Chapter Two
London, June 1873
“Miss Wolfenden,” Rowland sputtered, standing a step behind the threshold, as if he were too terrified to enter his own sitting room.
Ten years prior, Evelyn would have rolled her eyes at his timidity. Now she smiled sweetly, waiting for Mr. Rowland Hindmarsh to enter the room in his London house like a meek, biddable maid. And a lovely house it was, exuding an airy sense of comfort with high ceilings and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. With a roving, practical eye, Evelyn had decided it would suit her nicely.
At least, that was until she’d been ushered into this room.
Every wall in the sitting room was completely covered from floor to ceiling with small shelves. Upon each shelf a glass bottle sat on its side, and in each bottle was a highly detailed model of a ship. Warships, every one. Even the windows were flanked by shelves in the same fashion, with the same decoration.
And not just the shelves, but upon every other possible surface sat the same impossible bottles. Evelyn was relieved that the seating, at least, was free of such nonsense. Perhaps one or two might have been interesting pieces to observe and foster conversation. But an entire room full of them? And a sitting room, at that! How could one entertain visitors in a place resembling a naval-themed curiosity shop?
Evelyn focused on Rowland, her lips pulled back into a treacly smile. The ships were no matter; they would be banished as soon as she could see to it.
“It’s been… gad, how long has it been?” Rowland began fidgeting.
“Eleven years, I believe,” Evelyn said, curbing her rising impatience. The handsome footman holding the door had given her a sideways glance, then colored when she noticed. A sense of unease crept over her, but Evelyn ignored it. All would be well. It had to be. Aut constantia aut nihil, she reminded herself. Steadfastness or nothing.
“You look… well,” Rowland ventured, rocking back and forth on his feet, fingers still twiddling.
“As do you,” she responded, ignoring his lush velvet suit, distastefully long hair, and unfamiliar pencil-thin mustache.
Evelyn did not care for the effect; she’d correct all that soon enough as well. Rowland had always taken direction readily, eager to please. Much like a hound, Evelyn realized. It cheered her a bit.
“Shall we sit?” She looked to a rather fetching sofa upholstered in some sort of Turkish pattern.
“Oh, right, right. Why not?”
Rowland laughed uncomfortably before making his way to the seat farthest from her, though still close enough to make conversation. The footman finally shut the door, leaving the two of them alone. Rowland stared at her, wide-eyed and wary as a cornered doe.
“And how have you been getting on in London?” Evelyn ventured.
“Er… well, very well. I enjoy my club. My home is adequate, as you can see.” He motioned to their surroundings. Pauses between his statements hung in the air as he cast about for scraps of acceptable subject matter. He ran a hand over his hair and looked about the room. “My hobby; I spend most days putting ships into bottles, as you can see.” His eyes flickered to life and his words came faster. “Only just now I was adding color to the putty I use for the sea, you see. I’ve nearly finished fashioning a scale model of the HMS Iapyx, the central battery ironclad that Sir Colin Gearing—”
“Really? How interesting,” Evelyn interrupted in a voice that suggested she was not interested in the least.
The concept of displaying models of warships seemed tacky and vulgar to her. Especially in such number! Why, there must’ve been nearly a hundred, by her estimation. Perhaps she could convince him to move them to his study—or, even better, the attic.
Rowland looked down, his hands fidgeting in his lap.
They sat in silence, the discomfort in the room expanding exponentially as the seconds ticked by.
Finally, Evelyn could bear it no more.
“I must apologize for the late hour, but you see, it takes ever so long to make the journey to London. I never realized. I ought to have written you ahead of my visit, but I daresay I was single-mindedly focused on my overall purpose, rather than the logistical details.” She recalled then that perhaps Wright had warned her about the hour of her arrival, but she was not certain. For all his usefulness, Wright could be an awful bore.
“You… you’ve arrived… just now? All the way from Knockton?” Rowland’s head swiveled to the large walnut longcase clock alongside the door. He turned back to her, alarmed. “But surely… is Methering not with you?”
Evelyn chuckled and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. I am perfectly capable of finding my own way, without my father.”
She simply hadn’t seen the need. All she’d needed to do was make it to London, following Wright’s instructions, then hail a hansom cab and give the driver Mr. Rowland Hindmarsh’s address. From there they would hammer out the terms of their marriage, and he’d put her up in one of his bedrooms for the evening. Then he would escort her home to Knockton the following day, with everything neatly taken care of.
It would be quite scandalous, of course, but they’d be engaged. Tongues might wag, but what damage could they do? Rowland was the third son of a viscount and Evelyn the spinster daughter of a rural baron. Who would truly care? Besides, Evelyn had no worry that he might take any liberties, for that had never been Rowland’s way, even in their first blush of youth. Why, he’d never attempted anything more than a chaste holding of hands.
“No maid, either?” Rowland stammered.
“As I said, I had no need.” Evelyn frowned, thinking of Dutton fretting about the city’s crowds and smells, frightened by the prospect of going but too proud to tell her mistress. “Rowland? You’re looking a little peaked. Shall I ring for tea?” Evelyn glanced about the room for a bell pull; she ought to become familiar with her future home.
“No! No, please. I’m quite fine.” He bit his lower lip for a moment, before heaving a massive sigh. “I am just… concerned.”
Oh dear. He was hurt, wasn’t he, after all these years? Was that the reason for the awkwardness that permeated the room? She ought to apologize, she supposed. She pressed her lips together, wondering how best to go about that.
Before she could begin, though, Rowland spoke again.
“I heard about your brother. Please accept my deepest sympathies. Woolly—” He cut himself off, swallowing Edmund’s ridiculous nickname before he could finish it. “He was a real brick.”
Instead of acknowledging his condolences, Evelyn closed her eyes and charged forth with her own. “Never mind all that. Before we get on, Rowland, you must know how sorry I am.”
He furrowed his brow at the redirection, so Evelyn expounded. “For rejecting you.”
“Ah,” Rowland said, dragging out the word in a rather musical way.
She could mark the exact moment of his relief, when his shoulders relaxed along with his countenance.
“Why, that was ages ago. Pray you pay it no mind. I certainly have not thought of it for many years. You may consider yourself forgiven.” Rowland chuckled, at ease now, and he leaned back into the couch, both arms extended along its back. He laughed once more, as if he couldn’t believe this turn of events.
“Well, I’m glad it did not permanently wound your heart,” she said tartly.
“Oh, Evelyn, it’s not anything to do with you, you’re—you’ve always been quite lovely. Only that you yourself told me you never intended to marry. You said you were quite content to live out your days at Methering Manor.”
She had been. Until her foolish brother—utterly deserving of his cruel nickname, Woolly Wolfenden—choked to death on a billiard ball following a drunken bet.
Now, with no male heir to her father in sight, she found her days at Methering Manor precariously numbered, especially with the baron determined to take up every inane activity he found covered in the pages of Sporting Life. Evelyn might not be cunning and sophisticated, but she knew that whatever distant cousin the mantle of Baron Methering would fall to next would not look kindly upon housing a spinster, a widow, and a little girl.
Something ached deep in her chest at the thought. Evelyn did her best to ignore it.
“Well. Never mind that as well. People change, as do their circumstances.” She sniffed. “Why, you’ve never married yourself. And now you’re surely of an age.” She raised her voice slightly at her final words, leading up to the question she’d made this terrible journey to ask.
Rowland leaned back, curling into himself as suspicion crept onto his face. “Evelyn… please.”
She ignored him, looking instead to the largest bottle in the room, containing a wooden warship with myriad sails, but whose details she couldn’t quite make out, they all blurred together. She squinted, but it did little to bring the tiny craft into focus, so she turned back to Rowland, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath.
“I came to ask you if you might consider renewing your suit once more.”
“What?” Rowland squeaked out, digging his fingers into the edge of the sophisticated couch. “Are you,” he swallowed, “asking me to propose to you again?!”
Evelyn held her posture ramrod straight. “Yes.”
“N—no,” he stuttered, then repeated more forcefully, “No!”
“No? No?!” she echoed, shocked.
“Of course not!”
“But you… you asked me first!”
“Eleven years ago!”
“But… you’re unmarried.” Now it was her turn to furrow her brow. “Your hairline has receded and your manner of dress is… peculiar. I don’t understand. You should want to marry me.” He was the son of a viscount, she the daughter of a baron. This was the way of things. “We are…” She paused, then settled upon “well-suited.”
It didn’t sound all too convincing, even to herself. Evelyn had never been a hand at these sorts of things—flattery, cunning. She was far too straightforward for that.
Rowland stood up, then crossed the room to kneel before her, grasping her hand. Evelyn wanted to tug it away, but she checked herself. Perhaps he’d decided to go along with it and propose after all.
“Strong, admirable Evelyn. It’s true I would have married you then. Those were different times. I was a terrified boy, desperate to do right at every turn, to please everyone but myself. But now, all these years later, I’ve found my path, and my peace of mind.”
Dread slithered up her spine. Now she reclaimed her hand, clutching it against her chest. Recoiling against a horrid, hollow feeling she couldn’t name. Still Rowland remained before her, his eyes mournful.
“Would marriage not please you?” she whispered. “Or just marriage to me?”
Evelyn had always given little thought to her physical appearance, for it had never mattered to her whether others found her a great beauty. She knew she was not. But she had thought herself tolerable at the very least, if a little plump.
Rowland shook his head, smiling sadly underneath that awful mustache. “Just as you once vowed never to marry, for love did not please you, I have realized that I’m not inclined to…” He glanced away for a moment. When his eyes met hers again, they were as earnest and vulnerable as his voice. “I have no desire for the love found in the marriage bed.”
Evelyn laughed. It came out a tinny, horrible sound.
“Why, is that all? We need not share a bed! Not even that first night, if it would be so objectionable to you—”
“No, Evelyn. Perhaps years ago, but this…” He sighed, glancing around the room, taking in the shelves upon shelves of model ships forever moored in their glass prisons. “This is me now. I live a quiet life. I make my models. I want for nothing. Not even the companionship of a wife.”
Something within Evelyn snapped. So she rated no higher than a miniature frigate, did she? She stood up abruptly.
“I see.”
“Evelyn—” Rowland started, reaching for her, but she stepped away, flustered and fiddling with the ribbons of her bonnet.
Sense seemed to have abandoned her, leaving behind only the pounding of her heart and the burning of her cheeks. Suddenly her light linen travel costume felt overly constricting, as if she couldn’t breathe. Her head was awhirl, her eyes darting about. What was happening?
“I—I beg your leave. Good afternoon,” she gasped.
And then she left.
She thought she could still hear Rowland shouting her name as she rushed out onto the pavement, nearly knocking into a lamplighter in the process, who might have called after her as well. But she couldn’t be sure of anything. She needed to move. She needed to get as far away as she could from that house, that asinine sitting room, and the abject shame that had nearly just done her in.
She could not bear to think anymore, just walk. As quickly as possible.
How many minutes—or hours—passed, she could not say. But when finally her heart calmed and her breath steadied, evening had fallen. Evelyn felt a fool, losing her head like that. She tsked out loud and shook her head.
If only she’d known, if only she’d realized—but never mind that. That was in the past now. She must press on. For Rowland Hindmarsh was but one man in the whole country. Surely there were many more well-to-do bachelors eager for a helpmeet.
And for the marriage bed. For some reason her cheeks colored at the thought. She’d never thought much about consummating a marriage, for she’d never expected to wed. But as Rowland had reminded her, that was something to consider now. She shook her head again and took a centering breath, halting in place.
First things first.
“I will return home. Then I will begin my search anew,” she said to herself with a resolute nod.
A passing man in rough dress gave her a funny look, but she ignored him. Evelyn had new business to attend to. And the first order of that business was finding the railway station. Glancing about, the streets looked unfamiliar—though of course they were, as she knew nothing of the city. However, her surroundings looked much… harsher than the neighborhood Rowland resided in.
She wended her way around the heaving masses. Most were dressed in drab, workaday garments, heavily mended and hanging so loosely Evelyn felt they could all do with a good washing. A woman clutching a bundled babe walked in her direction, and Evelyn felt a spot of relief. A mother would surely aid her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, waving at the woman. The mother eyed Evelyn suspiciously, but stopped, shifting the weight of the child to her other arm. “But where are we?”
The woman squinted at her. “Are you bein’ funny?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” Evelyn said, taken aback. The woman’s frown deepened, so she hurriedly added, “I’m simply lost.”
“Well, it’s Lambeth, isn’t it?” the woman said breezily, then took off once more.
Evelyn watched her disappear. “Lambeth?” she said, stunned. She hadn’t been there at any point earlier that day, that was for certain. How far had she fled?
Someone shoved into her, grousing vaguely in her direction as they lumbered on.
Evelyn stared after them, gaping in shock. Thank goodness Rowland had rejected her, she decided; she certainly would not enjoy living in London. Just then a burst of violent shouting gave her another start. She craned her neck. At the edge of the road, a group of quarreling men were blocking traffic and scattering the other pedestrians, who were more than happy to give them a wide berth.
Evelyn’s hand involuntarily rose to her throat. Suddenly she wished she’d taken Wright up on his offer to accompany her. He certainly would know how to find the railway station. Keeping her head high, she moved quickly around the belligerent men, who had by now escalated their shouting of coarse threats to shoving. Even as she steeled herself, she could feel her heart racing in her chest. Bothersome thing.
Perhaps if she might find the river, or even a church…
Her heartbeat still thudding mockingly in her ears, Evelyn rounded the corner. Before her stood a moldering old tower and, behind it, a large, castle-like hall with dark walls.
Of course. Lambeth Palace. Even she knew of this place! A surge of hope doused Evelyn’s anxiety. She silently gave thanks as she approached the massive building at a more sedate pace. For even better than a church—she’d stumbled across the archbishop’s London residence.
Although darkness had now fallen, there was a bustle about the great gate, with several scattered lanterns casting a low light. Men were disassembling temporary tables made of sawhorses and long boards, while women were collecting and bundling linens. A smaller group were taking down a tent not far from the others. It seemed a grander affair than a daily alms collection at the gate. Evelyn tried to recall the date, which she had lost track of, so obsessed had she been with her inevitable eviction from her family home. It was sometime near the end of June…
“Ah!” She finally realized as she approached the gate, feeling pleased with herself. “The Feast of Saints Peter and Paul.”
“What?” An older woman holding a basket full of crockery turned, then tilted her head, a suspicious look on her face. “If you’re here for the festival, we’ve nearly finished. His Excellency has gone and fed three hundred hungry souls.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked Evelyn up and down. “But you don’t look like you’re missing your supper. Or breakfast, for that matter.”
Evelyn opened her mouth, ready to administer a frigid retort. For she was positively famished, regardless of her robust figure. But everyone milling about and tidying up must be in the archbishop’s employ, and she wasn’t nearly as foolish as Edmund was. At least, she prayed she wasn’t. She pressed her lips shut.
“No, you’re quite right. I am not here for bread.” She could feel her empty stomach wail at the falsehood. “But I am in dire need of assistance.”
The woman’s stern face did not change; she was unconvinced. “Come back tomorrow, then.” She turned, heaving the basket up against her middle, crockery clinking.
“No,” Evelyn called out. The woman froze. “That is, please. Please! I beg you.”
The woman turned about, unable to resist her curiosity.
Evelyn hesitated for a moment, realizing what a strange image she must present. A well-fed, well-spoken young lady, alone and unchaperoned, wearing a black straw bonnet that was—as Evelyn had realized upon arriving in London earlier that day—very much not the style anymore, begging for aid in front of Lambeth Palace in the dark.
But then she remembered herself. She was a Wolfenden. She held her gaze steady, her posture perfect.
At last the woman sighed, cast a glance back to her compatriots, then ambled toward Evelyn.
“What is it, then?”
Where to begin? Must she explain every awful thing that had befallen her? She’d rather stand before this stranger in her underthings. This was nearly as appalling as the girl sobbing at the railway station that morning.
Her mind briefly wandering, Evelyn wished she had asked the girl’s name. She hoped she’d arrived safely at her destination in Wigan.
She pursed her lips, debating how to answer. Finally she said, curtly, “I… I must speak with the archbishop.”
“Ha!” The woman shook her head, laughing heartily. “Fat chance of that, begging your pardon, of course, miss. Ah,” she paused, shifting the basket so she might lift a corner of her apron to dab at her eyes, “but I’ll thank you for the laugh. It’s been a day, it has.” She shifted the basket once more, ceramics jangling, and turned to leave.
“Wait!”
The woman paused.
Evelyn’s cheeks colored, but she prayed the woman would not see in the darkness.
“I’ve… I’ve been ill-used.” She swallowed, hoping that would convey the meaning of what had transpired between her and Rowland. Then, thinking it might be better to speak in specifics, she added, “By a gentleman.”
Well. That wasn’t quite so terrible. She’d said more than she ought to, but now there could be no confusing the situation. She had placed her faith in Rowland, and he’d utterly failed her.
The woman turned, her expression softening. Her eyes dropped once more. Out of deference, perhaps?
“Oh dear,” she whispered, shaking her head gently, her gaze still focused on Evelyn’s middle. “Poor thing. You poor, poor thing.”