Chapter Eight
“That reform bill was always nonsense. Absolute bosh, allowing coal miners and bricklayers the vote.”
Baron Methering cut his beef with swift, precise movements, popping his fork into his mouth for only the briefest of moments.
A witty rejoinder perched on the tip of Marcus’s tongue. But as much as it pained him, he curbed his desperate need to voice his disagreement and looked back to the baron with as plain a face as he could manage. He focused instead on the delicious fare set before him—it seemed as though in some aspects of life, aristos really did have a leg up.
The baron paused to take a long drink from his wine goblet. And then, without so much as a glance at Marcus, he set back to work on his meal and the continuation of his screed.
“Knew it from the first as rubbish. Universal suffrage, bah! What’s next, then? Ladies voting? Dogs? Pigs? Why, my horse has more sense than some dulbert mill worker!”
Marcus set his fork down loudly, unwilling to let this go by unchallenged. But then he glanced over and caught sight of Miss Wolfenden’s drawn face as she sat, marooned along with her sister-in-law at the other end of the long table, and he thought better of it.
It mattered little, for the elder man continued his tirade without any acknowledgement of his dining companions. Baron Methering was a lean man of medium height, with what remained of his hair clipped short about his head, and his whiskers kept equally tidy. His dress was as severe as his tone; he seemed a man who denied himself any softness, and in turn, expected that the rest of the world ought to do without as well.
“And what did Disraeli get in the end?” Now he deigned to look up from his plate, fork and knife frozen in mid-air as he narrowed his eyes at Marcus. He held out the knife and shook it at him. “You and your lot, that’s what.”
Marcus blew out an exasperated sigh. “You’ll recall, I stood unopposed.”
“Yes,” Baron Methering conceded, not taking his eyes from Marcus as he cut another bite and muttered, “A pity, that.”
“A pity to some, a benefit to others,” Marcus said, in a far more charitable tone than he’d usually take. “Such is life.”
The baron grumbled unintelligibly as he chewed. After he swallowed, he looked at Marcus for longer than he had since they’d first begun eating in silence. When he appeared to have finally arrived at whatever conclusion he’d been working toward in his mind, he spoke again.
“You purchased that lodge six years ago. And yet I, the justice of the peace, have never met you until this evening.” Baron Methering snorted derisively, then leaned back in his seat, glass in hand.
Ah, the eternal paradox of power. Never would Marcus have merited an invitation to this man, but his absence was a mark against him and his character. He would chuckle, except Miss Wolfenden had warned him against quips, so he continued to give anything humor-adjacent a wide berth.
“I’m not a barrister, my lord.”
“Bah.” Methering waved his hand in reply. “I’m well aware of what you are. Your lack of consideration does not surprise me; in fact, it only confirms my suspicions.”
Indignation welled in Marcus’s chest, an involuntary reaction he could never quite shake in situations like these. Marcus wanted to challenge the man, to defend not just his own good name, but his father’s. And that of every solicitor who dared be born to middling ranks. But he tamped it down, a practiced habit supported in this case by the need to wheedle his way into the baron’s good graces. Marcus glanced sidelong at Miss Wolfenden, who’d already finished her plate and was now watching her father like a hawk. Her brother’s widow, Mrs. Wolfenden, hardly seemed bothered by the division between diners, as her vacant stare suggested her mind was someplace else entirely.
“I suppose we should both thank Miss Wolfenden, then.”
Baron Methering looked down the length of the table to his female relations.
“For extending the manor’s hospitality to me,” Marcus said.
“Er, yes. Well done,” the baron conceded with a dismissive nod, before setting to work at his potatoes.
Thus began another extended period free from conversation, if one could call the preceding arraignment conversation. When Marcus glanced again at Miss Wolfenden, she appeared reserved, but relieved. It was then that Marcus realized with horror that this must be the way of every family dinner, when, after two weeks of dining on athletic training fare of kidney beans and groats in his chamber, the baron indulged in meat and wine with his family.
In absolute silence.
He watched Miss Wolfenden, recalling how she recoiled at the offer of a kiss, jerked away at the touch of his hand. What manner of unnatural people were these?
And then, unable to control his thoughts any longer, he recalled his own father. Generous, kind. Teaching Marcus his figures before the fire, always patient, always with a kiss atop his head before sending him up to bed. Cleaning his spectacles with a small cloth before glancing up with a warm smile.
He suddenly felt as if his heart were ripped in two.
“My lord, if I may,” Miss Wolfenden piped up, breaking the spell of melancholy that had settled upon him and, seemingly, the rest of the room.
The baron grunted, then gestured for her to continue.
“I invited Mr. Hartley to dinner when I encountered him at the village green. He spoke of a desire to lead a more sporting life, but admitted he knew not where to start.” Her voice came out a little too strong, too forced to disguise the fabrication.
Miss Evelyn Wolfenden was an atrocious actress. Still, though, spinning falsehoods was apparently not beneath her. Not when she stood to benefit from it. A small smile settled upon Marcus’s lips.
“Is that so?”
The baron, apparently, did not pay enough attention to his daughter to detect when she might be lying. He turned to Marcus, regarding him in this new light.
“Absolutely,” Marcus said without hesitation. “Unfortunately, I fear the only physical activity I manage to undertake these days is, well, taking a turn about the grounds at the lodge.”
Something sparked in the old man’s eyes. He calmly set down his silverware, then gestured for the footman to refill his glass as well as Marcus’s. He leaned forward over the table, and when he spoke, his voice was deathly serious.
“Competitive walking, man. Have you heard of it?”
Now it was Marcus’s turn to lie. “No, I haven’t.” Thankfully, his feint was much more passable than Miss Wolfenden’s. “Not at all.”
The loud scraping of a chair interrupted the ruse, but only momentarily.
“I am retiring to my needlework,” Mrs. Wolfenden declared in a thin, airy voice. “I cannot endure another lecture about the superiority of pedestrianism as an athletic pursuit.” She turned to the footman. “Please ask Wright to fetch my basket.”
Miss Wolfenden stood as well, and made a curtsy toward Marcus.
Baron Methering, either so absorbed with what he planned to say or entirely uninterested in his own kin, did not so much as look down the table. Rather, he’d already begun explaining the basic rules of a walking contest.
Marcus watched Miss Wolfenden leave.
“Now, I’ve an article from Sporting Chronicle that lays it all out neatly, if you wish…” the baron went on.
Marcus hadn’t anticipated feeling anything for his future wife, aside from a nascent admiration for her spirit. Yet here he was, awash with sympathy. Sympathy for a baron’s daughter.
As the baron continued on, Marcus absentmindedly adjusted the aster on his lapel.
It terrified her, leaving something as important as this in someone else’s hands.
But in this instance, there was naught Evelyn could do. Mr. Hartley would have to manage this aspect of the proposal on his own. Thankfully, the idea to grease the baron’s palms by turning the conversation onto sport—at least, her father’s idea of sport—had come to her in a flash of inspiration. Evelyn wasn’t accustomed to having such deceptive thoughts, or exercising attempts at cunning.
It seemed the poorer aspects of Mr. Hartley’s character were already rubbing off on her.
She flushed, then dropped her eyes to the novel in her lap, in which she’d read the same sentence countless times, for the words would not register with her. Her eyes drifted to the clock on the mantelpiece; she could just about make out the hands. Her father and Mr. Hartley had remained after dinner for nearly two hours. Surely the subject of their engagement had been broached by now?
“What is it?” Selina asked, her voice flat. She stabbed at her embroidery at a steady clip, never looking up from her work.
Evelyn cleared her throat. “What do you mean?”
“You’re silent. More so than usual.”
“Am I?” Evelyn looked back to the mantelpiece without thinking.
“And you keep staring at that dreadful clock as if you were waiting for something to happen.”
“What?” Evelyn quickly looked back to Selina, whose gaze was still steadily focused on her embroidery. “How did you even—”
“Come now. I’m not that foolish. You spent nearly the entire front half of the musicale out on the green, speaking with that horrid man. You invited him to dinner.” Now she looked up, then proceeded with a slyness in her voice that Evelyn had never heard before. “Lost your heart? Finally?”
“What?” Evelyn forced a baffled scoff. “You must be joking. I invited Mr. Hartley—”
“Do not play coy. It is not like you at all. Why, your little trick with his lordship at dinner…” Selina set her needlework down in her lap and focused all of her attention on her sister-in-law. “Evelyn, it was appallingly bad. Appallingly.”
Evelyn swallowed. Needing something to occupy her nervous energy, she shut the book in her lap and stood up.
She could never recall Selina speaking so candidly with her. When Edmund was alive, Selina had only had eyes for him, and directed all her conversation accordingly. Then after she was widowed, she adopted the familial language of morose silence, and spent her time haunting the rooms of the manor, not fully there. The only hint of emotion she ever expressed was a pinched face of exasperation when Leonora threw a fit, or a bout of sobbing hidden behind the closed door of her bedroom.
“Something has shifted in your nature this summer. Do not think I haven’t noticed. Why, whatever happened to Mr. Thirwell? After all your walks together, I had assumed—”
“Absolutely not. He would have me live in Norfolk, I think. And that I could not bear.” Evelyn was pacing now, clasping her book against her.
“So what is it about Mr. Hartley, then? I confess he is of considerable stature, and possesses a handsome enough face. Do you fancy something a bit… rougher?” Selina reflected on this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that must explain it.”
“Rougher? Mr. Hartley?” Evelyn felt a spark of irritation in her chest. Her fingers tightened around her book. “It is true his manners are…”
“Lacking,” Selina finished for her.
“But he is our—” Evelyn halted, then corrected herself. “He is Knockton’s representation in Parliament. Surely that makes one worthy enough, regardless of the state of one’s manners.”
When Selina did not answer right away, Evelyn turned about to find her deep in thought. Finally she raised her gaze.
“Edmund always said you would never marry, and I believed him. You did not seem the type. You lack an interest in all feminine pursuits.”
Evelyn was taken aback. Selina had emerged from her torpor to speak so freely, all because of one small taradiddle told over dinner?
“You’ve no mind for beauty, no desire for romance,” Selina went on, a placid look on her pretty face. “You’ve a solitary nature. Your only companions are old maids and widows, whose hobbies and interests you share as well. All this nonsense about greenhouses and family histories!”
“You yourself are a widow, dear sister,” Evelyn attempted.
She hoped Selina hadn’t noticed when Mrs. Henham had called on her earlier in the week. They’d discussed possible remedies for rheumatism, along with ideas on how to celebrate the monumental goat willow upon Knockton Green. Next year would be its quadricentennial, and the town council supposed it to be the oldest in the country.
Selina frowned. “Yes, but I enjoy youthful things! Fashion. Dancing. And you’ve never warmed to me.” She paused. “Even as I’ve been so kind to you.”
“What?” Stunned, Evelyn actually gasped. Where was this condemnation of her character coming from? She had not provoked Selina in the slightest! “Why, this is the first time you’ve ever made mention of—”
“And it’s been so lonely. So terribly lonely, idling away our days in Lancashire.” Selina sighed. “If I did not have Wright I don’t know what I should do.”
Evelyn pressed her lips into a hard line. It would fall upon deaf ears just now, if she were to scold Selina for being too close with the staff. And Wright, of all people! Their butler was loyal and capable, not deserving of being forced to deal with such embarrassment as being Selina’s confidant. Evelyn’s body thrummed with some horrid feeling, and she turned around lest she lose control of herself. As she took another turn through the room, her heart settled again.
“If only I could return to London,” Selina murmured, mostly to herself.
There was such sorrow in her voice that Evelyn slowed her gait. Perhaps she’d not been fair. Selina had once been a highly esteemed young lady, or so Evelyn had been told. Although her family were of a good name and standing, they’d suffered myriad losses over the past decades, both fiscally and physically. And now Selina and Leonora were all alone in the world, save Evelyn and Baron Methering.
And her father would do nothing to secure their futures.
She recalled the shocked look on Mr. Hartley’s face earlier that evening when she’d explained her frequency of conversation with her father. But that was merely his way, his taciturn manner—unless, as of late, one was willing to be on the end of a one-sided lecture about dubious athletic pursuits—and Evelyn had never considered it odd before. It was, after all, her way as well.
Perhaps she had done ill by Selina. There was some truth in what her sister-in-law had said: Evelyn could, at times, be a little too cold-hearted. She stopped pacing, then returned to Selina and sat down alongside her on the couch.
“You are… not wrong,” she said haltingly.
Selina regarded her with glassy eyes. A brief feeling of nausea passed over Evelyn like a shadow, but she pressed on.
“I am waiting for something, which you have surmised.” She glanced back at the clock, as if to emphasize her point; it had not advanced much. “But not because I…” She drew in a breath and closed her eyes. “It is not that I am enamored with Mr. Hartley, or he with me. It is true, he is broaching the subject of marriage even as we speak, but it is a union born of practicality. Surely you can see that we need to consider our, and Leonora’s, futures. We will not be allowed to remain at Methering when the next baron takes residence.” Even just speaking the words was like driving a dagger through her heart.
Although this time, it felt blunted. Slightly.
Selina’s eyes searched hers for a moment. Then she nodded slowly. “Yes. I see. I can see that.” She looked away, pursing her lips. “And Leonora and I?”
“You shall come with me. I explained it all to Mr. Hartley.”
“To Platt Lodge?” Selina frowned. “Isn’t it quite small? Wright was telling me about it once; it must have six or seven bedrooms at the most.”
Oh dear.Evelyn could not let something as silly as Selina’s sense of entitlement ruin everything she’d labored for these past months. She forced herself to reach out and pat Selina’s hand. It felt horribly awkward.
Selina stared, clearly shocked by this token display of affection. Evelyn suddenly felt the burn of humiliation, and she pulled her hand back, as if she’d set it too close to the fire.
“We will also need to remove to London, on occasion,” Evelyn said, conveniently forgetting to add that she herself had no desire to do so. At least, no more than was absolutely necessary.
“Really?” Selina’s eyes lit up. “Does he possess a residence there?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Evelyn, of course, could not explain that it was a terrible, cramped, stuffy townhouse, one with only three bedrooms in a merely satisfactory neighborhood.
Because to admit that would be to acknowledge that she’d not only been there, but that she’d also spent the night. Well, what were a couple more falsehoods atop all the others? She was beginning to realize she could be quite conniving, and what was more, it did not bring her as much discomfort as she’d always feared it would. Evelyn idly wondered if the governesses she’d had as a girl knew this to be the case, as they regularly implored her to be upstanding and truthful.
“Oh,” Selina breathed, then flashed a smile Evelyn had not seen since Edmund’s passing. “Should we not bring along Wright when we go, if Methering could spare him?”
A chill ran through Evelyn. Was this more of a problem than she’d assumed?
To her great relief, the door opened just then, precluding the need for her to answer Selina’s highly improper request. They both turned to see Mr. Hartley striding in, hands shoved into his pockets, a rather smug look upon his face.
Evelyn released her breath. He’d done it. Soon she would be his wife.
“It’s done, then?” she said.
“As of twenty or so minutes ago, yes. Although I fear I am now one of the foremost experts on pedestrianism in the whole of England. Perhaps second only to your father.” Mr. Hartley shook his head.
It felt so strangely banal, this man speaking of their impending marriage as if it were any other mundane topic.
“Good,” she said, lowering her eyes. She did not want to stare at him excessively.
After Selina blandly offered her congratulations to them, they made their respective excuses and quit the room. Time was of the essence; they must begin planning.
It was dark in the entrance hall, even with all the flambeaus lit. Evelyn had never given them much thought before, but now they lent the scene a dreamlike quality, their ghostly shadows dancing about as the flames flickered.
“I shall speak with our butler this evening; he will provide a list of cartwrights. Of course, if his lordship agrees to it, we may borrow our—” She stopped herself. It did not seem appropriate, referring to the manor’s coach as hers anymore.
Mr. Hartley shook his head. “Do not concern yourself with such matters; they will be resolved in due time.”
She couldn’t help but notice that his hands were, annoyingly, still in his pockets.
“But I must concern myself.” Evelyn blinked, recalling the mean accommodation he’d provided her that night in London. She could not trust him to see it all sorted. “We cannot live on good feelings and optimism, Mr. Hartley. It is deeds by which a man is known, not his intentions.”
He considered her for a moment, then smiled. “No. Of course not.”
Evelyn looked away toward the manor’s massive entrance, clutching her hands before her. She wished the groom would be quicker in bringing his horse about. She was not used to being intimate like this, alone in the dark. They’d traversed this very hall earlier that evening as she gave him a tour of the manor, but it hadn’t felt unordinary then.
Not like this, where the silence felt heavier, full of portent.
“You have no objection, then, to marrying so soon?” Mr. Hartley’s voice was gentler than she’d supposed a man could be. With such a deep tone to it, one might mistake it for some sweet nothing rather than a practical inquiry.
“Not at all.” Evelyn straightened her neck as much as possible, attempting to pull her shoulders further back as well. “Of course, with such a late date, one hopes that we escape the notice of the wind and the rain. But it would not be wise to wait for a greater chance of pleasant weather.”
“Yes. Best to get on with it, then.”
They fell silent. Mr. Hartley began pacing about the hall.
Goodness, whatever was taking so long?She’d barely finished the thought before she shamed herself for daring to entertain it. After all, she would soon be with Mr. Hartley for the majority of her time. She’d even share his bed.
Then she was struck by another, more appalling, thought: How would he regard her in her underthings? And without? A flush warmed her cheeks; she resisted the urge to put her hands upon them and thanked the heavens for the near darkness they stood in. Evelyn was not usually prone to such missish airs and worries; she’d known of the business between men and women since she was a young lady. And she’d always been pleased enough with her face, confident in her body’s abilities. Why, she’d even considered engaging in such business with Rowland, foppish dress and bottled ships and all.
She cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Hartley. He was far more handsome than Rowland.
He had a kind tilt to his thick brows, and a strong, masculine jaw. And she very much enjoyed his voice, she’d decided, even if it always seemed to elicit a physical response in her. Still, he was of London, and of the lunatic liberals, as her father called them. Not to mention his strange way of thinking and his lack of consideration for niceties. Evelyn pressed her lips together, thinking.
Life was meant to be led by a set of rules, within clearly painted lines. Some people heeded those boundaries, and others did not. Mr. Hartley was clearly one of the latter. But something about the way he smiled, the way he spoke to her as if he were truly interested in hearing her recite her typical perfunctory responses… well. Evelyn did not know. Perhaps he was not exactly as he seemed.
She was not sure she liked it.
Suddenly the sound of hoofbeats and tack clanking about outside alerted them both to the end of their awkward interlude, and it occurred to Evelyn that other couples would be loath to leave one another on the night of their engagement.
She certainly didn’t wish for him to stay; his presence felt so disconcerting. And yet…
Something within her felt disappointment at seeing him go. How puzzling. She supposed she should not be surprised, considering this was all new to her. And something she’d never anticipated for herself.
“Mr. Hartley?”
He returned to her side, his brows raised expectantly.
“Yes?”
“I wonder if you had anything that might illuminate me about the lines to take. In regard to politicking.”
He chuckled.
She did not appreciate that, but bit her tongue.
“Which lines to take? You mean, what I’m after? What the liberals are after?”
“Yes. It is only appropriate that I support my husband, after all.”
“Would you have me try to force my viewpoints on you?” Mr. Hartley sighed good-naturedly. “No, that is something I will not do.”
The front door heaved open with a violent groan. Evelyn wondered if she would miss it one day.
“To be sure, I am simple-minded, and I would appreciate—”
He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She nearly stepped away, still unused to such gestures. But she managed to stand firm, tilting her face up to his. They were engaged now, after all.
“Simple-minded? When you so cleverly primed your father—though, I admit, the execution could be improved upon—but when you set the stage so wonderfully for my success? Ha, no.” He smiled, startling Evelyn with the warmth of the expression. “There may be plenty of things I would do in the name of furthering my cause, as I have come to learn about myself. But I would never marry a fool, Miss Wolfenden.”
Evelyn marked the groom’s presence, waiting for Mr. Hartley near the door. She felt incredibly exposed, being extolled so publicly.
“But—”
“Ah, not another word.” He released her, then watched her face, as if he meant to say something more. If he did, he decided against it. Instead he backed away, and offered her a nod.
“Until next time.”
“Goodnight,” she said.
It took her far longer than usual to fall asleep.