Chapter Ten
Evelyn did her best to keep Methering Manor in her sights as they rode away in Mr. Hartley’s carriage, her face a hair’s breadth from the glass pane as the vehicle rattled away along the road. Eventually, the proud structure that had stood for centuries, enduring not only military attacks but the relentless decay of time, finally disappeared beyond the gentle hills of the moorland.
Distressed, she sat back and closed her eyes, not wishing to alarm her husband, sitting opposite her alongside her new mother-in-law, who chatted merrily away.
Evelyn thought of the copse of beech trees beyond the gardens, and how gorgeous they looked in their autumn raiment, all reds and oranges. She recalled the sounds of the household staff tidying up after the breakfast, with Wright stoically overseeing the activities from the head of the great hall. She thought of her bedroom, tucked away in the east wing, with its pretty tapestry depicting a maid and a unicorn. She thought of Selina and Leonora, still snug in their beds, for they would not join her at Platt Lodge until tomorrow. Wistfully she recalled the manor ghost, some groom or page that had dared to seduce a baroness past, leading to his untimely end by the baron’s sword. Although she’d heard tales of him haunting the buttery, recognizable by his doleful stare and his antiquated round cap, she had never seen him herself.
Now she never would.
She opened her eyes. Methering Manor was out of sight, but she was still in Lancashire, in Knockton. And that was what truly mattered.
When they arrived at Platt Lodge, she did her best to look upon it with an open heart, though from a distance she couldn’t make anything out beyond the broad strokes. It was neat and somewhat modern, a plastered box with three tidy rows of six windows apiece. No towers, no moat, no gatehouse. No timeworn stone walls covered in lichen, just a soulless iron gate. There had once been a rugged old hunting lodge here, but it was brought down to erect this structure a few generations back. Or so Wright had informed her.
But there was no use in speculating about the past; what was here now would have to do. Evelyn exited the coach with her chin held high and took Mr. Hartley’s offered hand.
He leaned closer to her, speaking in a low voice. “I understand it’s not home. But I hope it will be comfortable for you.”
She nodded, the richness of his voice reverberating deep in her body. Evelyn wondered when she would become used to it. She would have repaid his kindness with a small smile, but his mother had apparently overheard his private comment and sought to add her own.
“Comfortable?” Mrs. Hartley snorted. “I should hope so, with the way Marcus keeps the London house. Why, in my younger days, when Mr. Hartley brought me back there as a bride, it might’ve been a mean piece but at least it was properly run,” she harrumphed, before offering Evelyn a sympathetic smile.
“Mama.” A frown crossed Mr. Hartley’s face. “Let’s get you inside. It’s been a tiring course of events for you. And,” he said as he looked down at the dog in her arms and grimaced, “for Walter as well.”
“Mr. Hartley brought you there as a bride?” Evelyn looked at her mother-in-law, recalling the ugly and cramped London house she’d taken refuge in earlier that year.
“Oh yes, dear. It was quite a comedown for me, you see. At least the neighborhood is respectable enough. And to think, I’d been the belle of the season, had turned down several proposals for a simple solicitor— Marcus! Do not pull a face, for you know it is true!” She shook her head, perturbed.
But neither Mr. Hartley nor Evelyn responded, so she discarded the conversation and went along to greet the staff with a pleasant enough comportment.
It seemed Mrs. Hartley’s temper danced about as unpredictably as a leaf caught in the wind. Evelyn felt a bit at sea; her new mother-in-law was another impassioned individual she would need to accustom herself to.
Mr. Hartley looked at her apologetically and offered his arm again.
“Agitation is her normal state; pray, do not worry.”
“I am fine,” Evelyn said, taking his arm. She meant it, truly, but something deep inside did not feel as settled as she’d have liked.
After greeting the staff—thankfully all from local families and falling over themselves to offer her their best bow or curtsy—they removed to their quarters to tidy up for an early supper.
Although the wedding breakfast had been sumptuous, Evelyn found herself famished. She ate heartily, pleased to find the cook here an improvement over the one at Mr. Hartley’s London residence.
Now sitting in her large, modern room, Evelyn stared at herself in the looking glass as Dutton brushed out her hair. She didn’t know what she should do; she expected to fulfill her duties as Mr. Hartley’s wife, but she’d been informed that this was to be her bedroom. Would he visit? Were the rooms adjoined, or could there perhaps be a concealed staircase?
She frowned. If only her mother were still alive to instruct her in these matters. Selina hadn’t even bothered, though Evelyn would have rather died than endure such a lecture from her brother’s widow.
Her eyes drifted to Dutton, the stout and stern-faced maid who’d reluctantly followed her here, rather than remain at Methering in a lesser capacity.
“Do you think Mr. Hartley will…” Evelyn let her eyes fall back to her own reflection, suddenly feeling very aware of herself. “Ought he come to my room, or is it expected for the bride to send for her husband?”
Dutton’s hand froze, the brush poised inches above Evelyn’s hair. After a pause she chuckled, then resumed. “Oh, miss—er, missus, I beg your pardon, still not used to all that. If he wants you, he’ll come to you.”
Evelyn set her mouth in a thin line. “I see.”
When Dutton had finished, Evelyn got up and wandered about the room, unsure of what to do. Should she settle in bed? Read a book? She eventually sat upon a fashionable chaise, no doubt a new piece. As soon as she had lowered herself onto it, she was startled by a knock at the door, but it was only an apologetic housemaid, there to turn the lamps down. She did so with efficiency and left, and Evelyn was alone once more—the new mistress in her new home, perched upon her new chair.
Until now, the entire evening had felt bizarrely commonplace and unremarkable. For a day that marked the beginning of her new life, it had felt strangely similar to any other day, even though her wedding had taken place that morning. She supposed that must be how things tended to go when one married for purposes other than love.
But now, the waiting was unsettling her, and her mind darted about as she wondered why Mr. Hartley had not come.
She frowned, then turned to look across the room at the mirror once again as she smoothed her plait with one hand. She couldn’t see herself very well from this distance, but she knew well enough what was there. Maybe she ought to eat less; her figure was far thicker than Selina’s dainty form. Perhaps Mr. Hartley did not prefer it? Or should she instruct Dutton to attempt something different with her hair?
Another knock, sharp and hurried, was the only warning she received before the door swung open again and Mr. Hartley blustered in, his dark hair falling in his face. He slammed it shut behind him.
“I’m sorry, so sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you…” He paused just inside the threshold, hands working at untying his cravat.
Why, he wasn’t even in his nightclothes!
Evelyn’s heart sped up, and she turned away, not wishing him to see her apprehension.
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” she fibbed, her eyes falling upon what she knew to be a clock on one of the bedside tables, though she could not for the life of her read the time; the thin, fuzzy lines she knew were hands swam about her vision no matter how she squinted.
“It’s only… Walter, my mother’s blasted dog, you know. The hateful creature ran off after some animal when a footman took the wretched thing out for his evening ablutions.”
He sighed, deep and heavy. She could hear his footfalls as he walked about, the rustle of fabric as he shed his jacket.
Her heart would not slow. Slightly worried, she surreptitiously placed a hand to her chest.
“I don’t know why I ever got her the damn thing. He’s been nothing but a nuisance from the first.”
“And has, er, Walter been found?”
Evelyn dared a glance over her shoulder. Mr. Hartley stood there in his shirtsleeves, removing his cufflinks. She wanted to look away, but did not wish to appear flustered, so she held still, her back straight even as her heart raced.
“Yes,” he scoffed, and blew out another sigh. “The little bast—I beg your pardon—the little monster had somehow gone round the back and reentered through the kitchens with the help of an unaware scullery maid. Mind you, we did not discover this until Mama was nearly in conniptions, and a great deal of manpower had been exhausted.” He looked up at her with an apologetic grin. “Including mine.” He pocketed his cufflinks.
Evelyn searched for something kind to say.
“She is very fond of the spaniel.”
She was taken aback to hear herself utter something so wishy-washy. But she felt a very strong urge to please him just now.
“And you? Shall I gift you a dog as well?” He crossed the room to join her, hands in pockets, looking all too comfortable as he sat down alongside her.
“A dog?” Evelyn blinked. “Whatever for?”
“Companionship, if you’ll recall.” Mr. Hartley laughed, and crossed his legs so he might remove his shoes.
“Do you not have a valet?” She stared, unable to conceal her distaste at his undressing like this.
“Of course I do.” He dropped one shoe, then adjusted his position to reach the other. It, too, fell to the floor with a thud. Evelyn arched an eyebrow.
“What?” he said with a touch of humor. “Think we ought to conduct our business clothed?”
“No,” she said. A prickling flush ran through her. “I only… did not expect it to be… like this.”
“Oh?” He shifted closer and leaned toward her. “And what did you expect?”
Evelyn looked away, not caring to dignify that with an answer. Instead she focused on her hands, gently folded upon her knees. Blushing and wilting like a fragile maiden was another item on the list of things she’d rather die than do.
When Mr. Hartley had suggested their marriage, the idea of bedding him had seemed easy. Clinical, even. She’d assumed he’d approach her from behind, flip up her skirts, do all that thrusting or what have you, and be done with it.
But this… him in shirtsleeves and stockinged feet, chatting easily about his frustration with his mother’s lapdog before pinning her with that self-satisfied grin… and flirting with her.
Well. It felt intimate. Something she’d not anticipated.
The whisper of fabric sliding against skin set her heart to racing again. When she looked back at him, he was clad only in his trousers and wool undervest, which clung tightly to his chest. His shoulders and arms were bare. An ache tightened within her. She had not expected to find something as mundane as a shoulder so pleasing. She’d seen plenty of them depicted in paintings, and in books filled with colored plates of ancient sculptures.
But he was warm, and his skin firm. And he was right in front of her.
Suddenly she realized he was watching her, and her eyes drifted up to his. Any integrity they had before had now fled; they were no longer the trustworthy blue she’d become accustomed to. Now they were wild and fierce. Her well-trained mind begged her to look away, to hide her face from such an uncivilized gaze.
She did not.
Her breath came quicker.
“Shall we get on with it, then?” she managed to say. For some reason it came out as a whisper.
“Get on with what?” He matched her low volume, the deep register of his voice a gentle hand upon her cheek.
“You know, with the tupping,” Evelyn said matter-of-factly.
She shifted her weight back; somehow she’d unconsciously leaned far across the middle of the couch toward his end, as if he were pulling her into his orbit with the gravity of that satiny voice and handsome jawline.
“The tupping?”
“Yes, I did express my willingness in that regard.” She brought one hand primly to her throat. “But only one or two children, I believe. Too many would be vulgar. I wouldn’t wish to be like Mr. Reed’s wife, forever enceinte.”
She paled at the memory of the harried woman minding her numerous children at the parish council picnic that summer.
“And how shall we go about that?” he asked, one hand covering his mouth, the creases at the corners of his eyes betraying his smile.
“Perhaps I shall get on the bed? I could then bare myself to you?”
It seemed the most practical way of doing things.
Mr. Hartley sighed, and heaved himself up out of his chair. He began pacing in front of her, arms crossed as if in thought. After a minute he spoke.
“Forgive me, but that seems a rather unnatural way of going about it.” He paused, his eyes darkening. Then, with a grin, he came back to stand before her. “And what of kissing? You did mention kisses would be permitted, provided they were kept to the bedroom, if I recall.”
Evelyn straightened herself in her seat, smoothing out her nightclothes.
“Very well.”
She tilted her face upward, squeezed her eyes shut. And waited.
And waited. And waited.
Then she heard him laugh. Her eyes flew open. That seemed to set him off more, for now he was looking away, chortling into the back of his hand.
“That is awfully rude.” Her cheeks heated as she fought to keep her composure.
“I’m sorry, I’m—” He shook his head, clearing his throat.
Never before had Evelyn felt so set down, so indignant. Weighing what level of disdain to mete out, her thoughts scattered in an instant. For without warning, he dropped to his knees before her and caught her hands in his. They felt incredibly warm.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hartley.”
His face was so close to hers.
“I…” He paused, looking down at his hands clasped around hers. “I know this is not what most ladies fancy, an arrangement like this. Or, blimey, even this arrangement, with this party.”
He looked back to her with heat in his eyes. One hand slid up her arm, snaking around to the back of her neck. Evelyn’s heartbeat took off at a frenetic pace.
“But,” he murmured, “as you have promised to fulfill your wifely duties, I vow to fulfill mine in turn.”
His eyes were on her mouth now.
Did he expect her to respond? Evelyn could not. She could barely manage to hold still. For his scent was the only thing she could think of, the heat in her center all she could feel. It made her want to throw herself onto the bed and writhe about, as if she could somehow rub off this anticipation building within.
“I shall be gentle.” He pulled her head closer, his lips nearly brushing hers. “Unless you give me the word, that is.”
Her eyelashes fluttered.
And then he kissed her.