Chapter Nine
Against his better judgment, Marcus had written his mother.
He’d considered waiting until after it was all over to spring the whole slapdash arrangement on her, but his pesky heart could not fathom doing such a thing. Even so, the thought of every Sedley descending upon him ahead of the wedding did not sit well with him. While he tried to tell himself that their presence would interfere with the myriad preparations that needed to be made in haste, deep down he knew: He did not wish to endure the same treatment from the likes of his uncle Ajax or his cousin Harmonia that he himself had visited upon them in the days leading up to their respective nuptials.
Namely, suspicion and censure. And questions. By god, the questions. He could be a nosy bastard, that was the truth.
No, he did not care to have to defend himself on the matter; the decision was made, and he’d have a Wolfenden in his back pocket come the next election.
Of course, he could’ve written his friends. Dr. Collier. MP Towle. But they’d hear soon enough, wouldn’t they? And Marcus had work to do, besides. He wanted everything settled as quickly as possible.
So he’d requested only the presence of his mother, and no one else. And now he would have to tell her why.
That was a task he was actually looking forward to.
A whistle alerted everyone to the approach of an engine, followed by the toll of the bell. People shuffled back from the track, with some anxiously lifting their baggage from the ground only to set it back down again as the locomotive took its time, its gentle progress at odds with its pounding clamor and deafening roar. A child jogged alongside it, one hand holding his cap to his head.
The sight recalled the strange conversation he’d had with Baron Methering on the subject of competitive walking, the apex of sport. Or so the baron held. Everyone walks, you see. So it follows that there is no greater skill than that of pedestrianism. Marcus hadn’t followed that logic, exactly, but he’d nodded along earnestly all the same. It’d been nearly too easy, how he’d cozened the baron’s approval.
And Miss Wolfenden had set it all up for him. All while sitting there stoically, her back rigid, her speech unassuming.
And squinting down the prodigious length of the table.
Marcus had wondered at that. He ought to ask Dr. Collier about it. To be sure, the distance between them had been so great as to be comical, but he’d had no difficulties making out her face from the other end.
It was a face he’d spent more time considering over these past days than he’d expected to. Perhaps his mind was just trying to normalize the entire arrangement, and get him used to the idea of her.
After all, they’d be together for some time.
And it was a fine face, he’d decided.
“Marcus!” he heard his mother’s exasperated voice call out. “Marcus, can you not see me?”
Sure enough, there she stood, alongside a massive trunk and a carpetbag on the other side of the platform. She was waving frantically with one arm while she clutched at her scraggly black and white spaniel, Walter, with the other.
He gestured for his groom to follow him as he went to meet her.
“Mama,” he said, in as soothing a voice as he could manage, stooping to give her a peck on her proffered cheek. “Walter,” he nodded perfunctorily at the dog. Walter regarded him blankly, panting all the while. “I trust the journey was not difficult?”
“I should say not!”
“Oh, good—”
“It was beastly! Heaven knows I told myself I would never again endure such a day, after how long it took to arrive at your uncle’s horrible old pile that Easter. I should not like that very much, I said, traveling such a distance every year. Now here I am, cast to the winds on my own, exhausted and famished!”
“It is only Lancashire, Mama.” Marcus picked up her carpetbag. Slipping his free arm around her shoulders, he ushered her after the groom, who was quite a distance in front of them with her trunk.
She prattled on about his cousin Harmonia, her husband, and their baby girl as they walked. When they came upon Marcus’s newest purchase—a glossy, freshly painted coach—she looked to him, startled. He usually hired a cart to convey luggage, so rarely did he have visitors.
“Why, I am surprised. A carriage? You?”
“Like it?” he asked, not bothering to hide his smugness. “It was quite a decent price for what it is, just under two hundred pounds. A steal, really.”
He leaned forward and smacked his hand against the side of the vehicle. The new coachman he’d hired only a few days ago turned from his perch on the bench and gave him a censorious look. Murphy, a Liverpudlian who said little and smiled less. Marcus nodded by way of apology. He wondered how the man was getting on with the rest of the staff.
His mother stared at him, dumbfounded at first, then sharpening her gaze. “It is quite fine,” she said cautiously as he handed her up.
“Cast aside by some Mancunian lordling,” Marcus explained. He couldn’t help but add the jab, “For something newer and finer, no doubt.”
He let her stew in her thoughts for a time as they set off, enjoying the reupholstered seats and the recarpeted floor. Soon, though, he decided he could drag it out no longer.
“You probably wonder why I’ve asked you up here, after you had so eloquently sworn off long-distance travel.” His mother opened her mouth, but he continued on, eager to spit it out. “It’s because I’m to be married, you see.”
Her shriek of delight set him awash in a wave of happiness, which surprised him. Marcus crossed his arms, wondering at it. Unfortunately, her exclamation had also sent Walter into a frenzy, and he leapt from her lap to the floor, yapping in alarm as he then bounded up onto Marcus’s bench opposite.
“Walter! Walter! Down!” His mother reached out, gesturing for the creature to return.
Walter yapped at her, his tiny frame quivering. She looked back to Marcus, somehow able to ignore the dog’s barking. “But this is wonderful news! Who is she? And when is it? Why, you naughty boy, you ought to have told me—I’ve nothing appropriate to wear for the ceremony, or the breakfast!”
“Oh, you’ve already met her,” Marcus said casually, and lifted Walter up to his own lap with one hand hooked under the dog’s tiny chest. Walter growled once more, then finally relaxed and settled into his new position.
His mother stared at him blankly.
“Recall, if you will, that time this summer when I promised to marry the next lady I set eyes upon.”
“Marcus.” Her voice dropped. “No!”
“What is the matter? Does your memory fail you? Miss Wolfenden is a well-bred lady. She needed a husband, and I, being the chivalrous type, was only happy to oblige.”
He left out the information that was pertinent to his own situation; namely, that her father was a baron and well-respected in the area. Though after having to endure not just one, but two dinners with the man, Marcus was not quite sure how that had come to be the case. He’d have to look at everything in Knockton with a more critical eye.
His mother had gone uncharacteristically silent, her lips pursed as she stared across at Walter in his lap. He remembered what Miss Wolfenden had said about companionship. Cats are nice, I find. Perhaps a dog, if one wishes to be set apart. With a small smile, he scratched behind Walter’s ear. Should he bestow a kitten upon Miss Wolfenden once they were wed, then? Or was she one who would wish to be set apart?
Then Mrs. Hartley spoke, interrupting his train of thought.
“He would be proud of you, you know.” She spoke with a voice he hadn’t heard her use since his childhood, when he’d had a fall or awoken from a bad dream. Calm, steady. Assured.
She spoke of his father. Lewis Hartley. The best man he’d ever known. The familiar grief came upon him suddenly, like an avalanche, nearly crushing his chest under its weight. He dared not speak, lest his voice break.
“I see him in you, even if you do not believe it yourself. Your goodness, your integrity.”
He recoiled inside at her words, and his mind rapidly summoned rebuttals for all of them. Marcus had ignored his family, working tirelessly for years, and for what? A heap of failures. There was his inability to shepherd any legislation to real action. The questionable things he’d done over the past few years in exchange for political support. The unfeeling way he’d handled Miss Wolfenden when she’d first come to him for help, and the cynical manner in which they’d come to their agreement.
“I… I also miss him. He raised you into a fine young man, as fine as he ever was.” She paused, her voice growing thick with emotion.
For several moments there was no sound but the gentle rattle of the wheels against the road and the clanking of the team’s tack.
Then she continued, with conviction. “But you’ve done enough. It’s enough, Marcus. You cannot marry every unfortunate woman in distress in London, you simply cannot. You ought to marry for happiness, not charity. You deserve to—”
“No,” he said.
“Yes,” she sputtered, exasperated. “You ought to be happy. Look at Harmonia, the joy she finds in her little girl. Look at your uncle, even! Why, I can barely recall—”
“Please, no more.” He raised a hand to his forehead; he could not bear this talk. He had to enter into this marriage; he could not—would not—lose his seat in Parliament. He refused to be like them—the vainglorious dukes and marquesses who chased nothing but their own pleasure, shooting enough pheasants to fill a barrow from the comfort of their verdant estates while their countrymen toiled and children starved in the cities. He needed to use the resources he was lucky enough to have to make a difference. And if there was a selfish aspect to that burning desire, then so be it.
Now deprived of ear scratches, Walter abandoned Marcus’s lap, leapt down to the floor and back up next to Mrs. Hartley, and settled himself into the plush, new burgundy velvet.
“Perhaps you’ll change your tune once you learn of the lady’s family,” Marcus said, his eyes closed, his hand still shielding his brow.
What would his father say, hearing his own son speak thusly? Marcus felt his chest tighten. He could not endure this. Perhaps it was his just reward for tormenting his mother so.
“Oh?” she said timorously.
Marcus drew out a long sigh. Then he sat up and readjusted himself, brushing off the front of his coat.
“Her father is a baron. A baron who just so happens to be quite the consequential landowner in Knockton.”
The look on his mother’s face suggested that was the most shocking thing she had heard in quite some time.
“Do tell,” she breathed, stunned.
“Yes, Mama,” he said, buoyed slightly by her response. “I’m not martyring myself for the cause. Far from it. Truth is, it’s cutthroat. Politically advantageous.” He would never be mistaken for a saint, which usually didn’t bother him. But just now he felt downright Machiavellian, and he did not like it.
“A noblewoman? For you? Why, I never dreamed of it!” His mother fanned herself uselessly with one hand.
“A baron, Mama. Hardly reason for such excitement.” Marcus lifted his eyes heavenward. “It’s nearly the lowest rung on the ladder.”
“Bless me,” she said with a positively girlish laugh. But then she stilled, as if something had suddenly occurred to her. She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Are you quite sure? You’ve always spoken so derisively of… of…”
“Them?” he supplied aloofly, finally feeling in control of himself once more. It was a relief. He would have to be on his guard; this entire marriage situation seemed rife with pitfalls.
“Well, yes.” His mother sat back and blinked.
He felt that old pang of envy, the one that had most recently struck when Towle informed him of his impending honors. Marcus stamped it out, hoping his countenance was betraying nothing of his inner turmoil.
“Why should I think differently of her? She’s a lady, like any other.”
But even as Marcus spoke the words, he knew they were not true.
She was a Wolfenden, as she herself reminded him at every turn. She’d grown up alone, haunting dark and ancient halls, rarely venturing beyond the uplands and moorlands of Lancashire. She seemed incapable of giving or receiving affection. She believed herself apart from others.
Set apart—a puppy, then, Marcus decided.
Her loyalty was to her own, and to Knockton. She wound herself tighter, and held herself more rigid, than he could ever imagine doing.
And in a matter of days, she would be his wife.
The last time she’d stood in this chapel, it had been with him, alone.
No, that wasn’t true. Since then there had been the usual Sunday service, and then they’d met here yesterday to prepare, along with the wedding party. Leonora, their tempestuous flower girl, had thrown a fit of epic proportions upon being informed that she would not be strewing flowers about until the moment of the actual ceremony. Her niece had gone to the ground right then and there, kicking and wailing at the top of her lungs.
Mr. Hartley had looked quite spooked by the entire thing. Perhaps there was hope for his manners after all.
Despite those more recent visits, though, Evelyn couldn’t help but recall that evening when they were here together, alone, as she escorted him on a tour of the manor. When he’d questioned her lack of need for companionship, and how she could endure a life without romance.
Romance? Why would Evelyn invite such unnecessary chaos into her life?
Certainly she would not. Which was why she’d agreed to a marriage of this sort. She would never behave as that poor girl off to Wigan with a broken heart and Evelyn’s handkerchief.
Suddenly she felt a slight disappointment that she’d decided upon the Methering chapel rather than the Knockton parish church. Never mind that that girl was off working in Wigan, but now she truly would never see Evelyn as a bride. Nor how she measured up alongside the memory of Selina.
Had this been a different kind of marriage, she might have had something new done up. But as it was, she wore her best coral silk and the gold and turquoise set her mother had gifted her upon her first season. She hadn’t worn all the pieces together since Mama had died—just the earrings on festive occasions. But Dutton had insisted, gushing over how well the color of the gown set the stones off. And besides, her maid had added, turquoise signifies true love, miss. Evelyn dismissed that as tosh. But she allowed that the set paired nicely with the dress.
And she ought to look as well as she could.
Suddenly Evelyn felt that odd, unsettled feeling low in her stomach. She would not move an inch, but she did allow her gaze to drift.
Mr. Hartley knelt alongside her. He was perfectly still as well. It was difficult to see him fully without turning her head, which Evelyn dared not do, but he seemed placid. So handsome he’d been, waiting for her there at the front of the aisle. For a moment she wished he were not, for it would make this mariage de raison much easier.
She did not need to be stealing glances at her new husband like some besotted girl.
For Evelyn was not besotted, but relieved. When they had both spoken their vows, and Knockton’s vicar blessed them, the weight of worry had lifted from her. No longer was her future in peril, nor was Selina’s or Leonora’s. Here she prayed, offering her silent gratitude for that.
Soon all that was to be done was done, and the chapel organ kicked up. Though she could not see, she knew Wright sat before it, playing the hymn with an inscrutable expression on his face.
Bouquet in hand, Evelyn graciously took Mr. Hartley’s arm. It felt so firm. How strange. She’d been led into many a dinner by many different men. Why should her fingers on Mr. Hartley’s arm so inform her senses?
Without squinting she could barely read the expressions of those assembled, even as they walked past, for she trained her face forward, her chin up. The only attendees on Mr. Hartley’s side of the chapel appeared to be his mother, who was swiping embarrassingly at her eyes, and at the back, a wilted-looking man whom she assumed to be one of his servants. On her side, there was her father and Selina—both looking as if they wished to be anywhere else—plus several of her widow acquaintances and the entire town council, including Mr. Reed, whom they’d last seen at the musicale the day Mr. Hartley had offered her this arrangement.
They breezed through the main entrance, right into the library.
Mr. Hartley did not release her; instead, he placed his other hand upon hers.
“Was it as you wished?”
Evelyn nodded, avoiding his eyes. That prickling warmth was creeping across her shoulders.
“And the ring is satisfactory?”
She allowed her gaze to travel to her fourth finger, now adorned with a plain gold band. “All is well, I assure you.”
He released her from his arm, then grasped her free hand in his.
“Thank you.” He looked at her, guileless. His calm blue eyes imparted a feeling for which she had no name.
“Whatever for?” she murmured. Would their child inherit the warmth of his eyes? Or the chill of hers?
“For accepting me with such grace.” He sighed and looked down, idly caressing her wedding ring with his thumb. Her body responded with a startling heat. “For standing alongside me with such dignity. I can’t think of a better…”
He let the thought float away, engrossed in the sight of their clasped hands. “Your hands are so soft,” he said wonderingly.
Now she looked over her shoulder with anxiety. Soon the parish clerk would arrive. And then the guests would filter out, small in number but as ravenous for the promised hospitality as any wedding attendees ever were. She had no wish for them to see her like this, exchanging intimacies with her husband amongst the shelves, the mustiness of timeworn tomes hanging about them.
“Mr. Hartley,” Evelyn chided, her voice thick. She cleared her throat.
“Mr. Hartley?” He let go of her and smoothed the front of his morning jacket. In the buttonhole he wore another aster, matching the bouquet she carried. “Surely we can do away with such formalities,” he jested good-naturedly.
Evelyn set her face sternly. “Certainly we will not.” She was not about to adopt the customs of the middle class just because she’d married a solicitor. “If you’d a title, then perhaps I would dispense with the lord, but as it is you are still Mr. Hartley to me, and I, Mrs. Hartley to you.”
The shadow of a frown crossed his face. Evelyn straightened her back instinctively. But his apparent displeasure quickly melted away, and he merely shook his head.
“As you wish, Mrs. Hartley,” he said with a gently taunting affectation.
How exhausting this will be, Evelyn thought as she studied his wide shoulders and sturdy limbs, his playful expression. He seemed so painfully feeling; why, he set his back up at the smallest inducement, and would argue the toss over just about anything! How would she manage such a self-righteous and capricious spouse? How ought she respond to such teasing? She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. She would manage. For although she was officially Evelyn Hartley now, she would always be a Wolfenden.
But there was no chance for her to respond just then, for the door opened and the parish clerk hastened in, a strained smile upon his face. In the work of a moment, he’d spread out the register on a long, dark table.
“Mrs. Hartley?” the clerk asked, extending a pen her way.
Evelyn spared a satisfied smile for Mr. Hartley—her way of saying See? This is the correct manner. She signed her new name, taking up as much space as was allocated, then laid down the pen and stepped back.
Mr. Hartley stepped into her place and took up the pen, then looked at the open page and immediately guffawed.
“Evelyn Anna Maria Blore Wolfenden Hartley?”
“What?” Evelyn said, feeling peevish now. “That is my name.”
“All of them? One, two, three—three first names, and three surnames?” Mr. Hartley chuckled as he signed his own name.
“Is that so strange?”
“Hmm, for you? Point well taken,” he said, casually tossing down the pen.
The clerk frowned and rushed forward to collect the tools of his trade.
Evelyn craned her neck and squinted, but she could not make out his signature. And as she refused to step forward and admit curiosity, her chance was lost, as the clerk snapped the massive tome shut.
No matter—steadfastness or nothing, she reminded herself.
Then Mr. Hartley offered his arm, and they moved on to the great hall.
The breakfast was a staid affair, more akin to a rote meeting of some stuffy society comprised of middle-aged and elderly members than a celebration. Indeed, there was little laughter, only gentle conversation that ebbed and flowed like the tide, interspersed with the clinks and clangs of flatware upon china. Evelyn couldn’t help but take detailed notice of the mounted stag heads, the heralds carved into the wooden panels, the tapestry depicting a hunt, the imposing marble fireplace that dominated the far wall. It was as if she were seeing them for the first, and possibly last, time.
But that was silly. Surely she would return. Her father was not upon death’s door, and she, with Wright’s aid, had for the time being managed to steer him away from the more dangerous pursuits he had previously taken an interest in, like the stilt-racing that was popular in Bordeaux. That had been a terrifying couple of months.
She clung to this hope as the meal went on.
They were seated separately from the guests, at a small table drawn up against the wooden screen to the vestibule. It would have offered an excellent opportunity for Evelyn to give voice to all the questions floating about her head, but she was unfortunately unable to focus long enough to catch one, for she and her new husband were interrupted by a continuous flow of well-wishers.
Between small sips of champagne, she recalled her worry about whether or not Mr. Hartley would expect her to entertain guests—aside from his mother—at Platt Lodge. Six or seven bedrooms at most, Selina had warned.
But before she could ask him about it, Mr. James Robert Reed of the town council strutted toward them, one hand tucked into his jacket. Affecting such a pose, and with such a look of confidence upon his face, he called to mind the old depictions of Napoleon. As he drew closer, Evelyn realized he suggested the emperor in more than just his carriage; why, if it were not for Mr. Reed’s massive side whiskers, the resemblance would be obvious.
“May I offer you all the happiest wishes in the world,” Mr. Reed said, bowing his head slightly to Evelyn before turning to her husband. “And Mr. Hartley,”—he shifted, his hands now gripping his lapels—“I do not wish to step upon the authority of my fellow council members, but allow me to extend congratulations to you, not just on behalf of myself, but on behalf of all of Knockton.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reed, and well said.”
Evelyn turned to look at her husband. His face was tighter than it had been up until now.
“Miss Wolf—well, Mrs. Hartley, now, I suppose, shall always have a home here, and shall always have the love of her district.” Mr. Reed smiled affably, adjusting his hold upon his jacket. “Quite a benison for you, Mr. Hartley, if I may say so.” He laughed.
“Of course,” Mr. Hartley responded in a cool tone. “My wife is many things; a daughter of Methering is but one of them.” Now he turned to face her, his expression fierce. “She also possesses admirable strength of character and sharpness of mind.”
A sudden light fluttering bloomed in her chest and head. It was nearly like that fateful afternoon, months ago, when she’d nearly fallen apart in Rowland’s ship-infested study before taking off running into the streets of London. But that had been an awful, confusing feeling.
And this… was a warm and confusing feeling.
Mr. Reed laughed again, then halted when Mr. Hartley did not join in. Indeed, her husband sat stock-still, his face as serious as she’d ever seen it.
Mr. Reed’s expression was now of another manner, turning a uniform, particularly unflattering shade of puce.
“Surely… sharpness of mind… but of course you’ve heard…” he sputtered, dancing around what Evelyn could only assume to be the circumstances of her brother’s life and death. Woolly Wolfenden.
“And I would be remiss if I did not mention her grace,” Mr. Hartley reached for her, his hand hovering over hers, as if asking for permission. When Evelyn did not respond, he gently settled his hand upon hers. “Or her beauty.”
The fluttering inside her burst into heat, one so intense she could feel it in her face. She hoped Mr. Reed—or anyone else—would not notice. She did not wish to be perceived as a silly, blushing bride.
“So you’re correct. It is quite a boon to me, to gain such a wife.”
“Of course, of course.” By now Mr. Reed seemed to have regained his social footing, his head bobbing up and down.
But Evelyn was no longer interested in Mr. Reed. She looked back to Mr. Hartley’s hand upon hers.
The halls of the manor had always stood strong, and so would she. They claimed her as one of their own. She drew in a breath, willing the heat within her to dissipate.
Mr. Reed was now prattling on to Mr. Hartley, something about political cartoons in the local paper. She did not care. She looked up and regarded her husband. Mr. Hartley wore a smug half-smile as he listened, his dark hair neatly combed back for once.
Now he, too, was one of their own.
For that was what this day meant. Evelyn had accepted him before God, before the large glass window that at one time, hundreds of years before, had depicted Saint Milburga. She released the smallest of sighs. Frustrating and common though he was, Marcus Hartley was now her husband. She would stand alongside him. She would be a dependable wife.
“Mr. Reed,” she finally broke in, ready to be done with him and whatever further insinuations he might care to make, “my husband and I thank you for your well wishes. Please give Mrs. Reed my regards. Though I do believe Mrs. Henham is waiting to say her piece.” She nodded in the direction of the elderly lady hovering a few paces behind Mr. Reed.
Mr. Reed nodded, muttered “Of course,” then made an awkward goodbye and departed, walking sheepishly back to his table of fellow council members.
A bit belatedly, Evelyn realized that she’d heard Mr. Reed discuss politics with her father on at least one prior occasion.
And if she recalled correctly, he was much more of her father’s mindset than her husband’s.
She smiled as Mrs. Henham approached, trying to shake the feeling of unease that had come over her. Should she have paid closer attention to Mr. Hartley and Mr. Reed’s conversation? Mr. Hartley had seemed more restrained with him than he’d been with the other guests. Evelyn felt her spirits fall. She had to do better; she ought to exercise her mind if she was to live up to Mr. Hartley’s praise.
As if he could read her thoughts, Mr. Hartley gently squeezed her hand. And strangely enough, she felt calm once more.
She had claimed him as her own. And he, it seemed, had done the same.