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“ I t 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.

“How is your husband?” Marianne asked. “Has his mood improved at all?”

Evelyn gave a dry little laugh. “I think not. He stumps about the house as if he has gravel in his boots he cannot be rid of. He speaks little, and when he does, it is only to bark orders or voice displeasure. He reminds me of his uncle.”

Charlotte grimaced. “It sounds as though you merely exchanged one Duke of Sinclair for another, with very little gain. But do you think, perhaps, he is this way because he thinks you do not care for him?”

“I think not. We have discussed this before, and I shall not debate it again.”

“I say you kiss him,” Charlotte said rather boldly.

All eyes turned to her.

“Have you gone mad?” Marianne asked. “Why in heaven’s name would she do such a thing?”

“Why not?” Charlotte shrugged. “If you are miserably married, you might as well attempt to find some enjoyment in it. He may kiss you back—and it shall be a passionate embrace.” She hugged herself for dramatic effect.

“Or he will be appalled, and you shall have a row. Did you not tell me earlier you would not mind a fight that shattered the cutlery?”

“Charlotte, your romantic notions are utterly absurd,” Marianne interjected with a snort. “Next, you’ll be suggesting Evelyn seduce him with poetry and rose petals.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Charlotte said, her eyes lighting up mischievously.

“Absolutely not,” Evelyn said firmly. “I said I would not mind a row that shakes the cutlery, yes. It would be better than this eternal silence we live in now. But I have no desire to kiss him.”

She did not want to admit she had once wanted to. That she had nearly done so, several times, but that was then. The present was altogether bleaker. The idea that they might kiss again was ludicrous. Atlantis would rise from the depths of the sea before such a thing occurred.

“Perhaps,” Aunt Eugenia said thoughtfully, stirring her tea, “the problem is not that you don’t care for each other, but that you both care too much and are afraid to show it.”

“Aunt Eugenia,” Evelyn protested.

“Hear me out, dear. I watched you both at your wedding. There was something there—a spark. You’re both so determined to protect yourselves that you’ve built walls too high to climb.”

“Walls can be torn down,” Charlotte said hopefully.

“Or one can simply walk around them,” Marianne added pragmatically. “Though I suppose that requires knowing where the gate is.”

“I wonder if perhaps you could inspire him to assist with our venture,” Marianne offered, changing the subject.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he is one of the richest men in the realm. He could donate—one large enough that those climbing boys might be fed not just one night, thanks to a bake sale, but for many nights. And if he gives, perhaps others will follow suit.”

Evelyn exhaled, frustrated. “I do not wish to ask him for anything.”

“Pride is a luxury those poor children cannot afford,” Aunt Eugenia said gently. “You said you wished to bring about change. We can attempt to raise funds, but if we cannot turn to the wealthiest among us, what chance do we have? We must use what influence we possess.”

“Besides,” Charlotte added with an impish grin, “asking him for help might give you that row you’re wanting. He could refuse spectacularly, you could shout at him for being heartless, and voilà, cutlery rattling all around.”

“Charlotte!” Marianne scolded, though she was trying not to smile.

“What? At least then they’d be speaking to each other.”

“Did Uncle Frederick support your causes?” Evelyn asked, ignoring her youngest sister’s theatrics.

“Of course,” Eugenia replied without hesitation. “But then, your uncle was always generous with his purse.”

“As generous as you are with yours now, when it comes to our father?” Evelyn asked coolly.

Her aunt’s color drained. Evelyn had never spoken so plainly to her before, but now, as a duchess, she was in a position to say what needed saying. Technically, she outranked her aunt. And if she were to do good in this world, she must not flinch from hard truths.

“Evelyn, that is unkind. Your father is?—”

“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.