Chapter Eighteen
Evelyn went through the motions, offering her curtsy and polite congratulations to the hosts. Though she was not used to socializing with the likes of liberal politicians and their wives, she had attended multiple balls in recent months in her search for a suitable husband, and she felt comfortable enough with the setting. She walked through the grand salon into the ballroom with her head held high, accepting her husband’s offer of the first dance.
Mr. Hartley had gone cold in the carriage when she’d pressed him. If she had thought their companionable bedsport might have ushered in a more companionable partnership overall, it appeared she’d been sorely mistaken.
Still, she kept her expression serene and her back straight as the orchestra kicked up into a waltz. Aut constantia aut nihil, she reminded herself. But reciting her family’s motto did little to soothe the sting she felt each time her eyes fell upon Mr. Hartley’s noble brow.
Unfortunately, it was inadvisable to allow one’s eyes to wander while dancing. For every time Evelyn attempted to, she either nearly tripped over her own feet or was beset by a wave of dizziness.
So she settled her gaze upon Mr. Hartley’s face, that sting intensifying with every moment.
After what felt an eternity, he offered her a small smile, and she could bear it no longer.
“How long will you remain in London?”
“I cannot say. Weeks.”
His hand flexed upon the small of her back.
Evelyn wanted to respond, to maintain a pretense of high spirits, but her mouth went dry. How ridiculous this was, to know another person so… intimately, and yet find oneself so thoroughly incapable of speech!
Suddenly his voice dropped lower, that the other dancers might not hear.
“You might accompany me, if you’ve the inclination.”
Upon hearing that deep rumble, her body very nearly folded in half; she had to fight to avoid collapsing against his chest in total acquiescence. But she managed to stay upright, and she glanced downward, focusing on the yellow flower in his buttonhole. A chrysanthemum. The entire ballroom was decked in similarly colored bunting.
“Is that what you wish?”
Her words hung between them, both the ones said as well as those unspoken.
Ask me to accompany you once more, Evelyn silently willed him. Plead for me to come.
Why that entreaty entered her mind, she did not know. But she knew the desire was real. She had never before known want. Not until Edmund had passed, when suddenly all she could think of was safety for her niece and sister-in-law. And for herself. But something had germinated within her when Mr. Hartley had taken her to hand. A selfish wish for something—someone—just for her. Someone who was beside themselves with desire for her. But Evelyn dared not voice any of that to him.
For if he truly desired her company, her assistance… her… she wasn’t quite sure what she would do. But she was desperate for it all the same.
The strains of the music lifted into a coda. The piece ended, and with it the dance.
Mr. Hartley let her go, stepping back to offer a small bow.
“It isn’t what I wish that matters,” he finally responded.
His words filled the silence the orchestra had left behind, amplifying the sound in her ears and sending it reverberating in her head, her heart.
Evelyn nodded demurely.
“Shall we dance another, or…”
“No,” she said, already turning from the dance floor. “You’ve done your duty; I’ve no right to ask more of you.”
He reached out and caught her hand. She halted.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do,” he admonished, gently squeezing her. “You’ve more of a right to my time than anyone.”
His other hand came to rest upon her bare shoulder, electrifying her skin. Evelyn swallowed. She could not turn to face him, could not ask for this. With her mind reeling, her insurmountable pride took the reins.
“It’s quite alright.” She pivoted slightly, causing his hand to fall away. “I am certainly capable of amusing myself. Why, there’s a group of ladies within; certainly we shall find something to converse about. Perhaps they’ve some insight into tree parties.” She kept her tone light, even as the words tasted bitter.
Mr. Hartley frowned, following her gaze to one of the adjoining rooms whose doors had been flung open, waiting with long tables of refreshment and ample seating.
“Those old biddies?” he scoffed.
Evelyn responded with only a tilt of the head.
“Alright,” he sighed, releasing her hand with a gentle squeeze. “Go on, then. Discuss your goat willow. I’ll be at your side for supper.”
She walked off, resisting the urge to offer him a parting smile.
On her own now, she very quickly returned to herself. The gnawing uncertainty brought by the little voice that begged for Mr. Hartley’s affection and approval finally ceased. She made for the far corner of the room, where a clutch of elderly ladies were collapsed into armchairs and upon couches, either fanning themselves furiously or merely sighing.
She gave them a considerate nod before taking her seat in an empty chair.
After a brief interlude in which an alert footman brought her a glass of punch, she was finally offered an entrée into the ladies’ conversation.
“Goodness, they’re already playing reels?” a large woman with a pleasant face and three ropes of pearls around her neck said. “This early on?”
“And with such aged guests,” another woman chuckled, her voice reedy. She was seated close to Evelyn, and gestured to her with a folded fan. “Why, you ought to dance, you’re vivacious and hale! Unlike most of us in attendance.”
“Mrs. Ferguson!” The larger woman gasped in mock offense. “I shall have you know my physician informed me I possess the strength and constitution of a milkmaid!”
The thusly named Mrs. Ferguson laughed. “And the virtue as well, are we to assume? Codswallop!” She leaned toward Evelyn, pretending to whisper behind her fan, “Oh, the tales I could tell you of this one, miss. But then again, they’re not suitable for maidenly ears.”
At this, Evelyn glanced uneasily at the larger woman, but relaxed when she, too, laughed heartily along with her high-pitched friend.
“You are mistaken, ma’am,” Evelyn said with a gentle smile, “I’m no maiden. I am recently wed.”
“Ahh!” the ladies exclaimed in unison, glancing at one another conspiratorially.
“Forgive our poor manners. I am Mrs. Charlton, and this harpy is Mrs. Ferguson.” Mrs. Charlton rustled about her gown and produced a dainty lorgnette of mother-of-pearl, which she used to peer more closely at Evelyn. “Ah, a lovely young thing you are.” She lowered the lorgnette to look at Mrs. Ferguson. “Who do we think—Flinders? MP for Ravensrod?”
Evelyn blinked, not following.
“I should think not,” Mrs. Ferguson pulled a face. “He is ancient! And has horrid breath besides. Far too loathsome for such a refined young lady, so neatly turned out.” She tutted, then reached across the arm of her chair to pat Evelyn’s wrist.
“Oh! Perhaps Hipworth, then. I’ve heard rumblings that he was on the prowl for a freshly scrubbed girl.”
“Ah yes, after that sad business with his first wife.” Mrs. Ferguson looked at Evelyn and explained, “Died in childbirth, poor thing. Of course you’d be aware of that, though. Drat. Not Hipworth, then?”
Then Evelyn realized—they were trying to work out who her husband was.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ferguson,” she said, attempting to steer the focus away from herself, “what boroughs do your husbands stand for?”
“How remiss of me! Mrs. Charlton’s husband has represented Ledbury for ages,” Mrs. Ferguson grinned and nodded to her friend in the pearls before adding, “And mine’s borough is a bit of Cottonopolis, naturally, if you couldn’t mark the accent.” She winked.
Manchester, of course. Evelyn knew there had to be a reason why she had instantly warmed to the woman despite her overly friendly manner. Why, they were practically neighbors.
“And don’t think we’ve forgotten you, young lady,” Mrs. Charlton held a finger accusingly toward Evelyn. “Which of these sorry cakes belongs to you?”
“I’m Mrs. Hartley,” Evelyn said with a gentle nod. “My husband is Mr. Marcus Hartley.”
The two older women stared at her, their expressions blank. Oh dear. Her heart sunk; this certainly didn’t bode well for him.
“Of Knockton,” she added brightly. “In Lancashire.”
The two women looked once more at one another.
“Of course!” Mrs. Ferguson suddenly said.
“The lad!” Mrs. Charlton added with a chortle. “He usually brings his mother to these sorts of things—such a kind woman she is.”
“Lovely lady,” Mrs. Ferguson agreed.
They both turned to study Evelyn, with a move that was practically synchronized.
“The lad?” Evelyn asked. Mr. Hartley was two years older than her.
“Well, let’s have a look at you, then!” Mrs. Charlton lifted her lorgnette again and leaned forward.
“Never supposed him the marrying type,” Mrs. Ferguson mused, studying Evelyn with equal intensity.
“Really? With that brooding face and that voice?” Mrs. Charlton looked at her friend over her lenses. “I could listen to the man read each and every volume of Livy,” she added saucily.
Evelyn hadn’t even realized that she agreed until the elder woman spoke the words. She felt the back of her neck heat in embarrassment, and she gripped her glass of punch tighter.
“The history of Rome, indeed, would be a considerable improvement over his usual conversation,” joked Mrs. Ferguson, with a small smile for Evelyn.
“How do you mean?” Evelyn asked, with an edge of hauteur.
“Oh, aren’t you a sweet, na?ve thing?” Mrs. Ferguson tutted gently. “Do not get your hackles up, for I mean no offense. Only Mr. Hartley is not often in a mood to match that of these gatherings.”
“Too high-minded,” Mrs. Charlton sighed in agreement. “Not enough merriment.”
“There’s no bit of fun he won’t douse with his screeds,” Mrs. Ferguson said with a shake of her head, before she sighed as well. “Ah, but that’s youth, isn’t it? Always in a hurry to get somewhere, without even knowing the destination.”
Evelyn frowned.
“Never mind all that, darling,” Mrs. Charlton said, flapping her hand. “How are you getting on?”
“Yes, have you a thought as to how you’ll incorporate yourself into the lifestyle?” Mrs. Ferguson pressed.
“The lifestyle?” Evelyn’s voice sounded airy to her own ears.
“Do you envision yourself a grand hostess, in the vein of the great Viscountess Palmerston?”
“Or perhaps you’re more inclined to constituency work. Making visits, setting up schools, hmm?”
Evelyn looked between the two, her mind racing. “Perhaps the second—”
“Or,” Mrs. Charlton piped up again, “have you a cause of your own to advance?”
“Suffrage for women,” Mrs. Ferguson said, sotto voce.
Evelyn reared back. “I should think not,” she breathed.
The two elder ladies chuckled at that.
“Spend a good decade listening to that lot bicker and pitch fits like spoiled little gits, and I wonder if you’ll change your tune,” Mrs. Charlton said with a wink.
“Or perhaps you intend to advance our Mr. Hartley’s current pet issue,” Mrs. Ferguson offered eagerly.
They both paused expectantly, but Evelyn did not know of what they spoke. Her uneasiness grew as the silence stretched on.
“And that is?” she said, praying it did not sound as pathetic as she thought it must.
The women exchanged a look that Evelyn did not care for.
“Unwed mothers,” Mrs. Ferguson explained, her voice bordering on shrill.
“Were you not aware?” Mrs. Charlton offered gently.
Evelyn lifted her punch and took a long sip, hoping it would calm her nerves. But even as the rum warmed her body, all she could think of was her own voice, rising with indignity as she indicted Mr. Hartley the night she’d turned up on his doorstep. Anyone with a scrap of decency wouldn’t speak of such… things.
“I am well aware, thank you,” she finally said, her words cool as she stared at the remains of her punch. She could smell the spice.
Mrs. Ferguson raised a brow. “And you do not share this concern?”
Evelyn’s heart pounded in her chest. Echoes of her father, railing about criminals and wanton women, rang in her head. That was followed by the image of Mr. Hartley, charging her with being heartless. And then his hand upon hers, squeezing it gently.
Her heart continued to thud, and her body felt overheated. The sounds of the ball seemed to be rising to an overpowering volume, music and laughter blaring in her ears.
“I… I am not sure,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
It pained her, confessing such ambivalence. But soon her heartbeat slowed and the heat dissipated. When she looked up, the two elder ladies regarded her with such gentleness as to alleviate Evelyn’s worry.
Somehow, in admitting her ignorance, she felt more at ease than she could remember being these past months.
She gave a small smile of relief, and lifted the punch to her lips once more.
Marcus was in a sour mood.
It wasn’t just because he’d endured toast after toast to the newly minted baronet, Sir Philip Towle, though that certainly hadn’t helped.
It was that Evelyn would keep him at arm’s length. Still she maintained that chilly aloofness. Even when he was making an effort, damn it. She’d even rebuffed his offer of a second dance.
And Marcus Hartley didn’t dance as a rule.
Removing his hands from his pockets, he crossed his arms as he paced before a handsome fireplace. The gathering had moved to an upstairs apartment where Sir Philip was presiding over an informal caucus of some of the more progressive members of the government, but for once Marcus found himself without an opinion to offer, so mired in self-pity was he.
If only he’d a blasted title of his own, then perhaps she’d pay him court outside the bedroom. And then he’d even—
“Hartley! You’ve been unusually quiet. What say you?” MP Arthur McCrea, an even-tempered northerner, called out.
“Don’t be fooled, gentlemen. Hartley’s merely outlining the jeremiad he’ll be penning later tonight, no doubt,” jibed MP Hughes, a hardened veteran with harsh features.
“Which he’ll expect us to read in full and offer a nuanced account of by the following day,” MP Ferguson added before erupting into peals of drunken laughter.
Marcus would take offense, except that Ferguson was a well-known quockerwodger, whose wife pulled his strings. And cutting down puppets was of no interest to him at the moment.
He instead turned to Hughes, a sharp retort at the ready, when Towle raised his hand from his perch in a wingback chair. Marcus reluctantly held his tongue.
“Gentlemen,” Towle warned.
Then he fixed his gaze upon Marcus.
“Hartley, how goes your countryside sojourn? Taken my advice, I gather?”
“After a fashion. I’ve certainly taken a wife.”
“Ah, so I heard! A baron’s daughter, is that right?”
“Precisely,” Marcus replied. “Local lass.”
Towle nodded his approval. “Well done. And do you find marriage agreeable?”
Marcus smiled feebly before uncrossing his arms. In a way, it was like being called before the headmaster. But how to respond to such an inquiry?
Admit that marriage was frustrating and distracting, exactly as he’d always feared it would be? That he’d made a calculated gamble which had thus far yielded a wife who ran cold in the daylight but so hot at night as to part him from his senses? And that rather than boost his prospects among his constituents, he’d only managed to win the ire and opposition of the mealy-mouthed James Robert Reed?
“Daughter of a local lord?” McCrea guffawed. “I reckon he’s set up for a quiet walkover, then.”
“You would reckon incorrectly,” Marcus said with a sigh.
“I thought you stood unopposed?” McCrea’s smile faded. The entire room quieted; they were all too aware of their colleagues’ poor showings in recent by-elections.
Not wanting to spook his compatriots, Marcus responded with a noncommittal shrug.
Thankfully Towle spoke again before the mood could descend further.
“Ferguson,” he cut in, his tone all business now. “Tell me more of the new building at Victoria University. What has the reception been?”
Without his wife to hand, Ferguson managed to sputter out a vague account, and the room forgot Marcus for the moment. Arms crossed once more, he paced back to the other side of the fireplace, wondering how Evelyn was getting on.
After another hour of conversation and drinking, when his comrades were good and soused, Marcus found Towle beckoning him over.
“Have a drink, lad. It’s a celebration,” Sir Philip said in a gentle tone, lifting his own glass.
Marcus shook his head. “I am celebrating. I toasted with water.”
Towle sighed. “And where is this wife of yours? Will you not dance?”
“I would,” Marcus said ruefully, “but she will not.”
“My word, did you finally meet your match? Have you managed to find someone as self-serious as you?”
Irritation pricked at the back of Marcus’s neck. He thought of Evelyn bent over her dressing table, how handsome she’d looked with her lips forming an uncontrollable moan. He thought of her sly glances after making a spectacular joke, and then pretending she had been completely in earnest. He thought of her kneeling alongside Leonora, placing a tentative hand upon the inconsolable young girl.
“Of course not,” he finally admitted, taking it on the chin.
“Then I wonder at your long face. I cannot recall ever seeing you so…” Towle frowned, then reached up to scratch his scraggly side-whiskers.
“Preoccupied?” Marcus supplied.
“No.”
“Morose?”
“No.” Towle shook his head. “Pitiable.”
“Oh,” Marcus said, cowed. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“Cheer up, lad,” Towle said, pushing himself up from the chair with some effort. The new baronet had been partaking in his fair share of the festivities as well, judging by his unsteady gait.
“Ladies enjoy laughing every now and then,” his mentor mused.
Marcus frowned. “I’ve an excellent grasp of humor,” he protested, feeling even more pathetic once the words escaped him.
“In your estimation or hers?”
Marcus didn’t care to answer that.
Towle smiled patiently. “Then perhaps you ought to let up. Don’t force the matter. Allow things to progress naturally.” He came up alongside Marcus and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“But—”
“Ah, not another word. You’ll work yourself into an early grave trying to set the world to rights. For now, let’s just enjoy dinner.”
With a gentle prod, Towle urged him forward.
“At the table?” The thought of milling about the room, balancing his plate while his wife gave him dissatisfied looks, was most unappealing.
“At the foot, lad.” Towle chuckled. “Must start somewhere, now, mustn’t we?”