“Terrible at investments. Excellent at spending both his and your money. Do you know that Nathaniel told me—before the long silence began between us—that we were all supposed to inherit money from Mother? But none of it remains. When his uncle and my father brokered their arrangement, they disclosed several documents. It was clear that Father spent everything meant to be ours.”
“He did?” Marianne whispered, stunned.
“I cannot believe that,” Charlotte said quickly, her talent for ignoring reality once again asserting itself. “If we ask him for a donation, I am certain he would oblige.”
“It is true, Charlotte,” Evelyn said, her tone flat. “You must stop viewing Father as some benevolent angel.”
“I know he is not,” Charlotte said, her voice smaller now. “But I refuse to believe he spent our inheritance.”
“He did not mean to,” Aunt Eugenia said softly. All eyes turned to her. “He thought he’d made a sound investment. It turned out to be less lucrative than anticipated. He lost most of what your mother left for you. It came out of her jointure. In any case, it is true—my brother is a poor steward when it comes to wealth.”
The sisters sat quietly, heads bowed. Evelyn felt guilty for revealing the truth so bluntly, but they needed to understand.
“I do not doubt that Father loves us,” she added. “But we must be honest about his faults. We cannot trust him with funds. And Charlotte, I am sorry to say it, but even if he wished to give, he no longer has the means.”
Evelyn was surprised by her aunt’s candor, but was grateful for it—the truth, at last.
“Aunt Eugenia, I worry about you. For everything Uncle Frederick left in your care.”
“Do not fret,” Eugenia said, patting her hand. “I know my brother. I will help him as I can, but I shall not beggar myself in the process. Now, back to the matter at hand. We cannot ask your father.”
“So that means,” Evelyn said slowly, “the only one in our circle capable of making a real difference is Nathaniel.”
“I am certain Lady Annabelle’s cousin might contribute as well,” Eugenia offered, “but if Nathaniel gives…”
“Others will follow,” Evelyn finished.
She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. She wanted to do good. She wanted this project to be hers. She had not wanted to return to Nathaniel. But what was he doing? Stalking about the house like a ghost. Glaring at everyone. Frequenting his club, returning late, looking rumpled—although that had only happened once.
He was not attending Parliament. He barely left the estate. She had seen him fencing outdoors the week prior, but it had ended with him lying in the grass, propped on his elbows, staring blankly at the clouds.
It had inspired her to pick up the saber again—but beyond that, Nathaniel had done nothing.
Perhaps, she thought, it was time he did one good thing.
That evening, she resolved to speak to him. Perhaps having something outside of himself to focus on might be the very thing to release him from whatever grip his melancholy held over him.
CHAPTER 31
That evening, Evelyn lay in bed and stared up at her canopy. She hadn’t spoken to Nathaniel yet. She had planned to—just as she’d promised—but he hadn’t been home when she arrived.
He had gone out again. To the club. Just as he had nearly every night.
What was it about that club that drew him so much? A woman? She groaned and shook her head. No, surely not. And why should she care? Their marriage wasn’t real. It was just on paper. Something that could be crumpled up and tossed into the fire at a moment’s notice. It meant nothing.
Yet, as she tossed back and forth, her stomach churned as if she’d eaten too much marzipan. It did not matter. What had happened between them mattered. They had almost kissed—more than once. It was clear there was something more between them. So why was he acting this way?
She turned to her other side, eyes fixed on the curtains. Her lips were pressed together, her thoughts spinning. Why was Nathaniel acting so strangely?
And why did it bother her so much?
From outside the window, she heard the clatter of a carriage arriving. Instantly, she sat up ramrod straight and swung her legs out of bed, like a soldier ready to march on Napoleon herself—in nothing but her nightgown.
She dashed to the window, pushed back the curtains, and saw him tumbling out of the carriage. His hair was askew, but he walked as though still in complete control of his faculties.
She grabbed the candle from her nightstand, its flame barely clinging to life. The clock in the corner showed it was one o’clock in the morning.
Before she had even made up her mind what to do, she was already in the hallway, her bare feet pattering across the floor.
