Chapter Sixteen
“A hotel?” Evelyn said, staring out the window of her carriage. “Are we not staying at Sir Philip’s residence?”
They were pulling up before a massive building right in the city center—no trees, no lawn, no long gravel drive. Just people, towering bland buildings, and soot. Ever so much soot. It must not be good for one’s health, breathing this muck. She wrinkled her nose.
If she squinted, she could just see beyond the gilded doors, to a space done up in marble and red carpeting. But that was all.
“I’m afraid not. Towle’s practically the Methuselah of the lower chamber. Or he was, I suppose. At any rate, there’s a score of gents he’s known longer,” Mr. Hartley said in a curt tone. Then, with a smile, he added, “We likely won’t even have a seat at the dinner table. Assume we’ll be standing against the wall, holding our plates, and choose your footwear accordingly.”
Evelyn paled.
Dutton, who sat alongside her, gasped.
“No, don’t fret, I’m only joking,” he said, then hastily repeated with a laugh, “Please, do not fret.”
Evelyn sat back, staring at him.
“Why, I never,” Dutton said, as disapproving as Evelyn had ever heard her.
“A joke, Evelyn,” he repeated, his face softening. “I’m sure we’ll be seated. Just at the far end of the table. So have no fear, Dutton. Your mistress has not been slighted, I assure you.”
They’d awoken together that morning, in her bed. It had been oddly pleasant, if one could forget how atrociously… human one felt upon waking, what with one’s hot, unpleasant breath and sleep-mussed hair—her plait had come undone at some point during their exertions. She made a mental note to never accept his assistance in that regard ever again. Though she had enjoyed what had transpired between them after his poor showing as a lady’s maid. If she’d known all the forms bedsport could take, perhaps she’d have been keener to marry. Though admittedly, accepting Rowland’s offer all those years ago would not have led to such activities as they had engaged in last night. It seemed that while she and Mr. Hartley were not of similar dispositions outside of the marital bed, within it they were quite simpatico.
Even still, she did not seem to have his measure by the sun’s light.
“I don’t understand. You speak of him almost… paternally. Surely he would extend his hospitality?”
“Why, I’ll have you know this is the finest hotel in Birmingham,” he scoffed. “Costing me a fortune, I might add.”
Dutton harrumphed at that.
The hired carriage came to a stop, and rather than wait for the groom, Mr. Hartley rudely opened the door himself and climbed out.
Evelyn sighed.
“You reckon he gets on like this at Westminster?” her maid said, incredulous.
“Dutton,” Evelyn warned.
“Of course, begging your pardon. Where is my head, allowing my tongue to run like that?” she apologized, chiding herself with a shake of the head.
Dutton had always been far too forthcoming with her vacillating opinions. On some days, Mr. Hartley was handsome and attentive; on others, boorish and tradesy. At first Evelyn had tolerated it, but now that they’d wed she had done her best to stamp it out.
He was hers, and she was his. She would take care of her own.
So she took Mr. Hartley’s offered hand and stepped out of the carriage with nothing but a gracious smile for her husband.
Once they’d settled into their rooms, with Bray and Dutton unpacking their trunks, Evelyn wondered if she might be able to lie down for the waning hours of the afternoon. The trip to Birmingham had been more pleasant than the one to London, on account of both the shorter travel time and having someone else to read the timetables and make conversation with. Mr. Hartley had even managed to make her smile with his commentary on the passing scenery. Additionally, she hadn’t realized there was a first-class waiting room, much to her embarrassment. That alone certainly would have made her last excursion more tolerable.
Even with the improvements, though, Evelyn felt positive that human beings were not meant to hurtle across the countryside at breakneck speeds in an iron box. It exhausted her in the best of circumstances.
Dutton was closing the curtains for her rest when her husband barreled into the room without so much as a knock.
“Evelyn—” he began, then frowned, noticing her upon the couch in repose. “Are you not feeling well?”
Dutton excused herself with a curtsy.
“No, I’m fine,” Evelyn said, sitting up and smoothing her skirts. “It’s late and I’m travel-weary, is all.”
She disliked being seen like this, in stockinged feet, with her legs up on the couch. Especially by him, their morning notwithstanding.
“Good.” He clapped his hands together and grinned. “We’ve an appointment before dinner. That is to say, you’ve an appointment.”
“What?”
“Don’t be cross; there’s no one in Lancashire with anywhere near this fellow’s expertise.”
Alarm coursed through her. “What do you mean? Why, Dutton’s already helped me remove my bustle and change my dress. I cannot go anywhere!”
“No one will notice,” he assured, still smiling.
Evelyn allowed herself the indulgence of a glower as she reached for her shoes. How dare he be so energetic? So… charming?
“I’m wearing a tea gown,” she said with authority. There. He could not dispute that fact.
“And quite a lovely one, I might say.” He crossed the room and helped her up to her feet. “But we must get on; the doctor is streets away and our—your—appointment is at half past.”
“Half past!” she exclaimed, looking at the clock on the mantel as she broke free from his arm around her shoulders. “Doctor?! Mr. Hartley, what on earth are you on about?”
“It’s nothing to worry about, just… your eyes, lovely as they are…” His voice slowed, and he swallowed.
Her eyes were lovely? She blinked.
She recalled their wedding breakfast, when he’d praised her beauty to Mr. Reed. Evelyn had warned herself against thinking of that too often, as she was sure his meaning was more a charge against Mr. Reed than an accurate appraisal of her.
Her heart accelerated to a quicker pace. Suddenly the moment seemed smaller, quieter, and she dared not speak and break whatever spell had fallen. Surely no one mattered besides the two of them.
He lifted a hand to her face, then paused, pulling it back as if he’d been burnt. Evelyn’s breath caught.
He turned around, hands in his pockets, and cleared his throat.
“As I was saying, lovely as your eyes are, I can’t help but notice you’ve difficulty seeing things at a distance.”
“Oh,” Evelyn said, curbing her disappointment at the return to the practical. She took a breath and shook her head, expelling the thoughts that had just been running through it.
“But a doctor? What good is it to be examined—”
“No more of this, now,” he responded, not bothering to turn about once more. “I’ll send Dutton back, and take care you dress quickly. Half past, remember?”
She’d no more time to consider the fleeting intimacy of their shared moment even if she’d wished to. She shed her loose, comfortable tea gown and, with Dutton’s help, was turned out in proper dress, bustle and all, in no time.
The doctor’s examination room was well-scrubbed and well-lit, with plenty of tall windows. The idea of visiting a physician, rather than receiving a visit from one, seemed somewhat of a nuisance to Evelyn. But once they were escorted into the office—a strange and sterile place, devoid of decoration aside from a series of strange printed charts hanging along one wall—she forgot to be indignant. Instead she indulged her curiosity, abuzz with the novelty of it all. There were metal apertures that resembled lamps, a tall and narrow chest full of tiny drawers, the peculiar charts on the walls. It all seemed very modern and foreign at the same time.
“Is every doctor’s practice like this?” she wondered aloud, sitting properly in a chair at the center of the room.
“In my experience, no,” Mr. Hartley responded. “The one I’m most familiar with is always a shambles.”
Something caught in her chest at the sight of her husband, sitting in a chair against the wall with a small smile on his lips, those eyes dancing with delight. She looked away, pretending to study the strange chart, full of random letters of varying heights.
“A Snellen chart, I believe.”
“I did not realize you possessed any medical knowledge,” Evelyn said, not trusting herself to look his way again, and focusing instead on her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.
“I don’t,” he replied easily. “But I possess a friend with a great deal of it.”
“Ah yes, your doctor friend.” She recalled the large, handsome man who had accompanied him to the musicale. How long ago that now seemed.
Or, more appropriately, how much had changed in that short time.
For her entire life, the world had seemed as immutable and permanent as Methering Manor; a stronghold of well-worn stone, its only capitulation to the march of time. But the past month had hurtled her from spinster to maid to bride with much the same speed as the railway had swept them across the countryside. For the thousandth time that day she thought of the previous night, and how she’d howled with pleasure—as far as she was aware—as Mr. Hartley handled her so roughly, on a piece of furniture that was about the furthest thing from a bed. Now, in the light of day—and in a different city—she could scarcely believe it had happened.
Her world was changing, and Evelyn sensed something about her was changing as well. She swallowed, then combed about for something polite to say.
“Do you count many friends, then, in London?”
Mr. Hartley sighed. She heard him shift in his seat, but still she felt incapable of looking at him just now.
“There are few I would consider friends. But those that are…” He trailed off, thinking for several moments before finishing. “I keep them close. You may find it difficult to imagine, Evelyn, but I have a bit of a reputation.”
Her head snapped up. He wore a wry smile, daring her to challenge him.
“What sort of a reputation?”
“As a pedantic, self-righteous bore.”
“Oh,” she said earnestly. “I did not think you were aware.”
He laughed, though Evelyn could not fathom how her reaction was humorous. But she did not have an opportunity to ask, for just then the doctor announced himself with a knock.
The examination was strange, involving bright lights shining in her eyes and reading from the silly charts like a child in a schoolroom, even when the marks on them were wobbly little fiends refusing to commit to one letter or another. Then the doctor opened a drawer from the tall, narrow cabinet and withdrew a fascinating object—trial lenses, as he called them. The little glass lenses swung out from the horn case much like a pen knife, if only there were numerous blades rather than just one. In truth, as fascinating as the trial lenses were, she soon found them to be painfully tedious, for she was forced to look through nearly each and every one, all the while explaining to the doctor which ones sharpened her vision more than others. Until finally, when she thought herself very well done in, it was over.
The doctor informed them that her spectacles would be fashioned in due course, and asked to which address they might be sent.
When Mr. Hartley gave his London address, the Berkeley Square home that had been so cramped and hot, Evelyn froze.
London?
Her heart raced, and the back of her neck heated. She heard Mr. Hartley and the doctor exchange further pleasantries, and somehow she managed a polite goodbye as well. But the tightening in her chest and the quickness of her breath would not abate. She suddenly wanted to flee, to run back to Lancashire, to cross the dry moat and shove open the ancient doors of Methering Manor and fling herself upon the stone floor, begging her father to offer her sanctuary.
But that was ridiculous. She was married now.
She climbed into the carriage, the sound of her hammering heart filling her ears. Suddenly she realized her husband was alongside her, a hand upon her arm, shaking her gently.
“Evelyn? Are you well?” His voice was soft and full of concern.
She gathered herself up, sitting ramrod straight despite the shaking of the conveyance.
“You’d have them send my spectacles to London? I had supposed we would remain in Knockton. At least for the winter.”
Realization dawned on his face. He quickly shuttered, leaning away from her, his expression now empty and cold as his hand fell away.
Evelyn felt the lack of it acutely, and placed her own hand atop her arm where his had been, trying to hold onto his warmth.
“The doctor you mentioned, Collier, he’s been handling some business for me. Actually, the same business that brought you to my door—offering monetary assistance to women who seek it.” He paused, offering her a sad smile.
When she didn’t respond, he cleared his throat and continued.
“It’s a terrible burden to place upon him; I need to make sure all is well and scrounge up an alternative. I assumed…” His words trailed off on a hopeful note that sounded more wistful the longer it hung there between them.
“You assumed incorrectly,” she sniffed, folding her hands in her lap. “I was perfectly clear that I wish to remain in Lancashire as much as I’m able. And besides, what would Mrs. Henham think? Why, we’ve only begun planning!”
“For the tree celebration?” he said, his words thick with derision.
Evelyn sighed and quickly shut her eyes, bracing herself against the irritation spreading over her like a hot and unpleasant rash. No one had ever managed to get under her skin like this. But he seemed to be doing so with frustrating regularity.
“Yes, of course for the goat willow.” She turned to him, pinning him with a withering glare. “And perhaps, if you would deign to spend time amongst your constituents rather than run off to be a man about town, then you, too, would recognize its import.”
Mr. Hartley’s eyes darkened, his jaw set. Evelyn, confused by the rush of excitement that washed over her at the sight, turned to look out the window.
“Is that what you think I do? Gad about like some popinjay, amusing myself with politics because my Papa won’t cough up my allowance unless I apply myself to something?”
Well. That was rather specific. Evelyn glanced back to survey his mood. It was a poor decision, for he looked as furious and determined as he had in the reflection of her dressing table mirror. She caught her breath.
“I think—” she started, but he cut her off.
“Think me appallingly middle-class, do you?”
“No, I…” That hit a bit close to home. Her ears burned.
“Think I ought to give it up, then? Forget all this sentimental reform nonsense? Think women ought to be punished for the sins of men, that their children ought to suffer in baby farms or perish in the gutter?”
“Of course not,” she blurted, pushed to the brink, her heart racing. “I asked you, if you’ll recall, what lines I ought to take regarding your political endeavors and you… you rebuffed me!”
Mr. Hartley leaned back, studying her, his blue eyes full of censure.
Evelyn looked away, for surely she did not merit such an insult. And from her husband! An intense ache took hold in her chest, not unlike what she’d felt when Wright had informed her of Edmund’s passing. Suddenly she felt plain, insipid. With a harrowing jolt of panic, she realized she wasn’t up to snuff for the life before her.
And tomorrow night she’d face her first test: a ball chock-a-block with seasoned politicians and their wives.
She stared out the window, watching a young mother lead her daughter through the throng of pedestrians. The little girl had to run to keep up, never relinquishing her hold even as her mother pressed on. Suddenly the image blurred.
Horrified, Evelyn blinked her eyes several times, forcing back the unwanted emotion. How ridiculous she was being! All maudlin because the husband she’d agreed upon would ask her to uphold her end of their bargain? She’d been born to a storied house with a reputation for being far above this kind of simpering. Surely she could do better.
The carriage came to a halt.
“I apologize for my temper,” Mr. Hartley said suddenly, his voice laced with contrition. “Sometimes I forget…” he began, before allowing the words to fade away.
“Pay it no mind,” Evelyn replied before he could offer up a better apology.
It was bad enough that she’d allowed his physicality to interfere with her judgment. She did not need for his honeyed words in that seductive voice to weaken her further.
From the corner of her eye she saw him reach for her. As cool as ever, she pulled her hand away, placing it in her lap.
He froze.
The ache in her chest throbbed once more, threatening a resurgence, but she held fast, her chin up.
The groom opened the door, and Mr. Hartley stepped down. She waited a moment before following, fortifying her defenses until she was sure she would not falter at the sight of him.
That evening she dined alone in her room.
When Dutton assisted her before bed, she could not help but catch her reflection in the mirror every few moments. Each time she did, she cast her gaze down, with Mr. Hartley’s insistent and fierce attentions from the night before echoing in her mind.
“Are you well, ma’am?”
Dutton’s inquiry cut through her thoughts, and Evelyn looked up, forcing a casual manner.
“Of course. Only that I am overtired.”
“Don’t know what that man was thinking, dragging you out into the city after a day of travel!” Dutton sighed. “One would think he’s never—”
Evelyn drew her maid’s gaze to her own in the mirror, halting her speech with one raised eyebrow.
“Of course, of course. Spoke out of turn again. It’s a tricky thing, that. Never thought you’d marry, is all, you were so settled.”
“Yes, well. Some things are not within our control.”
Memories of Edmund arose, of him carousing drunkenly about the manor, his school pals shouting after him as their liquor sloshed over the rims of their crystal tumblers. How they’d accidentally started a small fire in the gatehouse one Christmas, the result of another nonsensical bet. And then, of course, the billiard ball. According to his friends, Edmund had boasted he could fit it in his mouth and close his lips about it. All for twenty quid, which he’d lost, along with his life. And the safe and comfortable future of his wife, daughter, and sister with it.
The memory sparked something new within her, thickening her throat. Anger?
Gadding about like some popinjay, Mr. Hartley had said in a voice harsher than she’d ever heard from him. Evelyn tried to swallow, but she could not shake the feeling. Her head was still a muddle later when, with the door to Mr. Hartley’s adjoining room firmly locked, she finally fell asleep.