Chapter Five
Knockton, Lancashire, September 1873
It was time for Marcus to enact his plan. He had worked through it at length, weighing whether pursuing a potential union with Miss Wolfenden was the right course of action, or if he’d be better served forgetting the idea altogether and putting his effort into more practical matters.
During the course of this internal debate, though, yet another by-election had resulted in the loss of yet another seat for his party, and pragmatism—not panic, Marcus assured himself—won the day. Marcus decided that in order to retain his seat, he likely had to marry. Reform would not happen without support in Parliament, he reminded himself, like a nanny building up her charge to swallow a dose of cod liver oil.
Parliament had risen, after which he’d spent time setting about other errands in the city. The matter of Miss Wolfenden was never far from his mind, though, and by late August he’d come to his decision.
Marcus Hartley was as ready as he’d ever be to take a wife.
And he had it on very good authority that, today, Miss Wolfenden would be attending a soirée musicale. Whatever the hell that was.
He was about to find out.
“Er, whereabouts are we heading, exactly?” Dr. Matthew Collier asked, looking incredibly uncomfortable atop Lloyd, the stubborn Barb Marcus had purchased on a whim the previous year, then stashed at his Knockton stables and promptly forgotten about.
Collier pulled up on the reins, earning an irritated snort from Lloyd.
“The Knockton Guildhall,” Marcus replied.
He felt a slight regret that he hadn’t offered his friend his own, gentler mount, Dolly, a handsome chestnut Thoroughbred. But then again, Collier was even taller than Marcus, and of a larger build. Marcus had assumed the horse would defer to the stronger man’s will far more readily than his own, which he now realized was incorrect.
They’d still make it into town, at any rate.
“You know,” Collier said with a slight hesitance—for the doctor was not one to criticize, even in jest—“you ought to consider the purchase of a carriage, if you truly wish to find a wife. Most ladies would rather ride in comfort, shielded from the elements.”
“True enough. But you see, I would rather spend my money on just about anything else at the moment.” Marcus kept his eyes trained on the cluster of buildings in the distance. It was a lovely day, with a slight breeze blowing intermittently.
The doctor did not respond to that, which was Marcus’s intent. He was exceedingly middle-class, even more so than Marcus pretended to be, and was loath to speak of something as horrifying as personal finances. They rode on, the sound of leaves crunching below their mounts’ hooves filling the silence between them, until Marcus felt sufficiently remorseful and introduced another subject.
“So, Collier, tell me. Just what is a soirée musicale, exactly?”
As part of laying the groundwork to gain a genteel wife, Marcus had perused more gossip than ever before. Even more than when his own cousin, Harmonia, had featured heavily in most of the popular rags. During that time he had approached each fish wrapper with a sense of dread, agonizing over what horrifying scandal she might have embroiled herself in. Thankfully, though, she’d ended up marrying a man more than capable of looking after her, and Marcus had given up his study.
But having taken it up again, he found an unlikely expert in his friend, Dr. Collier. Collier somehow knew all the names, all the parties, and all the blasted expectations as well as he knew the odds of winning tricks in a game of piquet. The doctor, it so happened, was a consummate rule aficionado. So Marcus had invited him along on this expedition, not only wishing to avoid presenting himself to Miss Wolfenden as a solitary, friendless man, but also counting on Collier’s social expertise.
“It’s just a music party, isn’t it?”
“That, I’d gathered.”
Dr. Collier sighed, reaching up to scratch his chin as he thought. “Well, seeing as it’s an afternoon affair, rather than evening, there shan’t be a supper. Or luncheon. There ought to be refreshments, but it’s doubtful they’d risk setting it up out of doors this late in the year. Then I suppose a half hour or hour after we arrive the music shall start. If you feel like conversing instead, I’m sure there will be an adjacent room available to satisfy that purpose.” He turned to give Marcus a pointed look.
“What? I’m as silent as the grave.”
“Hmm,” Collier responded, turning back slowly. “At any rate, if this young lady you’ve designs on attends, try to meet with her either beforehand or after. It’d pay a poor compliment to the performers if you prattled on during the program.”
“And am I to be faulted for finding ideas and observations more intriguing than the curate’s wife’s choice of an operatic morceau?”
“And what of your quarry? What if she bears a passion for music?”
Marcus scoffed. “Then she may do so in her own sphere. Out of my hearing, mind.”
The doctor waited a moment. “You know, I do recall, a year or two ago, that one evening at my club… when was it, New Year’s?”
Marcus groaned.
The doctor kept on, affecting an air of na?veté when they both knew what he was after. “We were all deep in our cups, and you took it upon yourself to commandeer the piano, saying that the accompanist had been plaguing us all with, what did you call it? Oh yes, ‘torturous dirges.’ I would never have marked you as—”
“That will do, Collier.” Marcus sat up straighter in the saddle and brushed off the front of his jacket.
The evening Collier spoke of had been early on in their acquaintance, when Marcus had only known the doctor as a friend of Thomas Rickard, his cousin Harmonia’s husband. That night had turned out to be the catalyst for their own friendship, leaving Marcus with a sore head and a foggy memory the next morning when he came to. Fennel had informed him that the kind doctor had walked him home and seen to it that he’d been fed and watered before passing out. Like an overworked horse.
Collier chuckled merrily at his own recollection of the event.
Sometimes Marcus wished he could be as lighthearted as him, without a care in the world aside from his club standing. Though he did sometimes worry about the man. Collier never had an ill thought or a cross word for anyone, which to Marcus, who only possessed cross words and pessimistic attitudes, seemed awfully repressed. One should air their grievances now and again. Just like a mattress.
Marcus frowned. That was something he’d learned of only that past spring, when his newly hired housekeeper had expressed her disgust at the state of the bedrooms. That one had been quite efficient; he’d been sorry to see her go so quickly.
“By the by, what is her name?”
“What?” Marcus frowned, lost in his concerns about how Fennel would get on in London this winter with no one to assist him.
“This young lady, the one we are here for.”
“Ah yes, her. The Wolfenden.”
He felt his chest tighten in shame at the mention of the lady who’d so fortuitously appeared on his doorstep that summer night. She’d asked for his help, and he’d neatly botched the encounter. Marcus, it seemed, could not curb his self-righteousness, not even for one damn conversation.
“If you could but hear yourself! TheWolfenden? Surely she’s not a mere object. Surely she has a name?”
“Surely,” Marcus mused. “One of the lads in the stables is a bit of a conniver. Got him to wheedle more details out of one of the maids from Methering Manor. For a bit of a reward, of course.”
He heard his friend sigh, but let it pass. Dr. Collier spent his days holed up in his study, forever prescribing the same three remedies for the same three ailments. How could he understand what it was like—the constant vigilance, the bargaining for information, the never-ending dramatics?
“Well?” Collier pressed, his tone cautiously optimistic now.
“It’s Evelyn. Miss Evelyn Wolfenden,” Marcus said blandly.
“Well, you certainly don’t sound like you want to marry her.” Collier looked down, fiddling with the reins in his hands. “Hartley, I worry for you. I doubt she’ll be convinced.”
“She doesn’t need to be convinced.” Marcus’s tone hardened. “Just desperate.”
“And that’s a decent foundation for a marriage, to you?” his friend asked, his tone incredulous.
Marcus turned to study him, one eyebrow raised. “Why, Collier. I had no idea you were a romantic. I’ve never seen you so riled.”
At that, the doctor’s color deepened, a humorous sight for one so inclined—an ox of a man brought to blushing at the mere mention of romance.
Thankfully, they were now approaching the village; the roads widened and Knockton now lay before them, ending any more silly talk of love. It was a cozy little town full of tired stone buildings settled into their soft lines, somehow still standing after so many centuries, moss grown thick upon every wall. Years ago, when he’d first purchased Platt Lodge, Marcus had thought the village charming. Now, though, he looked upon it with an appraising eye. Was traffic increasing? Were the roofs in good repair? Were the market stalls on Knockton Green still full of healthy produce and quality goods? Did the residents tip their hats to him, or cross the street to avoid him?
He’d been even more attuned to such things after Miss Wolfenden’s inability to place him, and he’d spent the last week making rounds and shaking hands. It had been exhausting, but it was necessary.
As they rode toward the guildhall, they passed the local wheelwright, who raised a hand and nodded. Marcus gladly returned the gesture, feeling a wave of relief. So he hadn’t fallen out of favor. Not with everybody, at least.
Although autumn was upon them, the chill had not yet arrived, and there were groups of people outside the guildhall conversing in the fine weather. Marcus scanned the crowd, doing his best to remain circumspect.
And then he saw her: Evelyn Wolfenden, done up in a mauve, tassel-covered creation. He’d nearly forgotten how she looked, and felt no small measure of relief at her appearance. Decent complexion, round cheeks, and a robust figure—perfectly adequate. She stood arm in arm with a short, dainty woman dressed in all black. Her companion bore a distant look, as if her mind were somewhere else entirely. Marcus deduced it must be her brother’s widow, Mrs. Selina Wolfenden.
His informant, a Methering Manor housemaid by way of his own stable boy, had imparted that tensions were rife at the storied manse.
The fragile-looking Mrs. Wolfenden was prone to melancholy, her daughter a nuisance, and Baron Methering himself seemingly unconcerned with anything aside from his newfound fascination with pedestrianism; he supposedly spent his days walking ceaselessly about the grounds, checking his pocket watch after each lap. The maid had explained that Miss Evelyn Wolfenden—much to Marcus’s irritation—had been socializing heavily after half a year of mourning but, thankfully, had no serious suitor of which to speak. He could not fault Miss Wolfenden for wishing to marry, especially considering his reasons were as pragmatic as hers. What he did not enjoy, though, was the thought of his plans being usurped. Evelyn Wolfenden would be an asset to his status in the borough, and he did not care to lose out now that he had his sights set upon her.
Fortunately, according to his source, he was safe in that regard. For the moment, at least. The two ladies were speaking with a gentleman he recognized as Mr. James Robert Reed, a member of the town council whom Marcus knew to be married. And even were he not, he had all the personality of a damp rag. Marcus felt buoyed.
“Alright, Collier. The game is afoot. We’re not dragging her to the altar today, so have no fear on that count.”
“Then what is the objective for today?” Dr. Collier blew out an exasperated breath, as if he were nervous about what Marcus might do.
“To open doors. Gain an ounce of trust. Perhaps broach the idea, if all goes well.”
“I still think it’s foolhardy, treating marriage as a political scheme. But… at least this shall prove entertaining,” Collier said.
“Entertaining?” Marcus frowned. This time he wouldn’t fail. He couldn’t. “It’s only marriage, man. A civil contract and an excruciating church service. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps.”
Collier sounded unconvinced. Marcus tried to put his friend’s skepticism out of mind.
“And how is your daughter getting on, Mrs. Wolfenden? What was her name? Little Lucretia?”
Selina looked back to Mr. Reed, the chair of the town council, before allowing her gaze to drift downward. It wasn’t clear whether she hadn’t heard the gentleman’s inquiry or merely dismissed it out of hand.
“Leonora,” Evelyn cut in, giving her sister-in-law the most censorious look she dared. Of course it was wasted, with Selina staring vacantly into the distance. “My niece, Leonora, is holding up admirably well.”
She absolutely was not, that was for certain. Only the other day she’d pulled down not one, but three sets of drapes in the library before a footman caught her attempting to vanquish a fourth.
“Ah, that is good to hear. Daughters are a blessing. Absolute angels.”
Evelyn smiled sweetly. She couldn’t help but picture Leonora standing atop the staircase that morning, hands fisted at her sides, screaming at the top of her lungs because Evelyn had the gall to inform her that she must eat something besides just plum cake for breakfast.
“Why, just the other day my dear wife was telling me of a droll observation my third youngest had made. She’s just about seven… or is it eight? Hmm.” Mr. Reed paused, pressing his lips together as he worked it out. “Now, just a tick. My eldest was born in fifty-nine, so that means…”
Evelyn nodded, recalling that the man had brought his entire brood to the parish council picnic that summer. Six children—three girls in starched white, two boys with marbles spilling out of their pockets, and a howling infant. All had been caked in mud by the end of the day—save the infant—with Mrs. Reed and the nanny hoarse from all the shouting, and Mrs. Reed looking utterly exhausted and bedraggled. As if she’d spent the day out in the fields, threshing the wheat, rather than minding her children from a folding-chair. Mr. Reed, of course, had spent the event socializing with the other gentlemen. That night Evelyn had seriously considered reverting to her prior conviction that she would never take a husband.
But the next morning she’d renewed her vow to herself, needing the security a husband would bring. She would simply tell him that one or two children were all she was willing to conceive, and after that she would banish him from her bedroom. There. Quite easily solved. Marriage could be quite simple, she told herself, when both parties entered into it knowing exactly what the arrangements were to be.
If only acquiring a husband had been as easy as settling upon her expectations of him.
The picnic had been an absolute disaster on that front. Evelyn had spent nearly the entire outing making pleasant conversation with a Mr. Prosser, guest of the Oldfields, only to find he’d a standing engagement with a young lady two counties over. Which was perhaps a good turn, truth be told, as he possessed some questionable facial hair that Evelyn had found rather distracting. Aside from the picnic, she’d attended several dinners and two balls, and paid her usual visit to the Goodens. It was more socializing than she’d ever done, even more than when she’d been a girl just out of the schoolroom. But every marriageable man whose path she crossed was either spoken for or had no interest in a spinster of advanced age and questionable fecundity. There had been a few shy, reserved widowers she might have pursued, but in every case it turned out they were either entirely intimidated by her, resided someplace dreadful and inadequate, or had appalling views on personal hygiene. Evelyn might have been desperate enough anyway, but her father was still in relatively good health; certainly she could still afford to hold reasonable standards. The future was indeed unnerving, a sword of Damocles hanging over her head, but the sword had not fallen.
Not yet.
Even still, it seemed she’d run out of options in her small sphere, exhausting not just her modest circle of acquaintances, but their circles as well. If Evelyn could not make it to the altar soon, she might have to return to London next spring. The prospect was sobering.
“… yes, six. Six years old, is Kitty. I knew I’d come to it, eventually.” Mr. Reed chortled, and patted his belly in jubilation. “How old is little Lucr—er, Leonora, Mrs. Wolfenden?”
Evelyn looked anxiously to her sister-in-law. She would prefer that Selina pick up Mr. Reed’s conversation, so she might excuse herself to circle about and see if anyone was entertaining new guests at the moment.
Unfortunately, Selina was frowning, still watching something beyond Mr. Reed.
“Those gentlemen approaching—I do not know them.”
Evelyn followed Selina’s gaze. Walking their way were two tall men. She squinted, but they were still too far away to make them out. As they neared, though, an odd feeling settled in her gut, though she held herself as if it hadn’t. The larger man she did not know, but the other she most certainly did.
Mr. Marcus Hartley.
Bother. The summer had passed with her having seen neither hide nor hair of him, but he was back in his home district .
Mr. Reed turned to look over his shoulder. “Ah,” he said, looking back to Evelyn and Selina with a pleasant smile. “Mr. Hartley. Our very own MP. At long last.”
Evelyn had asked Wright if he was familiar with the name when she’d returned home that day at the end of June. She’d been somewhat shocked that she’d not known him, considering her father had entertained Mr. Hartley’s predecessor on occasion. At least it explained why his name had felt so strangely familiar. Mr. Hartley was their representative in the House of Commons. So it wasn’t that he was terribly rude; he was simply a politician.
And her neighbor.
“Ah, Mr. Reed. Wonderful to see you.”
His voice startled her. She’d all but forgotten its rich, velvety timbre. Now that she knew his occupation, it seemed fitting.
Mr. Hartley quickly shed one of his gloves and shook Mr. Reed’s hand. So forward, Evelyn silently admonished. He then inclined his head toward the larger gentleman alongside him. “This is my dear friend, Dr. Matthew Collier. He’s very keen on music.”
“Well met, well met, Dr. Collier. Such an admirable collection of individuals performing today, and, well, anyone ought to agree, one of the most enjoyable of entertainments, music.” Mr. Reed nodded toward the guildhall before producing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping at his palms. “May I introduce you to Mrs. Wolfenden and Miss Wolfenden? A nobler family in Knockton you will not find.”
Mr. Hartley leveled his gaze upon her. Something passed wordlessly between them—a shared memory. Would Mr. Hartley admit their acquaintance and, heaven forbid, the circumstances behind it? The polite move, of course, would be to say nothing. Which was why she was almost certain he would not curb his tongue.
Waiting as he greeted Selina, Evelyn remained still.
“In fact, Miss Wolfenden and I have met before, just once.”
Goodness. What must it be like, having so little sense? Evelyn, nevertheless, smiled in bland agreement, unwilling to endure the ordeal a contradiction would bring.
“Is that so?” Mr. Reed looked back and forth between the two, dubious. “Well, I suppose I shan’t pride myself on knowing all the goings-on, then. How long ago, er, and—”
“You know, I can’t recall?” Mr. Hartley brusquely cut off the man’s questions. “At something or other about town.” He waved his hand dismissively, his eyes never leaving Evelyn’s. He seemed intent upon something.
But what? Would he expect for her to fall over herself in gratitude, that he did not expose her? She would not.
“It is good to see you again, Mr. Hartley. Are you attending the musicale in a formal capacity?”
“Not today,” his companion answered for him. “He’s here strictly as a lover of music,” he explained enthusiastically, with a handsome smile and a clap on Mr. Hartley’s shoulder.
If it weren’t for the terribly middle-class air about him, Evelyn would have considered him further, handsome and well-built as he was. But marriage to a doctor? She might just as well be cast out of Methering Manor on the spot and thrown to the ruins of the dower house, which had been burned in one Baroness Methering’s fit of madness several generations prior.
“Then it’s a wonder you came at all,” Selina sighed alongside her.
“How is that?” The doctor’s smile faltered.
“Well. Some things are better left unspoken. I daresay you’ll reckon it out on your own, once it’s begun.” Her sister-in-law sighed dramatically once more, then produced a handkerchief. “If you would be so kind as to assist me inside, Mr. Reed?” she said, her voice thin and weak as she dabbed at her eyes. A force of habit, surely; Evelyn had never actually seen Selina cry, only heard her keening wails echoing down the halls from her bedroom.
“Ah, I think, er, allow me to accompany you as well,” bumbled the doctor, glancing back pointedly at Mr. Hartley.
Selina didn’t bother looking his way. “Very well.”
Before Evelyn could mark what was happening, they’d left her alone with Mr. Hartley. Others were slowly making their way toward the guildhall’s massive doors, their laughter petering out along with their conversation as they filtered inside. Evelyn watched Selina’s small form, distinguished by the long black streak of her weeping veil, mounting the steps alongside Mr. Reed, both of them just ahead of Dr. Collier.
“My condolences on the loss of your brother,” Mr. Hartley said, his tone perfectly solicitous. “And my apologies for my tardiness in extending them.”
She doubted he’d even known, so scarce about the area was he. Evelyn bristled.
“Thank you,” she said coldly, watching Selina until she had disappeared into the guildhall. Then she steeled herself for the agony of conversation to come, opening with an emotionless admission: “She only came out on my insistence, you know.”
Mr. Hartley offered a sympathetic sound, a low hum that sounded like a purr.
Evelyn sniffed. Why had she even bothered explaining? As if this man cared one whit for propriety when he couldn’t even be bothered to speak his response? She began searching the remaining crowd, hoping to spot any gentleman that might be better worth her while.
“Looking for someone?”
“I should say not.” She raised one eyebrow in an uncharacteristic outward show of scorn. It felt odd, this man watching her, weighing her actions. Especially since he knew far more about her than she’d have preferred.
“Allow me to explain myself, Mr. Hartley, since you seem so keen on understanding. I am not what you perceive me to be, or what my actions… that night… might suggest. I do not traipse about unfamiliar cities and knock on unfamiliar doors as a general rule.”
“Of course, of course. You see, I’m more than familiar with all of Knockton and its residents, including your family, as you must have surmised by now. Apologies for that subterfuge; I didn’t wish to cause you even more discomfort that evening.”
He spoke in such a conciliatory tone with that smooth, deep voice that Evelyn fell under its spell, and allowed herself to relax her shoulders. Perhaps he truly was merely an awkward brute of a politician.
“You did not. I scarcely knew who you were, if you’ll recall.”
His lip twitched, as if he meant to smile but thought better of it.
“The Wolfendens are a noble family, a cautious family. Autconstantia aut nihil. Steadfastness or nothing. Except when you must marry in haste.”
“Except when I—” she very nearly repeated, aghast. Thankfully she halted before speaking such an awful truth. He’d use her family’s own words in such a manner?
Suddenly there was a rush of applause from within the guildhall. Evelyn looked about. They were alone, save for a pair of distant figures wandering the village green. The applause died down, and the high, delicate notes of a sonata started up. The musicale had begun without her.
Just like everything else in life. Time marched steadily on; acquaintances married and started families, while brothers made poor decisions on a lark and left their families behind in precarious positions.
A position made all the more insecure by her father, who was unhappy to content himself with calm, familial pursuits like cards or lawn bowls. No, Baron Methering was forever seeking the next dangerous thrill, whether it be climbing or equestrianism. When she was a child, and even in her younger adulthood, Evelyn had believed her father would always keep her safe. But he’d barely spoken more than a handful of sentences to her since Edmund’s death. No contingencies were arranged, nothing was discussed. The only one to save Evelyn would be herself.
“So, Miss Wolfenden. Three months on and still unwed.” Mr. Hartley spoke as if he could read her thoughts.
Evelyn did not want to meet his eye. But she did.
“Is this what you consider haste, then?” He slid forward—just one step, but a step closer than before.
That annoying buzzing of her heart started again.
His voice slowed, dragging out his words. “Or is it that you’ve been unable to find a suitable groom?”
“It is hardly any of your concern.”
“Oh?”
He moved again, and now loomed over her, as close as any respectable lady would allow. But she did not back away, nor cry him off. Up so close, she could see him quite well. He’d those blue eyes under straight brows, and she watched as they studied her, traveling from her face down to her hands, which were now folded primly before her. And though she loathed to admit it, he actually smelled quite nice—a warm, peppery scent that complemented him and his rich voice quite well. She suddenly felt quite hot, and also expectant. Of what exactly, she could not say, so she remained still, waiting.
“What if I were to make it my concern?”
Evelyn turned away, hiding her confusion. For a moment, the muffled sound of Italian warbling from inside the guildhall seemed deafening. She sensed, very intensely, that Mr. Hartley sought to lead her down a treacherous path. Such an odd feeling, she thought, but it brought her no closer to understanding. Once more she held her tongue.
“Miss Wolfenden,” he murmured.
A shiver cascaded down her back. She ought to have worn a thicker outer layer, if only to protect herself from ungracious politicians.
“I’ve done little to deserve the confidences disclosed to me this past summer.”
That was certainly true. Evelyn turned her head slightly. Mr. Hartley stood very near her shoulder. She held steady.
“Trust that I mean no harm by…” He paused as another round of applause emanated from the guildhall. He looked sidelong down the green.
Evelyn now turned completely, squinting into the distance in the direction of his glance. There was nothing there of note. But something about standing alongside him, both of them watching the horizon, relaxed the tension between her shoulders. Without his eyes on her, she felt more at ease.
“I’ve been ungentlemanly toward you,” he started again, this time with more force behind his words. “And to your family. Since my election, I mean. I ought to have… well. At any rate, it’s not just that night, when you came to me in need of assistance and I behaved—”
“Deplorably,” Evelyn supplied.
He blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t venture to say—”
“Really?” Evelyn tilted her head, considering him. “I would.”
“Alright then. I behaved deplorably.” He sighed.
“My father says you’re mad,” Evelyn continued. “A liberal zealot.”
“Speak of me often, does he?”
“No,” she said breezily. “What is there to speak of, really? I only recall his ire when no one stood against you.”
“I would very much enjoy speaking with Baron Methering.”
She turned to meet his gaze; his expression was somewhere between enraged and enraptured. Such a strange man.
“I doubt the feeling would be mutual.” Evelyn raised an eyebrow.
“No?” He chuckled softly, shaking his head at some private jest. “Perhaps not.”
It suggested once more his annoying forwardness, his grating nerve.
“But perhaps you, Miss Wolfenden, enjoy speaking with me? Maybe against your better judgment?” Mr. Hartley grinned, with a wryness about his eyes. “For although I am a liberal zealot, I assure you that I do. Enjoy conversing with you, that is. At the very least…” He paused, before finishing sardonically, “it is not boring.”
Her mind reeled, but no words reached her mouth. Instead she froze, and found herself quite incapable of speech. After several moments, when she’d finally gathered her senses, she looked back to the green, though still she felt his eyes on her. And in that moment, with her now thoroughly overwhelmed, he pounced.
“And though your opinion of me might be low, allow me to now lay myself before your door, however figuratively.”
She glanced at him just in time to see him adjust his neckcloth, then lift his hat to smooth down his dark hair. When he caught her eye, he smiled wide.
And Evelyn’s thoughts scattered, leaving only the newest one: Mr. Hartley was handsome. How dare he be handsome? Her body very nearly vibrated. With what? Anger? She did not know, having been so rarely in the throes of any emotion, but she knew she felt heat on her cheeks.
“What do—” she stuttered, but he didn’t wait for her to finish.
“I am, as you are aware, unwed. You are unwed. Your brother has passed, leaving you alone to worry for your situation and that of your female relations. A credit to your character, really, that you have borne that burden with such determination.” He nodded. “I, as you are aware, stood unopposed in the previous election, an occurrence that I doubt will repeat itself. It would surely boost my support in the next general were we to…” He halted, hands behind his back.
“I beg your pardon?” Evelyn said with an exhale. Boost his support?
Another round of applause rang out, more raucous this time, as if everyone appreciated her forestalling the obvious. A year ago she’d attended this very same musicale, sitting with a variety of widows and fellow spinsters, speaking of how vastly improved the music was. And now she found herself standing outside with a boorish political jackanapes who, shockingly, was about to offer for her.
Keeping her tone as icy as possible, she rebutted his unspoken question. “I should think not. Not even if you were a gentleman—”
“I am,” he cut in, with an annoying nonchalance.
“Not even if you were in any position to marry…” She hesitated slightly on the last word.
“Oh, I’m wealthy enough, as it turns out. I’ve my mother’s portion of the Sedley fortune. Boot blacking, you know. I don’t mind the asking, though. I’ve done my due diligence as well.”
“Or—” She paused. His words registered a bit belatedly, so ready had she been with her final declaration, which she’d now forgotten. “Just a moment, did you say boot blacking?”
“Yes. Sedley’s Satin Black Boot Polish. You’ve heard of it?” He kept his tone aloof, but she detected the hint of an edge to his voice.
“I’m… I cannot say. I’ll have to ask my father’s… I shall ask our butler.” Evelyn shook her head, wishing to clear it of thoughts of footwear and the starched, exacting Wright. “Besides, it does not change the fact that we are not… in accord,” she said delicately.
“Miss Wolfenden. I may very well be the last man on earth, as far as you’re concerned.” He offered a perfunctory grin, before his gaze hardened into a cold look of pure calculation. “Thirty years old and you’ve ventured to London all of, what, a handful of times?”
“Twice.”
“Everyone in your acquaintance must be elderly or already paired. Your brother died without an heir, and so shall your father. Your brother’s widow has no interest in taking steps to secure the future of her daughter, your brother’s child. Would you care for me to go on?”
“No.” She swallowed, then raised her chin. “No,” she repeated more forcefully. “You’ve made your point.”
They stood like that, staring one another down, each waiting for the other to fold. But she would never. She would not allow it.
Then again, his arguments were true, all of them. He was of an age with her, and well-groomed, aside from his shaggy hair. And handsome. Regrettably so. That fact seemed to have addled her mind.
If what he said about his income was to be believed… but they were practically strangers!
He did, though, have a home in Knockton. And that, to Evelyn, was no small matter.
The rumbling of the organ came from within the guildhall. A slight wind sent Mr. Hartley’s coat fluttering about his legs. Evelyn’s eyes stung; the breeze must have sent a speck of something into them. She fluttered her lashes, hoping to dislodge it.
Finally he spoke, his voice somehow even smoother and deeper than before. “Do send word, Miss Wolfenden.” He nodded in her direction, then sauntered past her, paying no mind to the fact that he nearly brushed against her skirts. She heard him halt not too far behind her. But she refused to turn, refused to show in any way the wavering of her resolve.
“I’ll be in Lancashire for a fortnight. If I don’t hear anything…” He paused, but still she would not turn, would not look him in the eye. “Well. I’ll consider my offer refused.”
Evelyn’s breath had sped up once more, and she made no response. She’d set out to save herself, hadn’t she? Well, here was her chance. On this unassuming afternoon, after months of toiling to no avail, an offer of marriage had landed neatly in her lap.
But… his house in London was so excruciatingly small, and done in poor taste. Just like his manners. She could never. But he had a home here. She’d need never visit the London one.
Before the sound of his footsteps had even faded in the distance, she knew.
She had no choice.