No, he could never give Evelyn a proper place at his side. He could never be the kind of man to make her happy.
But at least he had saved her from ruin.
At least he had given her a title.
And if it cost him his peace—well, perhaps that was simply the price he was meant to pay. For a man like him could never hope to keep a woman like Evelyn—not truly. No matter how much Julian tried to deny it.
Nathaniel knew it was true.
CHAPTER 30
“It was wonderful,” Annabelle declared as she kissed Evelyn on each cheek. “A great success!”
“I would not say a great success,” Evelyn replied. “We scarcely had ten people—and half of them were my own family and friends.”
Annabelle beamed. “Still, Lady Aspen came. And Miss Melinda. They shall bring more next time, I daresay. They all seemed thoroughly intrigued by the notion of hosting a bake sale to benefit the poor climbing boys.”
“Yes, but what is that going to do?” Evelyn said with a sigh. “It will not free them from their deadly chores. It will not keep their feet from burning on hot coals. It will not set them free.”
“It will fill their bellies,” Aunt Eugenia said. “And that is something to be proud of. This was your first meeting, Evelyn. Do not despair.”
But heaven help her, she had despaired. Since she had conceived the idea of affecting change in society, it had been her sole driving force. It had carried her through the endless silences between herself and Nathaniel. It had given her something to anticipate when he stormed past her with eyes like thunderclouds and barely acknowledged her with a curt nod.
It had sustained her through mornings where she found him barking orders at unsuspecting footmen over imagined slights.
She had clung to it, pouring her time and energy into redecorating the dower house, purchasing the finest granite pencils and the most expensive notebooks, so the ladies she expected to attend could take notes in style. She had bought books on countless subjects, hoping to ignite curiosity and conversation, and that they might read, learn, and uplift each other together.
In the end, only her sisters, Aunt Eugenia, Annabelle, and two acquaintances had come. And for an excruciatingly long time, they had spoken of nothing more revolutionary than the latest ribbons on sale at Miss Charlemaine’s shop on Bond Street. Ribbons. They had compared colors and textures, discussed the latest Gothic romances—all while sipping rare Chinese tea and indulging in the cook’s pastries, candied orange and lemon peels, marzipan, and chocolate nonpareils.
It wasn’t until Evelyn clapped her hands sharply to call them to order that the conversation veered toward its true purpose: change.
Although, as it turned out, change was something the ladies found dreadfully unsettling. They gravitated toward safer causes—donating their time at orphanages and joining societies for wounded soldiers. Worthy efforts, but already well-tended.
She had hoped for something new. Something uncharted. Something meaningful.
Then, Aunt Eugenia had mentioned the poor climbing boys. Everyone knew of them—orphans taken as apprentices by chimney sweeps, made to climb narrow flues because of their size. It was ghastly. Annabelle had relayed a horrific tale of a boy who had fallen down a chimney and landed on hot coals, his feet badly burned.
“The child was no more than seven,” Annabelle had continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “His master told me the boy screamed for nearly an hour before they could extract him. When they finally did, the soles of his feet were burned black as charcoal. He will never walk properly again—if he survives at all.”
Aunt Eugenia had nodded grimly. “I have heard worse tales. There was a boy in Whitechapel who became lodged in a flue. They had to break through the wall to retrieve him, but by then…” She had shaken her head, unable to finish.
“How can such things be legal?” Miss Melinda had asked, her face pale.
“Because Parliament sees only the convenience,” Evelyn had replied, her anger building. “Clean chimneys without the expense of proper equipment or adult workers. These boys are purchased from workhouses for a few pounds, sometimes less. Their masters care nothing for their welfare.”
Lady Aspen had dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I have heard they sleep in coal cellars, breathing in soot day and night. Many develop consumption before they reach their tenth birthday.”
“And the burns,” Annabelle had added. “Not just from falls, but from the chimney walls themselves. The flues are often still warm from recent fires. The boys must climb with their knees and elbows pressed against hot brick, their skin scraped raw. Some develop sores that never heal.”
The room had fallen silent then, the weight of such suffering settling over them like a shroud.
These boys were no more than six, seven, or eight years old, their lives already wrecked by injury and illness. Many could barely walk due to burns. Others coughed constantly, forced to sleep on coal sacks in filthy, airless cellars.
The conversation had finally quickened. Evelyn had found her cause—children who could not help themselves.
By the end of the meeting, they had only agreed on a bake sale. Hardy revolutionary, true. But perhaps Aunt Eugenia was right—perhaps she had to begin from somewhere.
Once Annabelle had gone, Evelyn remained with her sisters and aunt.
