Chapter 1

     Lady Eva Stanton was by all accounts an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She was aware of her beauty at a young age, receiving more than her share of compliments from the time she was a girl in braids and pinafores. If she had been any other girl, this would have easily gone to her head and poisoned her heart simultaneously. As it was, however, all this did was heighten her awareness that men coveted her as they did any other work of art, and not for her conversation, wit, or intellect.

This had also enabled her to move through society with a kind of confidence that was neither boastful nor snobbish. She simply took it for granted that hers was a company that others would enjoy. She was never unkind to the other young ladies, however, never lorded her place as the diamond of the ball over them. Her heart was surprisingly tender, though her face remained an impassive, unreadable mask.

         It was a strange, almost alien feeling, then, for her to be feeling the stirrings of trepidation as she approached the fashionable townhouse near Regent’s Park. It was one of many all in a row, their fronts still looking crisp and new, not worn with decades, centuries even, of wear as some of the other homes did.

         In fact, as she mounted the short set of stairs that led to the front door, her steps paused and she nearly turned right around. Summoning her courage, Eva tossed her head a little, took a deep breath and marched right up to the green-painted door. With her left hand, she reached out, preparing to lift the brass knocker, when she hesitated again. She bit her lower lip, a habit her mother absolutely hated, and shifted from foot-to-foot, undecided. If anyone had been passing by, her inner conflict would have been patently obvious to them.

         With a firm set of her shoulders, she reached up and took the knocker, letting it fall solidly against the door. Lady Eva believed in boldness, especially in the face of doubt, and she was determined to complete her errand. It was, after all, the Right Thing to Do, and Eva was also a recent convert to doing the right thing, even when it was uncomfortable.

         Perhaps they are not at home, Lady Eva thought as she was left to linger on the front step. Her inner monologue had a whiff of hopefulness about her, and she immediately chastised herself for thinking in such a way. She was almost ready to leave when the door was opened at last, revealing the drawn face of a butler in a collar so stuff that Eva doubted he could look down if he wanted to.

         “Can I help, madam?” he inquired stiffly.

         “Lady Eva Stanton to see Lady Patience,” she said, unable to stop her impulse to lift her own chin a fraction of an inch higher than the butler’s.

The butler silently took Eva’s measure, lingering on her midnight blue day dress and matching hat, complete with a spray of curled feathers. “I was not aware that Lady Patience was expecting callers,” he said in the driest of tones. “I shall inquire if she is at home.”

Lady Eva accepted this; there was no reason, really, to expect a warm welcome from Lady Patience—it was not as if they had ever been the greatest of friends. In truth, their past had been somewhat…well, tangled, to put it mildly. So Lady Eva waited on the front steps once again while the butler made his inquiry. This was common practice among the ladies of the ton: Lady Patience may very well have been physically within the residence, but she could very well claim that she was not “at home,” which meant that she was not receiving visitors…or at least, this visitor.

Eva was at the point of losing hope when at last the green door was opened again. This time, the butler stepped back, and invited her inward with a little bow and a gesture of his arm. Eva sniffed a little and entered as grandly as she could, nevermind that she had been left standing on a front porch for longer than she would care to consider. She passed her gloves and hat to him, her head tilting up to take in the high ceiling of the foyer that went all the way to the top of the townhouse.

Lady Patience appeared at this moment, standing cautiously in a doorway that led to a hallway within. Though she was all coolness and grandeur on the outside, Eva could see that she was working to conceal some nerves. Eva could not help but feel a tiny pang of guilt; she couldn’t blame Patience for looking apprehensive at her sudden appearance.

A silence stretched between them for a moment as they considered one another. At last, Lady Patience spoke, stepping forward a little. Her expression was still carefully guarded, but her tone and words were friendly enough.

“Lady Eva,” she said, her eyebrows quirking a little. “I was not expecting to see you—to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I have just returned to London,” Eva explained, “I have been abroad. In Italy,” she added hastily. “I would have come sooner, but I expect you were busy with your wedding tour and setting up your new home.”

A small, secret smile flitted across Patience’s face. “That is true; we’ve only been back a fortnight.”

“Well then,” Eva said, nodding slightly.

“Well then,” Patience agreed.

Eva hesitated, shifting a little from foot to foot as another strained silence took up residence in the foyer. There was much that she would like to say to Patience, but it was not the sort of thing that one should say in a foyer of all places. The conversation she wished to have demanded proper attention. She glanced about again, her eyes drawn upward to the massive crystal and gilt lantern that hung far overhead.

“Your home is most lovely,” Eva said, mentally slapping her forehead with her palm. Of all the inane, inconsequential things to say…she chided herself.

That same little smile appeared on Patience’s face. “I’m rather fond of it. It is well-situated, which was a concern for both of us, Tom and I.”

“And how is Tom?” Eva asked, sensing an opening.

“Ah,” Patience replied with a knowing nod. “I had assumed that was why you had come.” At Eva’s blank surprise, Patience continued, “I figured you would have something more to discuss than the quality of my new furnishings. At least, I hopeyou do.” A glint of mischief appeared in Patience’s eye, and Eva relaxed a little.

“You’ve caught me out,” Eva said, hanging her head as if she were a naughty schoolgirl. “I have come here with an agenda.” Tom had warned Eva that Patience was a most intuitive, observant person, and he had not been kidding.

“An agenda?” Patience considered for a moment, then turned slightly and gestured with her head in a way that indicated that Eva should follow her. “An agenda certainly requires some kind of refreshment. Tea, if you please, Carlton,” she said over Eva’s shoulder to the hovering butler.

Following behind Patience, Eva was led to a sitting room with walls covered in a muted red. The floor was laid with thick rugs so that one’s foot barely touched the polished wooden floor that shone as it peaked from between them. The room was furnished with rich mahogany tables and chairs, upholstered in coordinating shades of dull reds and pinks. Though the furnishings were fashionable, they also gave off an air of supreme comfort.

The whole room was a study in tasteful comfort, really: It was situated near the northern rear of the house, on a corner far enough from the street that the sounds of London were muffled. The sunlight that entered was warm and golden, but not direct. It was insular, quiet, and Eva was immediately put at ease.

With a gesture, Patience indicated a small round tea table, covered with a linen and lace tablecloth. Eva settled herself on a chair, and they both smiled wanly at each other as they awaited the tea service. When it arrived, Patience poured carefully, deliberately, as if she were considering every action and weighing the correct way in which to do it. Again, Eva could not help but feel guilty, for she was sure that Patience was going to such pangs on her account. She had not meant to set the new bride ill-at-ease.

When at last they both had their teacups before them, as well as a fragrant assortment of little cakes and other tasty bits, Patience fixed her large violet eyes onto Eva. She did not say anything, merely looked at Eva expectantly, as if Eva were already speaking. It was most disconcerting, and Eva found that it was impossible not to say something.

“I wanted to apologise,” she blurted.

Patience raised her eyebrows again, which only highlighted the largeness of her eyes. Eva had heard Patience described by some as not a particularly great beauty, but her eyes were the envy of the ton. Having seen Patience a few times now, Eva was inclined to agree. They gave her an air of innocence that Eva suspected was nothing more than a clever façade.

“Do you? Pray tell, what for?”

“I…I think I made rather a spectacle of myself at your wedding,” Eva said, feeling an unfamiliar blush of shame feathering along her cheeks. “Please believe me, that was not my intention.”

Patience sat back and regarded Eva with an inscrutable look. “It was a bit odd, you entered, and then turned on your heel and ran back out of the church again.”

Eva nodded glumly. “I know it. I just couldn’t take it, all of those people turning to stare at me. I know what they were saying about me after all of that—that tawdrybusiness last year. And they were right!” Eva’s lip curled in disdain, her pretty face creasing. “I’m used to unkind gossip, that is simply the nature of the ton; I can simply wave it off as untrue or an exaggeration. But this! Eugh!”

Patience watched all of this without a change in her expression. Eva envied her this talent, to not betray what she was thinking; her own face said her thoughts and feelings aloud, which had gotten her into more than one fix.

When at last Patience spoke, it was deliberately, as if she had carefully weighed each word. “Well, if there’s anyone that can understand feeling overwhelmed by the ton, it’s me. It’s not as if I can cast stones in that regard, after all.”

Eva’s head snapped up at that. There was a delicate smile on Patience’s face again. “Are you sure? I mean—you have every right to be furious with me, for more than one reason.”

They both knew exactly of what Eva spoke: It wasn’t so long ago that Eva had been at the centre of a romantic plot to trap Tom, Patience’s husband. It had been months of machinations, and only Eva’s timely intervention that had at last put things to rights. To even think of it set Eva to blushing and scowling again.

To her great relief, Patience laughed softly, a sound as light as a bell. “Honestly, your little performance at the church was something of a relief.”

“It was?”

“Oh yes,” Patience continued, nodding and helping herself to a small cake that glistened with icing and candied fruit. “Everyone was so preoccupied with your hasty exit that I could have fallen flat on my face and no one would have paid any mind. I had been dreading all of those people staring at me.” Patience’s nose wrinkled at the memory. “I do not care to be the centre of the attention, and would have been perfectly content to elope to Gretna Greene.”

“I’m glad that I didn’t completely spoil your day,” Eva said with a sigh. “That really would have been too much for me to bear; you’ve been nothing but fair and understanding to me.”

“We all make mistakes, and the important thing is that you set things right.” Patience paused, her teacup halfway to her mouth. “My mother says that my father used to tell her that it was imprudent to judge someone on their first actions or thoughts—those are simply someone’s first impulse. What matters most is what they do next, after they’ve had time to consider. That is a truer accounting of their character.”

Eva nodded. “That is just it: I have taken a hard examination of my life of late, and found that I am not proud of what I have done and said. I have allowed myself to go along with Mama’s scheming for too long, just carried by the current. I shan’t be her pawn any longer. I am turning over a new leaf, as they say.”

“Are you indeed? I applaud your efforts, then, and your self-knowledge.” Patience punctuated this sentence with a nod and a decisive bite of cake.

There followed a companionable silence, broken only by the occasional clink of teacups and the passing of comestibles. Eva was inclined to study the room a little more closely. Though the room was clearly intended for Patience’s use, there were little hints of Tom scattered about: A pack of cards on a side table, a copy of a gentleman’s magazine left open to an article about cravat knots. This made her smile, for she was very glad that though Tom had been reformed by married life, he was still himself.

“I imagine that this new attitude toward life has not made things easy between you and Lady Stanton,” Patience commented.

Eva winced a little. “It has not,” she confirmed. “She still has grand hopes for me marrying a rich man and solving all of our problems. Frankly, I think she would be delighted if I were to become the Prince’s mistress.”

“If there’s anyone that can understand difficult mothers, it would be me,” Patience said, nodding. “But even the scariest old dragon of a dowager can change her stripes, if for the benefit of her child.”

“I’m not so sure,” Eva muttered darkly. “I think Mama is convinced that I shall be a pariah forever, and if she cannot trade on my good looks, then we shall surely end up in the gutter.”

Patience’s soft face hardened a little and her lips pursed in disdain. “I understand what you mean. Of course, you know your friends would never allow that to happen.”

Eva was touched by Patience’s kind words. “You are a darling to offer, and I love you for it; but this is exactly the problem. I…I think I do not wish to be beholden to anyone. I think I would rather live on my wits,” she finished in a rush, her words coming faster as the idea formed in her head.

“I’d be tempted to call anyone else that said that a fool, but I believe you are brazen and clever enough to get away with it,” Patience said with a grin.

“I’ll tell Mama the next time she brings some ancient wreck to me as a suitor that I shall run away to Paris to be an artist’s model,” Eva replied with a cheeky grin of her own.

“Oh Eva, she would just die!” Patience laughed.

“I’m not sure which would shock and disappoint her more: The fact that I’d be living among artists, or that they’re French,” Eva said around a giggle.

Patience threw her head back and laughed again, without restraint. This solidified the feelings of friendship that Eva had for her. Tom chose well, she thought to herself, satisfied that her childhood companion and playmate had married someone that she approved of.

“Well, since you are busy being shunned, perhaps you might like to accompany Tom and I to the theatre tomorrow?” Patience suggested.

“The theatre? Do you mean it?” Eva asked. Her heart leapt, for she truly loved the theatre, all theatre.

“Why not? We’ve taken a box for the season, and appearing together in public as friends will go a long way to putting wagging tongues to rest.”

Eva regarded Patience with renewed appreciation. Though she had the face of a schoolgirl, it hid a clever mind that was clearly becoming an expert on navigating the ton with all of its vagaries. Whatever else happened this Season, Eva harboured hopes that she may call Patience a friend by the end.

Chapter 2

         It was a very fortunate thing indeed that Josiah Galpin had spent much of his life around the stage, for his practice at theatricals allowed him to suppress an audible groan as yet another knock at his dressing room door interrupted his thoughts. It had been like this all morning: The new theatrical season was beginning, and there had been an endless parade of footmen, maids, and messengers coming to deliver cards, flowers, and more embroidered handkerchiefs than he knew what to do with.

         Josiah knew that he must tolerate it, however, for his success was largely due to the goodwill of the ton. He hated to admit it, but the years of trodding the boards were beginning to take their toll in the form of aching ankles and knees that protested the cold and damp. Still, he would not have traded his art for anything—his first, greatest, and only love was dance.

         He was in the midst of preparing a new pair of soft-soled leather shoes (slapping the soles roughly on the back of a chair to break them in the right spot, roughing the toes for better grip, replacing the laces so they provided better support) when the knocking came.

         He allowed himself a small sigh, then sat down in the straight-backed chair before the dressing table, pulling his silk banyan closer about himself as he did so.

         “Come,” he said when he was properly settled.

         A young man entered, clearly a footman; they all had a particular way of carrying themselves, all stiff shoulders and backs. Josiah merely lifted a brow at him, waiting expectantly for the footman to begin the patter.

         “Lady Patience Chester sends her regards, and asks for the privilege of paying her respects this evening after the performance,” the footman said, his nose aloft. With a flourish, he brandished an embossed card of cream and dark gold.

         Josiah took it from the footman, feeling the weight of it. He had become adept at reading the subtler things communicated by calling cards: The thickness of the card, the clarity of the printing, the décor and flourishes all told a story about the identity of the sender. This one was quality, printed on a lovely cream background, with a subtle motif of violets in the corner.

         Of course, he already knew the name. She was dipping her toes into the ton as a newlywed, the proverbial blushing bride. Josiah was tentatively hopeful that he would be able to secure her as a patron for his school of dance. Still, it would not do for him to appear over-eager. He turned the card over and over in his long fingers a few times as if he were contemplating the notion.

         At last he said, “Please tell Lady Chester that I would be happy to see her. Tell her that an usher will direct her after the performance.”

         The footman nodded, then withdrew, closing the door so softly that it was barely audible. Josiah waited for another minute or two in case the footman decided to linger, listening at the door (which they were frequently tipped to do). It was only after several beats of silence that Josiah allowed himself the heavy sigh he had been suppressing.

         Setting Lady Chester’s card aside, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the dressing table. He looked as if he were in a framed painting by some Romantic artist obsessed with botanicals. His dressing room was nearly full to bursting with bouquets and posies of every shape and size. The smell was beginning to give him a headache, and he rubbed one of his temples.

         His new dancing shoes remained to one side, waiting for him to finish breaking them in. Abruptly, he stood, and in his stocking feet, he easily went up onto his toes, liking the way that it pulled in his calves. The dressing room was small, and with the crowded flowers, he could only manage a few stationary steps, but the familiar movements grounded him. He moved with ease and grace, even in this cramped space.

         It rankled him to no end, this need to pander and smile to the ton in order to do what he loved, to survive. He had built quite a reputation for himself, both as a performer and as a dancing master. It was not only down to his talent, though that was not inconsiderable. He had learned to smile and curry favour so that the mothers of the ton would send their daughters to him for lessons, and the dowagers would give him patronage.

         His dearest wish, beyond all else, was to gain financial independence, to manage his dance troupe without all of the periphery nonsense. If this run went well, it was not inconceivable. It would be close, but if he was lucky, if he was clever…

         There was another knock at his door, heavier than the others had been that morning. It was the stage manager, a man with fists like hams and more hair on his forearms than his head, which he concealed with a badly frizzed wig. He poked his head in and eyed the gifts and flowers with disdain.

         “Like a debutante’s bedchamber in here,” he grumbled.

         Josiah was inclined to agree, but he didn’t give the manager the satisfaction. “What is it, Knots?” he asked, watching in the mirror as he adjusted the position of his arms.

         “Thought ye mightn’t want to come to the aid of that wee nipper—Herselfhas him in her teeth again,” Knots said with a gruff familiarity.

         That brought Josiah’s heels firmly back down to the ground. “I warned him to get his staging right,” he sighed with an elegant shrug.

         “He’s just a lad,” Knots protested. Despite the man’s rough appearance, Josiah had long suspected that he was a soft touch. He appeared to have taken the newest, and youngest, member of their troupe under his protection.

         “He must start learning,” Josiah said, turning back to the mirror. “We were all just lads when we started out.” Though I suspect you were pulling curtains for Moses, he added silently to Knots. It did indeed seem as if he had always been at the theatre, keeping order and pulling scenery ropes. His promotion to stage manager was new, and he had attempted to polish himself up a bit consequently.

         Knots gave Josiah a baleful look as if he had heard his silent remark, and grunted. Josiah sighed again, which was becoming a running theme of the morning. Knots clearly wasn’t going to let this go.

         “Beatrice has always had issues with the young ones,” Josiah said.

         “She’s as sharp as a hell-cat,” Knots grumbled.

         “I’ll speak to her,” Josiah acquiesced at last. Satisfied, Knots jerked his head in a sharp nod, which almost displaced his badly kempt wig.

         It was always something these days. Sometimes Josiah yearned for his younger days, before he was such a hit with the ton. Things were simpler then, without so many things to weigh on him. It was a lot to manage on his own, but there was no one that he could share this life with. The ladies of the ton liked him in an ornamental way; they liked to flirt with him, they liked it when he flattered them. They liked to giggle behind their fans at his calves and his graceful bows. But that was it, no more, no less. They would not let him marry into their set, no matter his success.

         “As if I have the time for that,” he scoffed aloud. No, the closest that he could hope for a wife and family was the dancers under his care. With that in mind, he stepped into some plain leather shoes, and went to sort out his troupe before they ate each other alive.

Chapter 3

         Though Eva had been quite looking forward to her evening at the theatre, her happy anticipation had been dashed most definitely against the rocks. Her mother, the redoubtable bulwark that was Lady Stanton, had decided without preamble to come along with her. Eva knew this would happen the moment that she let it slip, and groaned inwardly the very instant the words were out of her mouth.

         “Lady Patience? That little slip of a girl that snatched Tom away from you?” Lady Stanton said with a frown that deepened the lines at the side of her mouth. She was reclined along a sofa as if she were awaiting suitors to come and pay court to her.

         “She didn’t snatch Tom away from me,” Eva said evenly. “He was never mine to begin with—that was a fantasy of your own making.”

         Lady Stanton sniffed. “Well, I’m sure you had far more claim on him; when I was a girl, if a gentleman kissed you in a dark corner, you could be certain of a marriage proposal!”

         Eva wisely chose to not respond to that particular remark. Any reminder of her mother’s scheming to secure an attachment to Tom made Eva wince with shame. She hated that she had been party to such a tawdry episode, and she would like nothing more than for it to be forgotten.

         “Still, I suppose it is a handsome thing to be invited to a first night,” Lady Stanton continued, flipping idly through the pages of a magazine with a French title. “We’ve not been out for some time, what with things being so dear.”

         Eva had been in the process of leaving the faded parlour and heading to her room, but she halted when she heard her mother. “We?” she asked weakly.

         “You must wear your blue evening silk, it suits you the best,” Lady Stanton continued as if she hadn’t heard Eva, which in all likelihood, she probably hadn’t.

         “I’m not sure the invitation included more than myself,” Eva said carefully. “Lady Patience is picking me up in her carriage, and I’d hate for you to crush your gown if there’s a press.”

         “Nonsense,” Lady Stanton scoffed. “Everyone knows that an invitation to a young lady naturally includes her mother; it is her duty to chaperone her daughter properly.”

         Eva’s hands went cold, her cheeks no doubt going colourless at the same time. She knew exactly what her mother meant by that; she’d been living with it since she was a girl of sixteen. Her mother would push and connive and scheme to get Eva into the notice of every gentleman that had even a whiff of money or title about him. It was humiliating, as if her mother were an ostler with a horse she needed to unload to pay off a butcher’s bill.

         She absorbed this with only a brief closing of her eyes. Resigned, she continued her march up the bare, creaking stairs. For years, Season after Season, she had accepted her mother’s pushing and prodding as simply what must be done. Eva hadn’t felt any sort of real attachment to any of the men flung at her, and had been able to escape the worst of them with a smile and a gentle laugh that left said gentlemen feeling tenderly toward her and not at all slighted.

         Now…now, Eva wanted freedom. She wanted to make her own choices. She wanted more than to be a perfect doll for her mother to dress and move about. This was the direction of her thoughts as she reached her room. It was cold, much colder than the parlour, the fire having gone out. Eva automatically retreated into her shawl.

         With a sigh, she took up the poker and stirred the embers about, trying to bring them back to life. A few years ago, would simply have rung for a maid or footman to tend to it; that would be pointless now, as the staff was considerably reduced, as was the household budget. Briefly, Eva was tempted to return to the parlour, but ultimately decided that her independence was worth a few chilled fingers.

         Adjusting her shawl again, she sat heavily on the stool before her dressing table. For a long while, she simply sat with her hand cradling her chin, her elbow propped on the small table. Gazing at herself in the mirror, she attempted to see who she was beneath all of the expectations and pressures put on her, not just by her mother, but by her position. She was the daughter of a nobleman, a minor noble, but aristocratic nonetheless. Beyond that, Eva was honestly not sure about anything anymore.

         It was no use; the mirror was no scrying glass that could reveal her fortune. All she saw was a woman rapidly approaching spinsterhood; her finely boned face and alluring eyes would be for naught before long. She felt as if she were a bird with beautiful plumage, caught in a cage.

         She did not know how much time passed as she stared at her reflection, wishing the woman in the mirror had answers for her. She was jolted back to awareness by the sudden entrance of the one lady’s maid that she shared with her mother, who immediately called for the fire to be mended so that the curling tongs could be heated.

         Eva sighed, but sat still as the maid began pulling and combing her hair this way and that. She knew that freedom was out there, somewhere, and she was very nearly resolved to find it. Why else had she resisted so many marriage proposals? True enough that they had not all been brilliant, but there were more than a few that would have seen her living comfortably.

         No, she was meant for something else, something besides the dream of domesticity that had been laid out for her…she just didn’t know what.

* * *

         Though Lady Patience was still not the most experienced of ladies when it came to matters of the ton, she had been raised by a dowager duchess that wielded gossip and socialising like a scythe. Patience had learned at a very young age that one frequently learns more by asking nothing and simply observing. This was helped by the fact that she was naturally a reserved person.

         When her carriage had pulled up before the Stanton’s townhouse, it was impossible to miss that Eva was not awaiting their arrival alone. In fact, Patience suspected that a blind person would have trouble overlooking Lady Stanton. She managed not to stare, but it took no small effort. In her copious diamonds and feathers, Lady Stanton looked more like an actress herself than a woman of the ton. Patience also could not miss the look of barely-concealed misery that clung to Eva’s face.

         The moment the carriage door opened, however, the dour expression had vanished from Eva’s face. Patience was quietly impressed with her determination. She met Eva’s eye, and both gave a slight but determined nod: They would enjoy their evening, no matter the inconvenience. Her husband Tom, however, was clearly less-than-pleased at arrangements. She could feel him tense up on the carriage seat next to her, his dark eyes glittering dangerously.

         “Lady Stanton, what an…unexpected pleasure,” Patience said, hoping to pre-empt any unpleasantness.

         “To be sure,” she said, settling into the opposite seat. “I was not expecting an invitation to the theatre, especially not to a first night.”

         “If you feel it’s unsuitable, then by all means, feel free to depart. One wouldn’t want you to compromise your infamous scruples,” Tom said dryly, a smile as pointed as a handful of needles on his face.

         Lady Stanton continued to be oblivious to all of this, paying no mind to the implied insult. While Tom’s eyes remained riveted on Lady Stanton, Patience could only look to Eva. Though her face was perfectly composed, there was a hardness about the pretty jaw, a pinched quality around her mouth and nose. It was clear that she was embarrassed and angered by her mother shoe-horning herself into the evening.

         For her part, Patience was not angry. No, not even when Lady Stanton began to complain about the closeness of the carriage. Patience, too, had been much under the thumb of a domineering mother for the better part of her life. If anything, it was pity that she felt for Eva, and an overwhelming urge to help her in whatever manner she might.

         She had spoken truthfully earlier in the day to Eva: She had forgiven her, for everything. After all, she had nearly found herself in the same situation; she knew what it was to be cajoled and chivvied along, dragged unwillingly into (nearly) marrying a man simply for the good of her family. While she did not know the particulars of the Stanton’s situation, Tom had led her to believe that the good lady of the house was becoming rather desperate.

         Therefore, when the carriage pulled away from the kerb with a lurch, Patience used the opportunity to dart a hand forward and briefly squeeze Eva’s hand. Startled, Eva looked down, her careful mask slipping for just a moment. She bestowed a small but genuine smile of such feeling onto Patience that the latter could not help but feel her heart swell in response.

         Though she did not have the slightest clue how, Patience was more resolved than ever to help her new friend. She had found more happiness than she knew what to do with, after all—why should she not help others do the same?

Chapter 4

         The moment that the carriage stopped in front of Haymarket Theatre, affectionately known as the Little Theatre, Eva was determined to put the unpleasantness of the evening thus far behind her. She had been somewhat sequestered from society lately, and was missing its diversions. Of course, the moment that she stepped foot out of the carriage, there were a great many sidelong glances and whispers behind fans.

         Let them gossip, Eva thought, lifting her head regally and following behind Tom and Patience to their box after their cloaks and hats had been dispensed with. No one could deny that Eva made a good showing that evening: She had indeed worn her dark blue silk gown, the dupioni shimmering becomingly in the candlelight. Her copious dark hair had been piled elegantly atop her head, ringlets falling artfully down the back of her neck and at her temples. She wore a simple gold bracelet over the white evening glove on her left arm, and a matching blue ribbon with a small gold sun pendant about her neck.

         As the party wended their way up the stairs, it became harder and harder to ignore the whispers and the pointed way that conversation stopped when the group approached. Eva had hoped that their plan of appearing all together in public would put the ton’s tongues to rest, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect. It would not be difficult to imagine what sort of story they may be spinning behind their backs.

         Eva also could not help but feel a stab of concern for Patience; she knew that the new bride was a novice at this sort of thing, eschewing the ton and only recently entering society properly. Eva tried to catch a glimpse of her face as she walked ahead, her arm tucked into the crook of Tom’s elbow. Patience turned her head slightly to gaze adoringly up at her husband once, and Eva was relieved—and impressed—by the serenity she saw there.

         The relief Eva felt at the sight was somewhat hampered, however, by the endless stream of chatter that Lady Stanton kept up through the entire procession.

         “Isn’t it nice to be back among our friends? Oh look, there is Lady Featherstone, still looking down in the mouth over her young beau, no doubt. The Haymarket seems to have gone down in some estimation since I was a girl—I hear Nash has his eye on it for rebuilding. Eva, dear, look at Mr. Bywoode, you must greet him! Well, I say! Mrs. Fairfield has just trod upon my hem without so much as a ‘by-your-leave’! The nerve of these nouveau riche, completely lacking in an understanding of the peerage. Is this our box? It’s rather small for the son of an earl, isn’t it? Still, I suppose it is well-situated.”

         By the time they had attained their box, Eva could tell that everyone’s nerves were on edge. Before Lady Stanton could contrive to have Tom sit next to Eva for some unknown scheme, the young ladies had been shuffled up to the front of the box. Tom sat just behind Patience, scooting his chair up closer to her so that he could speak into her ear.

         Lady Stanton huffed briefly about being relegated to the back of the box, but Eva ignored her. It was quickly becoming one of her best talents. Eva instead gave her attention to scanning the crowd, as that was at least half of the reason that one came to the theatre. Those in the boxes used looking glasses and lorgnettes to view the box occupants opposite, while those in the pit openly craned their necks around. Some, much to the consternation of their neighbours, stood openly and surveyed those seated around them.

         “Have you heard? The Lyceum is being fitted for gas lighting,” Patience said, leaning slightly in Eva’s direction. “They say that they will be able to raise and lower the lights at will, without needing to snuff them.”

         “Pah,” Lady Stanton said, clearly overhearing. “I cannot imagine that would be safe or flattering for anyone. It seems quite improper, to light these dancers and actresses so garishly.”

         Eva merely clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to gnash her teeth openly. It seemed that the rest of the party felt the same way, determined to ignore Lady Stanton. That lady, however, did not seem to notice that no one responded to her whenever she spoke.

         At last the lights dimmed, as did the conversation in the theatre. The first act was a young girl who walked balanced precariously on a rope suspended a little above the stage. It was not a particularly daring act, but she was pretty enough and her ankles flashed with every step, so the audience was inclined to applaud liberally.

         Next, there was a fresh-faced young man who read out some poetry before a pastoral scene in the costume of an idyllic shepherd. As his shirt was quite loose at the neck and open to his chest, this caused a flurry of fluttering fans all through the theatre. It was impossible to say if he read with any competency, but he spoke with great enthusiasm, and was thus rewarded by the audience.

         Eva turned at one point to see Patience’s reaction to all of this, as she had not been to the theatre much before. Patience was watching it all with rapt attention, her eyes full of wonder. Her innocent enjoyment made Eva smile. Her eyes flicked back to Tom, who was leaned forward in his seat. His own gaze was trained on Patience, and he looked upon her enjoyment with contented happiness. Feeling Eva’s eyes upon him, he glanced to her, and they shared a small smile of old friends.

         There was a moment of interlude before the next act, which was to be the main event of the evening. Eva had not paid any attention to the programme, but there was an excited, murmuring energy washing over the audience. The musicians straightened and prepared to play. Silence, heavy with expectation and anticipation, filled the theatre. When they at last began to play, it was with a raucous, rapturous enthusiasm.

         The curtain lifted onto a scene of Grecian ruins, with broken columns and statues painted onto a scene of a night sky with a shining moon and glittering stars. Painted clouds seemed to float across the sky languidly. Eva turned to Tom again, prepared to make a flippant remark (this was their habit when they went to the theatre together, refusing to take anything seriously) when there was a flash of silver from the stage.

         A figure stepped forward, pale and shining in the stage light; what they had all assumed was simply another piece of the scenery, a marble statue, was in fact a living man. He was dressed as a Greek of old, in pure silver and white. His hair, so light that it, too, shone nearly silver, was long and flowed to his shoulders. It was as if a bit of quicksilver had come to life, for he flowed across the stage with a grace that defied explanation.

         Eva had the strangest feeling that Time was playing games with her. All around her, everything had halted; there was nothing but the stage, and the dancer on it. He leapt with ease, falling back to the stage so softly that Eva was not sure he had landed at all. Eva had seen dancing, of course, and had even received instruction when she was young. This, however, this…it was something entirely new and different.

         A great flash of light made the audience gasp, and suddenly there was another dancer, a woman, dressed all in metallic gold and bronze. She wore a shining diadem, and her own draped tunic was made to resemble wings when she lifted her arms. She beckoned to the other dancer, and their meeting was one of such profound feeling that many in the audience sighed.

         “Ah, Adonis and Aphrodite,” Patience murmured, but her voice sounded far away to Eva.

         They cavorted on stage, leaping, hands touching, pressing their cheeks together, all with surpassing lightness and grace. At last, the vital Adonis was slain by a boar, his spear missing its mark. This was no ordinary stage death: What had once been a body full of tension and life was suddenly a crumpled heap. It was as if all of the strings holding him had simply been cut. The musicians, too, halted their playing mid-note. The effect was so shocking that there was a chorus of gasps and cries.

         Aphrodite, her crown slipping a little, cradled the lifeless body of the man she loved. One arm lifted, as if to demand how Selene, the moon, could allow such a tragedy. The entire theatre was silent, as if everyone present was holding their collective breath. The silence persisted, as there was no answer to Aphrodite’s mute demand to know how such a beautiful thing could be killed so carelessly. The curtain, startlingly red and final, was lowered slowly.

         Eva continued merely to stare, her vision oddly blurred. The theatre was silent, as if under a kind of spell. Slowly, the audience began to applaud. Time released Eva from whatever hold it had over her, and things began to transpire in their correct manner again. The audience showed their appreciation with thunderous applause, those in the pit even stamping their feet. Dumbly, Eva could feel her hands lift as if lifted by someone else, and she, too, applauded automatically. It seemed wrong somehow, as if it were insufficient thanks for what she had just seen.

         To the consternation of the audience, the dancers did not reappear, nor did they take any bows. It was nearly unheard of, and the audience, thinking it an act of supreme snobbery, approved whole-heartedly. They were all left wanting more, which was the greatest victory that any performer could wish for.

         Lady Stanton was speaking again, but Eva paid her absolutely no mind. It was easy to ignore her; Eva was still riveted by what she had just witnessed. She did not know what had touched her so, but something within Eva had shifted, changed. It was as if she had just been introduced to the concept of possibility; she had assumed that her life would follow the same roads that it always had, but this beautiful, modern performance had shaken her.

         Whatever the rest of her life held, Eva knew that she would always be grateful for this moment of perfect, transcendental beauty.

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