Chapter Seven
“The nineteenth baron. My great-grandfather. He’s the reason the moat is dry. Fell in after a night of overindulgence and drowned. His son had it drained straight away after that.”
Evelyn stepped back from the dark portrait of a scornful-looking man she’d never met, but whose visage was as familiar to her as her own face. She’d had her entire life to memorize every feature.
How strange it would be to leave it, and everything else, behind.
Mr. Hartley stepped forward, hands still in his pockets, cocking his head to one side. “I know this one. He’s the one who rebuilt the market cross, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, disguising her surprise. “That’s correct. How did you know?”
He turned her way, pride warring with smugness on his face. “My dear, I have opened the market more than a few times. It’s practically my primary function.”
Evelyn paused at that. When had she last been addressed as “dear?” And by whom? A nursemaid? But she turned from such thoughts, as well as from Mr. Hartley, and made her way to the next portrait in the long gallery.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been circumspect enough.
“Miss Wolfenden?”
Too late she realized his voice was far too near, just before he placed a gentle hand on her elbow. Evelyn jerked slightly, and his hand fell away.
She’d felt queer since he’d taken her hand and offered to kiss her. It shifted her equilibrium, being handled, being called “dear.” Surely she would adjust to it in time. She knew she would have to. Why, she’d thought of little else these past days, since she’d decided to accept Mr. Hartley’s ridiculous proposal after rejoining Selina at the musicale. Absurd though the match may be, it was her only reasonable prospect.
She’d returned home that day and immediately enlisted Wright to her cause, asking him what he knew of boot blacking.
Quite a bit, as it turned out. That evening Evelyn had sat, astounded, holding a tin of Sedley’s Satin Black Boot Polish produced from Methering Manor’s own boot room. It was a handsome design, if a factory-made item could be thus, black with looping gold letters. She further pressed the butler to make inquiries about the MP. For if Mr. Hartley spoke the truth, she would wed him.
And then at least she might stay in Knockton, for Wright had informed her that Mr. Hartley owned Platt Lodge.
“Are you alright?”
Mr. Hartley’s voice had lowered again, to that deep, smooth tone that she felt in her bones.
“We ought to discuss the particulars of your proposal,” she answered.
Evelyn felt she should keep moving, so she opened another door, this one to an old spiral stone staircase which welcomed her with a familiar draft of chilly air. She decided to head down, as they would soon sit for dinner.
“Do you plan to reside in London… often?”
The sound of his steps behind her reverberated off the walls of the stairwell.
“Do you not fancy it?”
“No, I do not.”
She had no desire to speak of her last foray into the city, though recalling it lent her a measure of strength. She’d done all that on her own. She straightened her spine, to the extent that further improvement of her posture was possible.
“Perhaps you ought to give it another chance, when you aren’t—”
Evelyn halted and turned to look up at him, several steps above her.
“Let me make myself plain: I am of Knockton. Wolfendens have been here for centuries. I certainly shall consider accompanying you to London, on occasion, if absolutely necessary”—she stressed these last words, lest he think her statement open to interpretation—“as I mean to fulfill my duties as a wife in every capacity. I understand one should…” She trailed off, then clasped her hands before her, thinking. “As a politician, one must participate in certain social obligations, I suppose.”
A wry smirk appeared on Mr. Hartley’s face. Evelyn wanted to scoff. But she waited.
“You’ve considered this?”
“Of course.” Evelyn turned about and began descending once more. “We are to be married.”
“I confess, I’m impressed.”
“Hm,” she said, then resumed her train of thought. “As your wife, I will venture to London only when needed; otherwise, I prefer to remain here. Do you object?”
“No, of course not.”
She arrived at the landing and waited, watching him descend in his own time. There was something about the way he moved that some might find endearing, she thought. He lacked an awareness of himself, a rigidity that for her had become rote.
“And how do you find Platt Lodge?” She finally gave voice to her central concern. The previous owners had not been in residence for much of her youth, and she wondered at its habitability after enduring Mr. Hartley’s hospitality in his London home. “Is it suitable?”
“Hmm. It is nowhere near Methering Manor in age,” Mr. Hartley said, looking upward at the staircase. “Was it ever besieged, this place?”
Evelyn blinked several times, trying to keep up with his digressions. “Er, yes. During the rebellion. Thankfully only minor damage was done. The main house endured. No Wolfenden has dared practice Catholicism since, though. Or dabble in politicking.”
Until now, she thought, glancing over to him, praying he wouldn’t try to make a jest on the subject.
He reached out to place a hand upon the wall, his eyes intent upon the ancient stone. “Fascinating.”
Evelyn stared at his hand, and a proud feeling seeped into her chest. For countless generations her people had persisted, living and dying within these walls.
And now she would be leaving. She decided to move the negotiations along.
“Wright informs me you have no carriage.”
“That will be rectified in short order, I assure you,” Mr. Hartley said absentmindedly, his hand still upon the wall. He seemed hesitant to remove it and direct his attention back to Evelyn, so lost in thought was he.
Evelyn decided this was a mark of good character, his admiration for the manor. One that might even outweigh his many faults. Perhaps they would get on, eventually. Platt Lodge was nowhere near as storied as her ancestral home, nor could she imagine ever holding anywhere near the fondness for it that she did for the manor, but she could learn to love it, in time. Perhaps.
For one day the manor would cease to be her home; even were she not to marry Mr. Hartley, she would be cast out when her father eventually passed. She’d known it since the fateful day Edmund had failed in his attempt to close his lips around that villainous billiard ball and lost not only those twenty pounds, but his life and Evelyn’s—and Selina and Leonora’s—future. But for as long as she did still live upon these lands, in this district, she would be at ease.
Mr. Hartley now studied her, his expression not stern, but focused.
Evelyn suddenly became aware that they had been standing in silence for far too long, and she considered moving for the door, but it would only accentuate the tension. Still, she felt heated, being scrutinized thusly.
But she dared not move. Finally, when it was apparent that he would not speak and free them from this discomfort, Evelyn did, her voice low.
“Do you not have any questions for me?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” His demeanor shifted as he returned to the present with a startling alacrity, pinning her with a look she wasn’t quite sure she understood. “You said you’ve made inquiries. And you’ve no reservations about my family, my connections?”
“I believe I’ve already made myself clear on that matter.”
His eyes danced about, surveying every inch of her face, it seemed. Finally he relaxed, clapping his hands together as if everything were now entirely settled. “Wonderful. Shall we get on?” He reached for the door’s heavy metal ring.
It took her a moment to catch up, but she did, and nodded. He pushed the door open, holding it so she might pass.
“And what has the baron to say about all this?” he asked quietly. The rumble of his voice felt like a finger drawing a delicate line down her neck.
Evelyn froze in front of him. She schooled her features into nonchalance, a defense as familiar to her as mail was to a knight. “We will find out soon enough.”
“What?”
She ignored the question and moved on.
“And here is the chapel, obviously. It is not used for much these days, I’m afraid—only a small service on Sundays. Nothing more than that since Leonora’s christening.” Evelyn looked up to the ancient window, which had once been a beautiful thirteenth-century stained glass depicting Saint Milburga. Or so she’d been told. Now it was as plain as the plastered-over walls. This was her least favorite room in the manor.
“You mean to say you’ve not spoken with your father about us?” Once more he’d sidled up behind her, closer than she’d have preferred.
“Why?” She turned her head slightly, just barely catching sight of him in her periphery. “Are you unable to speak for yourself, Mr. Hartley?”
“One would expect that you might at least, oh, I don’t know, make mention of a potential suitor before luring said suitor to your family’s ancestral home.”
His words came out sounding harsh, but Evelyn was unperturbed.
“What might I have said? I’ve hardly spoken with Baron Methering these ten days past, about this or anything else.” She walked forward, her heels clicking against the flagstone. “My grandmother told me the walls here were half-paneled not long ago. How I wish they’d maintained them.”
“You don’t often speak with your father?” He punctuated the question with a scoff that suggested he didn’t believe her.
“Of course not,” she said, a bit sharpish. “Tonight will be the first time we’ve all dined together in a fortnight.” Facing away from him, she allowed herself a frown.
Baron Methering had thrown himself into his newest obsession as of late: pedestrianism. Wright had informed her that the baron was fine-tuning his stride; when he wasn’t walking circles around the manor, he was reading training accounts and poring over contest finish times. He kept to a strict diet, consumed mostly in his rooms. He’d informed Evelyn and Selina that he would allow a twice-monthly “indulgence” of a roast dinner, which was the only instance of him speaking to either of them recently. He never attended Sunday service in the chapel. Or breakfast, on any day of the week.
Her firsthand knowledge of his activities was limited to her daily observations of him from the windows of the long gallery. The other day she’d noticed him clutching a corn cob in each fist as he pumped his arms with each unnatural stride. Wright had explained that the baron had been inspired by the technique of an American competitive walker he had read about; the cobs supposedly absorbed one’s perspiration.
Evelyn couldn’t understand the fascination with walking, watching people walk, or least of all, reading about people walking, but she was grateful that it was far less dangerous than her father’s recent foray into climbing. That bit of fancy had been heart-stopping, to say the least.
“It’s exceptionally odd to me.” She started at Mr. Hartley’s booming voice, then listened to it echo off the high ceiling and throughout the nearly empty room.
“Is it?” She stared ahead of her, taking in the scant altar and the low railing before it as she had a thousand times before. She could hear his footsteps as he followed her down the aisle.
“You speak so highly of your family, of your pride in said family. Why, you’d even enter into a slapdash marriage with a fanatical liberal parliamentarian in order to provide for your brother’s widow and child. These are your values, as stated by you, not me. And yet… you don’t speak with your father, even as you live under the same roof?”
His scrutiny was palpable. Evelyn did not like that, although she did very much enjoy hearing Mr. Hartley call himself a fanatical liberal. Not that she would admit that to him. Nor would she even turn around, for she was very much afraid of pulling a face just then. Speaking of a family he knew nothing of, questioning her filial loyalty? It was all so tasteless.
When she did not respond, he sighed. “At any rate, Miss Wolfenden… do I have cause for concern with the baron?”
“Cause for concern?” She finally turned around and regarded his dark expression. “Why, I daresay he’ll hardly notice you.”
“Hardly notice me asking for his daughter’s hand?”
Evelyn blinked. “I am thirty years of age, as you’ve remarked upon yourself. He cannot forbid it. Still, I would rather avoid any unpleasantries, if you please.”
“Oh, by all means, of course,” he responded facetiously.
“It might not be as difficult as you think—I informed him as a young girl that I’d no intention to ever marry, you see, so he’s long since given up hope that it will ever happen.”
“No intention to marry?” Mr. Hartley’s eyes lit up at this enticing insight into her character, as if he’d spotted some precious mother-of-pearl glinting in the sand. “May I ask why not?”
How she wished to reply with a set-down and deny him this, which was a strange impulse that did not feel her own. Why did she feel so needled? Rather than respond with haughtiness, she managed a distracted shrug.
“Why would I? I had everything I required in life, and did not desire to be anywhere else. I was content with the prospect of remaining at home to the end of my days.”
“What of companionship?”
“Cats are nice, I find. Perhaps a dog, if one wished to be set apart.”
“What of love? Romance?”
The image of the girl on the railway station platform came to mind: distraught at the prospect of leaving her beau, weeping openly, honking into Evelyn’s handkerchief.
“How to put it,” she began, smoothing out her skirts. “It seems quite humiliating, allowing oneself to be so vulnerable. I should not care for it.”
“Duly noted,” Mr. Hartley chuckled. He reached out, offering her his hand once more. This time she’d adequate preparation, so when she took it she felt nothing. Why, he might’ve been a groom handing her up into a carriage for all it affected her.
He set her hand upon his arm, holding himself with more poise than he’d heretofore exhibited. It was odd to think that this man would be, for all intents and purposes, alongside her like this for the rest of her days. She drew in a breath.
“Let’s get on with it then. Shall I meet your fellow Wolfendens?” He looked upward at the vaulted ceiling of the chapel, to the long gallery above. “Well, the living ones, at least.”
“Please keep in mind,” she said as they started toward the main doors of the chapel, the ones that led directly into the manor’s library, “that none of them enjoy ‘quips’ of any nature.”
“Humorless. Also noted.”
Evelyn pursed her lips together in exasperation.
“Don’t go and pull a face. It’s not like you.” He smiled, and reached up to pat her hand upon his arm. And then, in a more conciliatory tone, he added, “All will be well. You’ll see.”
That same phrase, kicking up a spark of hope in the cold ashes of her heart. Such optimism from him. Evelyn did not know what to say.
She silently prayed they would manage, somehow.