‘Pass me paper, a pen and some ink, would you? I need to write something down.’
‘Of course,’ he says, retrieving the items from his attaché case.
My hands are too clumsy for flowing penmanship, but amidst the smeared ink and ugly blots, the message reads clearly enough.
I check the clock. It’s 11:56 a.m. Almost time.
After airing the paper to dry the ink, I fold it neatly and press the creases down, handing it to Cunningham.
‘Take this,’ I say, noticing the traces of greasy black dirt on his hands as he reaches for the letter. His skin’s pink with scrubbing, but the dirt’s etched into the whorls of his fingertips. Aware of my attention, he takes the letter and clasps his hands behind his back.
‘I need you to go directly to the drawing room where they’re serving lunch,’ I say. ‘Stay there and observe events as they unfold, then read this letter and return to me.’
Confusion paints his face. ‘My lord?’
‘We’re about to have a very strange day, Cunningham, and I’m going to need your absolute trust.’
I wave away his protests, gesturing for him to help me out of the seat.
‘Do as I ask,’ I say, getting to my feet with a grunt. ‘Then return here and wait for me.’
As Cunningham heads for the drawing room, I retrieve my cane and make my way to the Sun Room in the hopes of finding Evelyn. Being early, it’s only half full, ladies pouring themselves drinks from the bar, wilting over chairs and chaise longues. Everything seems to be a very great effort for them, as though the pale flush of youth were a burden, their energy exhausting. They’re muttering about Evelyn, a ripple of ugly laughter directed towards the chess table in the corner, where a game is laid out before her. She has no opponent, her concentration fixed on outwitting herself. Whatever discomfort they’re hoping to heap upon her, she seems oblivious to it.
‘Evie, can we speak?’ I say, hobbling over.
She lifts her head slowly, taking a moment to register me. As yesterday, her blonde hair is tied up into a ponytail, tugging her features into a gaunt, rather severe expression. Unlike yesterday, it doesn’t soften.
‘No, I don’t think so, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says, returning her attention to the board. ‘I’ve quite enough unpleasant things to do today without adding to the list.’
Hushed laughter turns my blood to dust. I crumble from the inside out.
‘Please, Evie, it’s—’
‘It’s Miss Hardcastle, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says pointedly. ‘Manners maketh man, not his bank account.’
A pit of humiliation opens in my stomach. This is Ravencourt’s worst nightmare. Standing in this room, a dozen pairs of eyes upon me, I feel like a Christian waiting for the first rocks to be thrown.
Evelyn ponders me, sweating and shaking. Her eyes narrow, glittering.
‘Tell you what, play me for it,’ she says, tapping the chessboard. ‘You win and we’ll have a conversation; I win and you leave me be for the rest of the day. How would that suit?’
Knowing it’s a trap, but in no position to argue, I wipe the sweat from my brow and wedge myself into the small chair opposite her, much to the delight of the assembled ladies. She could have forced me into a guillotine and I would have been more comfortable. I spill over the sides of the seat, the low back offering so little support that I tremble with the effort of keeping myself upright.
Unmoved by my suffering, Evelyn crosses her arms on the table and pushes a pawn across the board. I follow it with a rook, the pattern of the middle game weaving itself in my mind. Although we’re evenly matched, discomfort is digging holes in my concentration, my tactics proving too ramshackle to overpower Evelyn. The best I can do is prolong the match, and after half an hour of counters and feints, my patience is exhausted.
‘Your life is in danger,’ I blurt out.
Evelyn’s fingers pause on her pawn, a little tremor of her hand sounding loud as a bell. Her eyes skirt my face, then those of the ladies behind us, searching for anybody who might have heard. They’re frantic, working hard to scrub the moment from history.
She already knows.
‘I thought we had a deal, Lord Ravencourt,’ she interrupts, her expression hardening once more.
‘But—’
‘Would you prefer I leave?’ she says, her glare strangling any further attempts at conversation.
Move after move follows, but I’m so perplexed by her response, I pay little heed to strategy. Whatever’s going to happen tonight, Evelyn seems to be aware of it and yet her greater fear seems to be that somebody else will find out. For the life of me I can’t imagine why that would be and it’s clear she’s not going to open her heart to Ravencourt. Her disdain for this man is absolute, which means if I’m to save her life, I must either put on a face she likes or press forward without her help. It’s an infuriating turn of events and I’m desperately trying to find a way of reframing my argument when Sebastian Bell arrives at the door, provoking the queerest of sensations. By any measure this man is me, but watching him creep into the room like a mouse along a skirting board, I struggle to believe it. His back is stooped, his head low, arms stiff by his sides. Furtive glances scout every step, his world seemingly filled with sharp edges.
‘My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,’ says Evelyn, watching him examine the portrait on the wall. ‘It’s not a flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a flattering woman by all accounts.’
‘My apologies,’ says Bell. ‘I was—’
Their conversation proceeds exactly as it did yesterday, her interest in this frail creature prompting a pang of jealousy, though that’s not my principal concern. Bell’s repeating my day exactly and yet he believes himself to be making his choices freely, as I did. Likely then I’m blindly following a course plotted by Daniel, which makes me, what... an echo, a memory or just a piece of driftwood caught in the current?