like Sugar Lady, fluttering and laughing. She hunched her shoulders and kept quiet as she stitched or folded.
“Harriet?” Eveline asked one day when Everard had gone, pulling a strand of bright pink satin ribbon through her fingers to watch it shine.
“Yes, miss.”
“Do you like Everard?”
“You should call him Mr Poole.”
“He asked me to call him Everard.”
“Did he indeed,” said Harriet, and her mouth went tight at the sides.
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“One of these days, young miss, you’re going to have to learn not to let the first thing in your head fly right out of your mouth.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“You just can’t go about commenting on everything people do or don’t do, or how they look. It’s not polite. And it’ll get you in trouble. Watch all you like, but you don’t have to speak. As it happens, no, I don’t like Mr Poole.”
“Why?”
Harriet’s mouth went tight again. “I know his type, and he shouldn’t be around young girls giving them ribbons. You watch out for him, Eveline. Someone gives you ribbons, they want something.”
“But we haven’t got anything.”
“That’s as maybe.” And that was all she would say on the subject.
What she had said about watching people was interesting, though, and Eveline, having little to do except watch Charlotte, made a game of it. She watched the maids as they worked and the cook as he cooked, and Uncle James and the boot-boy and the coal man who came to the door. She began to learn the little tics and twitches of face and body and hands, the things that gave away a stomach ache or a worry or a hope. The way the youngest maid looked when she thought the boot-boy wasn’t looking; the way the cook’s face sagged in relief when he sat down.
She became adept at walking quietly and concealing herself where she could watch and listen. She learned how faces and words sometimes didn’t match; how a clenched hand could say one thing while a polite tongue said another.
And she watched Everard. She saw how he looked at her and Charlotte the way Uncle James looked at a roast goose or a candied almond. The way every time he gave them something he asked for a hug or a kiss or to put the ribbon in their hair for them.
Charlotte had begun to recognise him and hold up her arms when he came into the room, and he would pick her up and dandle her on his knee and wind satin ribbons around her dimpled wrists. She was a quiet child, but would babble happily at him and tug at his moustache and he would laugh.
And Eveline realised that Harriet was right, that he did want something, that he wanted kisses and hugs and sittings upon his lap, a little more every time. She understood that it was some sort of game, but it was a bad, uncomfortable game. And she began to make excuses when he came to visit. She said she and Charlotte were sick with the grippe, which worked twice; then Uncle James called the doctor to dose them both with foul medicine and whined about the cost and what he had done to be left with two useless sickly females on his hands.
Eveline was very sick after the medicine, and so was Charlotte, who cried for a long time until she was choking and wheezing with every breath. Harriet brought up a soothing posset which put her to sleep as though with a spell.
“How did you do that?” Eveline said.
“I put a drop of laudanum in it, miss.”
“What’s laudanum?”
“Something people use to make them sleep.” She looked at Eveline. Eveline’s face was stiff with tears, and her throat and chest ached. “I’ll make you up one, if you should fancy it.”
“No, thank you, Harriet.” Eveline didn’t want to go to sleep. She wanted to think.
Mama’s workroom was kept locked, but Eveline had the spare key, which everyone seemed to have forgotten about. Uncle James wheezed and groaned his way up the stairs every few days to mess about with Mama’s mechanisms. He couldn’t make them sing like Mama did, and he would get angry, after an hour or two, and stomp away muttering.
When she unlocked it, the room was all a mess. Not a mess the way Mama kept it, but a different kind of mess altogether. It smelled of Uncle James instead of Mama.
Eveline ran her fingers over a few of her favourite instruments, but she couldn’t make them sing like Mama did, and even if she could, she wouldn’t dare in the quiet of the house, with everyone sleeping. Outside, the factories thudded and groaned, making the sky flare red and yellow, as though they were trying to make their own sun to replace the one that their smoke covered over during the day, but inside, the house was terribly quiet. Eveline sat down among the remains of her mother’s work, and cried for a long time.
Some days later Uncle James summoned her to his study. “You’re a very lucky young woman,” he said. “Everard has asked for your hand. As your guardian, I have accepted. Of course, the marriage can’t take place until you are twelve, but he has very kindly offered to assume responsibility for you and your sister. You are to go and live with him.”
Every hair on the back of Eveline’s neck was shivering, as though Everard-Dog-Man’s hand were still there, brushing her skin with his fingers.
“But I don’t want to go and live with him.”
“Contrary child! After he’s been so kind! Why he should even consider you a suitable bride I am at a loss to understand! You will do as you are told.”
Looking at his face, she realised that even if she told him why – a
why
she herself barely understood – he would not listen, because he never listened. That this was something he wanted, something convenient that would get her and Charlotte out of the house, and so he would ignore anything she said.
Except, perhaps, one thing.
“But what about Mama? He’s supposed to ask Mama.” Men were supposed to ask a girl’s father, but when a girl didn’t have one, surely, he had to ask her mother instead? “I shall ask him to take me to see Mama so he can ask her properly.” She knew Mama would not let her marry someone she didn’t want to, however sick she were.
Uncle James huffed, and his eyes narrowed. She had a moment of satisfaction, knowing he hadn’t expected that. “Eveline... you can’t.”
“The man is supposed to ask the papa. I don’t have one, so he must ask Mama.”
She saw Uncle James’ face redden and swell, the way it always did when he couldn’t have something he wanted, just like Charlotte’s. “Go to your room!” he snapped, and he yanked on the bell-cord.
She went to her room. She wanted to put on the yellow dress, to feel close to Mama, but it fit even worse now and she couldn’t get it over her arms. Instead she picked up Charlotte, who was getting too big to carry for more than a few steps, and sat down with her on her lap, her arms tight round her, her face pressed into the mite’s thick soft curls. Charlotte didn’t even fuss, but stared at Eveline with wide dark eyes and her finger in her mouth, as though she understood that something was wrong, until she fell asleep with her cheek against Eveline’s chest.
Eveline wondered when Everard would come visit. He must be waiting for Uncle James to tell him what Eveline had said, so it would be soon. She would explain about him asking Mama’s permission, they would go see Mama, and Mama would not give it. She began to feel better, and excited about seeing Mama at last. What would it be like, where she was? She had been sick for months, why hadn’t they made her better yet? Perhaps it wasn’t a very good hospital, perhaps they could find a better one. She wondered if they could take Charlotte – no, better not, Charlotte still had a weak chest, and the doctor said she shouldn’t be around people who were sick. She would make a drawing of Charlotte to show Mama how much she had grown. She would like to take Mama some flowers, but it was winter now and the flowers were all gone. She would make a drawing of some instead. Thinking of flowers, she fell asleep herself.