Chapter Four
It was certainly strange, eating pitiable suet dumplings and lukewarm stew while two strangers attempted to put you at ease. But considering Evelyn had somehow sustained herself throughout the ordeal of the day on strength of will alone, she gladly accepted the middling fare offered her.
When the woman at Lambeth Palace had informed her there was a gentleman who happily assisted ladies in trouble, Evelyn had at first been relieved. But then she’d thought of Wright, her family’s estimable butler with the excellent sense, and she’d become skeptical. What would he think of such a claim? But the woman had assured her that Mr. Hartley was indeed a gentleman with noble intentions, and he resided in a decent neighborhood.
That bit had all but convinced Evelyn; her feet ached and she could not fathom wandering all night or, even ghastlier, taking sanctuary in a church pew. Still, the walk from Lambeth Palace to Mr. Hartley’s had taken the better part of an hour, even at a steady clip.
She had thought it odd that the woman had sent Evelyn on her way by reminding her that Mary had endured a difficult journey as she rode to Bethlehem on an ass, so Evelyn could face whatever was before her. Evelyn had nodded but made haste to leave, offering one last silent prayer that Mr. Hartley wasn’t quite as churchy as all that. She didn’t fancy a lecture about the impropriety of women and so on; she usually could barely stay awake during Sunday service in the Methering chapel.
Thankfully, for all his oddness, Mr. Hartley had limited the conversation to vague platitudes and eager smiles, with nary a mention of Christ. Upon finishing her meal, she lifted her eyes to find him watching her. She knew she ought to smile, but she dreaded encouraging whatever he was about.
“Thank you, Mr. Hartley, Mrs. Hartley. I feel much more myself.”
The gentleman’s mother had fetched some Berlin wool work some time ago and looked up from it. “Of course, you poor thing! Wandering after dark, all alone…”
“Unmarried,” Mr. Hartley added in a stern voice.
“I fail to see how that has any relevance to my current situation,” Evelyn exclaimed, baffled. “But yes, if you must know, I am unwed.”
Mrs. Hartley’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open.
Everyone seemed to be interested in her private business today, didn’t they? What gall! Perhaps it would have been better if Rowland had accepted her after all. If only she hadn’t waited years to revisit the idea of an arrangement. But before Evelyn could ask Mrs. Hartley if she was indeed well, the older lady turned to her son with a panicked look on her face, her hands clutching her wool work to her chest.
“Er, Mama. Perhaps it would be best if I speak with Miss Wolfenden about her,” he cleared his throat, “situation in private.”
He then leaned forward to whisper something in her ear, which only confirmed Evelyn’s low opinion of him and the rest of the middle class. Rude and uncouth. She would be glad to quit this overwarm house, this hateful city, this… unctuous gentleman, and return to Methering Manor, where people treated one another with dignity and it was always cold, even in summer.
And then she could go about finding a suitable husband who actually desired a wife, rather than just ships in bottles.
Mrs. Hartley stood, a placated sort of expression on her face, and wished Evelyn a good night. Her son escorted her to the door. She’d left her needlework in a basket on the table, and Evelyn wondered if the house even had a sitting room, it was so cramped and uncomfortable.
When Mr. Hartley returned, he paused for a moment, fingers fidgeting atop his chair. He had large hands, and Evelyn found herself noticing them as they tapped the top of the carved cartouche. Suddenly she felt strange. She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes. Something had changed in his countenance—a sharpness as he considered her, weighing her as if it were she, not him, who was found wanting.
“Mr. Hartley, I’ll speak plainly,” she started, wanting this over with. “I find myself in a difficult situation.”
He looked at her intently, casually leaning forward on the chair back as if he were in some bawdy public house rather than his own home. Evelyn frowned. She’d expected him to inquire, to press her for more information.
“Do you mind?” she huffed. “It’s difficult enough to be in such a situation. I can’t think with you standing about like that.”
“By all means,” he said solicitously, sitting down with a grin.
He was certainly strange. Tall, perhaps of an age with her. Handsome in a Roman patrician sort of way, with the same severe brow as the bust of some ancient senator. But his hair was unkempt—too shaggy, like that of an aimless boy. Evelyn set her hands in her lap. If she didn’t require his help, she did not think she would want to be in his company. His vivacious manner felt forced, and his constant badgering about whether or not she enjoyed the dumplings was, frankly, annoying.
And to add to all that, now she had to tell him her story. Very well. Evelyn lifted her chin, looking down on him now that he was at her level. She ought to say it plainly, even more so than she had with the woman at the great gate of Lambeth Palace. Perhaps she might shock him out of his inanity.
“I came to London to visit with the gentleman I would have married.” That wasn’t quite a lie. Evelyn congratulated herself on her craftiness. “He’s… had a change of heart, and now I find myself alone, friendless, and quite ignorant of the location of the railway station.”
She raised an eyebrow even as her heart jumped to a quicker pace. What an ordeal it was, to speak so candidly of oneself!
His face remained emotionless, unreadable. He didn’t appear even the slightest bit taken aback.
“I can assure you it’s been quite distressing, though I put on a good face,” she added.
He remained unmoved.
“You were to be married, you say?” Mr. Hartley laced his fingers together on top of the table and leaned forward, his features still stern.
“Well…”
“Had there been any promises?” When Evelyn chose to not respond, Mr. Hartley narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “Intimacies?”
She gasped.
And yet he pressed on. “Perhaps… that is to say, are you in a certain… condition?”
Evelyn pushed back from the table and stood abruptly. Several responses came to mind, but she did not voice them, not to this scurrilous deceiver of a man. She stared him down defiantly, but he would not look away; he lacked even the decency for that, it seemed.
“Usually, those who seek my assistance have found themselves carrying a child outside the bonds of marriage,” he explained, his voice flat. “If you’ve been sent my way, it stands to reason that you might suffer similarly.”
“Oh.” Evelyn fell back to her chair.
She thought of the way the serving woman at the gates of the archbishop’s palace had stared at her stomach. The way she’d reminded her of the Lord’s mother, heavy with child as she traveled to Bethlehem. Suddenly Evelyn felt as witless and inept as Edmund, God rest his soul.
How could not she not have realized?
Mr. Hartley watched her. His eyes were steady and calm, a trustworthy blue. He does not deserve to possess such noble eyes, Evelyn thought, irate.
“Am I correct in my assumption, then?”
Suddenly Evelyn felt incredibly tired. What hour could it be? She glanced about the room for a clock but found nothing; just sad wallpaper the color of mud. She longed to be in her bed at home, safe behind the ancient fortified walls, waiting for Dutton to bring her nightly glass of warm milk. Funny to think that her desire to preserve that comfort—to bottle it up and protect it, not just for herself, but her brother’s widow and daughter too—had brought her here, to this loud, cruel city and this depressing hovel within.
“Mr. Hartley,” she began, then paused.
His name was familiar, was it not? She hadn’t recalled earlier, but now she thought she might have heard it before. He did claim to be her neighbor in Knockton, after all; perhaps she’d heard it in passing here and there. She shook her head. There would be time to think on it later.
“I require no assistance of that nature. I only wish to return home to Knockton.” Her tone wavered briefly, and she steadied herself. She would not allow this man to see her despair. “And I do not know the location of the railway station.”
“Which one?” Mr. Hartley asked from behind his hand. The amusement in his eyes suggested he was hiding a wry grin.
“I beg your pardon?” Evelyn decided she disliked him even more. “There’s more than one?”
At that he laughed. Evelyn scoffed, appalled at his bad manners, and frustrated again by her own na?veté. Of course there would be more than one in a city this size. How foolish could she be?
“At any rate, I apologize for having to inform you, but no line runs past eight. You’re stranded until morning, it seems.”
Oh no.
Why hadn’t she thought of that? Why hadn’t Wright… oh, that was why—so confident in her plan was she, that Evelyn had informed her butler there would be no need for a return journey. She’d expected to spend the night at Rowland’s residence—chastely, in separate bedrooms, of course. She thought back to earlier that day. Rowland was probably not even abed yet, but up with his impossible bottles, working by lamplight, perfectly content. Whether it was from the humor or the pain of the thought, Evelyn did not know, but how she wanted to laugh at the visual.
But she wouldn’t. Not in front of him. She shot the most contemptuous glare she could manage at Mr. Hartley.
“Then, Mr. Hartley, what I require is lodging.”
She stood up once more, collecting her bonnet and gloves from the table. She wondered why she hadn’t thought to pack a case with some necessities. Her clothes would look positively done in tomorrow.
“Is that something you could assist me with?”
He turned away from her. Studying his profile as he did so, she found herself in disbelief at the strength of his features, from his heavy brow to his well-cut jaw. It was a shame he was such an ill-mannered, unpleasant man, completely at odds with his physical characteristics.
“This gentleman,” he said after a pause, still looking away, “the one you said you supposed you might marry. What happened?”
Such audacity! She hadn’t expected to be called out. Evelyn turned away. She’d never been quick on her feet. Perhaps if she shared a scrap of information, he’d finally leave off.
“I rejected his suit, once. Years ago. I thought he might still care… enough.”
“Enough?” His voice was so smooth. And incredulous.
That unfamiliar prickly feeling hit her again, as if every inch of her body, from her head to her fingertips, was urging her to run away and escape. How irritating.
“Enough to renew his affection.”
“You love him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She spun about to find him watching her intently, his eyes sharp. Evelyn shook her head. “This is wildly improper, I hope you—”
“Then why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why marry him now? You said it’d been years. And we’ve established that there’s no medical condition compelling you to wed in haste.” He stood up, hands in his pockets. “And you clearly do not love him.”
Evelyn glared, but he would not let up.
“Why, Miss Wolfenden?”
In her discomfort, and to her mortification, the truth slipped out.
“My brother died. He left no heir. His widow and child… I suppose I feel a responsibility. A husband would be…” Her words died on her lips.
What in heaven’s name was she doing, divulging this information to a stranger? Never before had she felt so exposed. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if to keep any further secrets from escaping her.
Mr. Hartley moved around the chair and strolled toward her. Evelyn hadn’t recalled him looming so tall when she arrived on his doorstep. But she did not fear. As much as she found his manner distasteful, she could manage him quite easily. She was a Wolfenden, after all.
“Are you married, Mr. Hartley?”
“No.”
“Hm.” Evelyn nodded. “I supposed as much.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, because you asked me, of course,” she said in genuine surprise, for turnabout was fair play, was it not? She continued, “And because it is quite interesting, an unmarried gentleman so invested in the plight of unwed mothers. Don’t you think?”
“Is it, though?” His voice raised, even as he affected a look of ease. His thick, straight brows rose as he continued, passion building in his voice with every word. “I would think anyone with a scrap of decency would have a care for the humane treatment of the powerless in our society. Children, mothers, women… prostitutes.”
Shock struck her as he uttered the last word. He stood an arm’s length in front of her, but Evelyn felt it far too close. All at once the room felt too warm, her breathing became too rapid.
“Anyone with a scrap of decency wouldn’t speak of such… things,” she managed.
“At the expense of a heart,” he blurted out. He immediately winced, then looked away once more, pinching his brow. “I’m sorry, Miss Wolfenden, so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Goodness.” Evelyn stepped back, clutching her belongings to her chest. “I certainly hope this is not indicative of the sort of hospitality you provide to others.”
“I apologize. I’m not…” He sighed, slouching as he crossed his arms. “I can offer you a room, certainly. Thankfully, I’ve one to spare. And I’ll send Ellis with you to the railway station in the morning, to see you on a train back to Knockton. Will that suffice?” He stopped, then looked up to her with quite a different expression than what he’d displayed before: open, earnest. Hopeful, perhaps?
“Yes,” Evelyn said, though her voice came out weaker than she expected.
“Right. Back to Knockton, then.” He sighed, sounding a man defeated. He looked up at her with an apologetic smile. “Don’t fret. All will be well. You’ll see.”
Evelyn gave him a curt nod. She found she did not like looking at him.
Just then a maid turned up to escort her to a room, and she gladly followed. The sooner she was done with this disaster of a day, the sooner she could put Mr. Hartley from her mind and turn her thoughts instead to marriageable men.
That was what she told herself, as she settled into a small bedroom with two narrow windows. Thankfully, the bed was serviceable, and she lay there in her shift, marveling at the misadventure that had brought her here. She, Evelyn Wolfenden, had journeyed to London! Alone! Wonders would never cease.
Rather than rue her failure with Rowland, she felt a surge of pride. For although her plans had gone awry, she’d proven her mettle, that she was someone who could find a way to provide for her family. She allowed herself a small smile in the dark.
For a moment Evelyn wished she had someone to share her achievement with. But her father would only ever argue with her, and Selina never listened to anyone these days. Most of Evelyn’s friends had married over the years, and their letters only ever contained half-hearted complaints about married life or tiresome conundrums related to gardening and furnishings. She would tell Wright, but Selina was already far too familiar with the family’s longtime butler, and Evelyn ought to set a better example than that.
It had never occurred to her before, but she seemed to be quite alone in the world.
Well, it did not matter. She would find a husband soon, surely. And perhaps then she would tell him of her bravery, of how much she had endured to find her way to the altar. Yes, of course. Slowly her body warmed, and Evelyn relaxed into a sleepy haze, enjoying vague thoughts of some faceless and nameless, yet respectable man.
But then the unfortunate image of Mr. Hartley came to mind. Scowling. Smirking at her behind his hand. Pinning her with his wolfish grin. Speaking of scandalous things with fire in his voice, then imbuing that voice with gentleness when assuring her that all would be well. What a bothersome man.
“I hope to never lay eyes on you again, sir,” Evelyn murmured to herself.
She rolled over and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.