Chapter Twenty
October gave way to November, with Evelyn safely tucked away at Platt Lodge with Selina and Leonora. Her husband, having returned to London the week prior to tend to his perpetual efforts to square a circle, had been replaced by her new clumsy and incredibly talkative collie. Though she was at first wary of having the dog, Evelyn found she didn’t mind its companionship. Milburga followed her from room to room about the house, which had felt strange at first, but which now provided her with a small measure of comfort. At night the dog slept on a cushion that Dutton had procured and placed near the foot of Evelyn’s bed.
Despite Milburga’s company, though, Evelyn still felt a hollow ache, wishing she might have someone to talk to. On this particular morning she’d felt especially low, most acutely as she sat at her dressing table. She found she couldn’t bear to look at her own reflection, lest she be consumed by thoughts of marital congress.
She’d not realized it would be so until Mr. Hartley had joined their lives together, but it had been pleasant, having someone to touch, or even to simply share her day with. Still, she thought, it was just as well to be alone as she was now. Far more respectable, at least, to sleep with one’s dignity intact, even if it meant her bed remained empty and cold.
At least, so she told herself as she waited at the front door for Murphy to bring the carriage about, so he might deliver her to her planning meeting in the village for the goat willow festivities.
Evelyn tugged at a glove, irritated to be so preoccupied. Thankfully, the sound of the carriage wheels on the gravel interrupted her ruminations.
Life continued on for her much as it always had, except she now resided a short ride to the east of Methering Manor. Her new home had none of the history of her old one, but at least it was comfortable.
She dared not call on her father, lest Selina insist on tagging along and causing mischief. Exactly what nature of mischief Evelyn was still not sure, for when she’d questioned her sister-in-law about her overly warm relationship with Wright the day before, Selina had tittered and directed her own scrutiny back on Evelyn! Asking such impudent questions about her husband and his… why, Evelyn’s cheeks burned just at the thought of it. She’d been so astounded at what she was hearing, she’d stood up and excused herself from the room.
Then, once she’d composed herself an hour or so later, she’d explained to Selina that regardless of what had transpired between her and Baron Methering’s butler, it would have to end now. Which meant Selina, for all intents and purposes, was to be restricted to Platt Lodge and its grounds.
Evelyn’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Hartley, had remained behind when Mr. Hartley left for London. Evelyn felt a small measure of relief at that, for the lady had done an excellent job bringing Leonora up to snuff.
But she also suspected her husband had left his mother with strict instructions to maintain an eye on Selina as well.
Evelyn allowed herself a small sigh as she sat alone in the carriage. Through the windows was the familiar Lancashire landscape, with its quaint, tilled lowlands and wide-open sky. Watching it pass gently by was a balm on her agitated senses.
She wasn’t usually like this. She had always considered herself to be as imperturbable as anyone. But then there was all that nasty business that had come to pass on their return from Birmingham.
Evelyn sat back in her seat, not wishing to spare even a single thought for when her husband had expressed his desire to drag her and Selina to London, which she’d firmly resisted. It caused a peculiar melancholy in her that she did not care for.
Knockton’s familiar structures stood as they always had, slightly askew and well-worn at the edges. Ancient vines crept up the stone buildings flanking the main road, whose gray shingles and clay chimney pots barely stood out against the leaden sky. The trees had begun to show their branches.
Evelyn wondered how long it would be until they all finally relinquished their tenacious hold on the remaining autumn foliage that quivered in every breeze.
Just then, she caught sight of a crowd loosely congregated on the village green. She frowned. She was unaware of anything of importance happening in town today besides the Preservation Society meeting. A mass of people never bodes well, her father always said. Pressing her face closer to the glass, she squinted, but she could not make out much beyond blurry, featureless forms. Drat.
Mr. Hartley had told her he’d send her spectacles once they arrived in London, but all she had received from him since he’d left was one brief letter.
The prose had been flat and to the point. As Evelyn herself wrote. Clear, concise, and perfectly adequate.
She’d never realized how unsatisfying it was to be on the receiving end of a such a missive.
She turned back toward the inside of the carriage and knocked on the sliding door alongside her head. After a moment it slid open.
“Ma’am?” Murphy asked, stooping down from the bench so they might hear each other better.
“Can we drive a little farther, toward the green? It appears there’s an assembly there.”
“Alright,” he said, making the word sound far less cheerful than it ought to.
Before Evelyn could say anything further, he swiftly slid the door closed.
When they pulled up at the green, Evelyn could initially only see that the assembled were men of varying ages and classes, and that they seemed intent upon a particular gentleman at the center, flanked by a pair of poles upon which hung blue banners. He must have been standing atop a crate, but even so Evelyn could only see the crown of his hat, for there were at least twenty or so people milling about him.
Murphy came around to open the door, and she took his hand to exit, perplexed. The gentleman near the center was speaking, and she caught the end of his statement:
“… formation of school boards? Surely we can manage the schooling of our children well enough without the government’s say. Surely our children would benefit from the reading of Scripture.”
“Hear, hear!” rumbled several of the assembled men amid a smattering of applause.
Suddenly her heart kicked up. Why?
Scanning the crowd, Evelyn hoped she would notice someone she was acquainted with. She recognized several of the men, but none whose association was close enough that she dared approach.
“Surely, this Mr. Hartley is less an agent of ours than of Mr. Gladstone!”
The mention of her husband’s name brought forth several raucous boos.
Shocked, her hand flew to her chest, as if to physically defend herself. Then Murphy was at her side with a gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her back to the carriage.
“Pay him no mind, ma’am. Just a soft lad, he is,” the coachman said, his voice low so the others in the crowd might not overhear.
“Wait,” Evelyn urged, waving him off. “I must listen!”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I doubt Mr. Hartley wants you involved in such rubbish as electioneering.”
Evelyn clenched her jaw, recalling her conversation with Mrs. Charlton and Mrs. Ferguson, the two seasoned politician’s wives who’d regarded her as patiently as if she were a bumbling child. Asking her about causes, weighing her responses. The ease with which they spoke that evening in Birmingham had intimidated Evelyn. How she wished to be more like them. To be bolder, smarter, wittier.
Although, her husband did fancy her a wit.
“Why, he’s no Knockton man, our Mr. Hartley,” the speaker continued scornfully.
The crowd chuckled and groused amongst themselves.
Evelyn felt a fury light within her. How dare they!
Reason abandoned her; she charged forward, her back held straight and proud as she pushed through the crowd. She registered Murphy chasing at her heel, hissing at those assembled to make way for the lady, but she would neither stop nor slow. If her skirts smacked into some dunderhead who stood in her way, so be it. If she had to use her elbows to make it through the throng, then she would do so.
“I beg your pardon,” she called out, her voice as loud and hard as she could make it. “I will not tolerate such slander of my husband in my presence!”
A hush fell upon the group. Men glanced over their shoulders, visibly starting when they saw her. The remaining observers parted in front of her without a word.
At the center of the crowd stood the dull, unremarkable Mr. James Robert Reed, a bright blue rosette pinned upon his lapel.
Evelyn halted.
“Mr. Reed?” she exclaimed, stunned.
“Mrs. Hartley…” he stuttered. He reached for his hat but stopped short, then brought his hands back in front of his belly and began worrying at the buttons of his waistcoat. “Ah… how lovely to see you out and about.”
Well. At least he had the decency to be ashamed.
A titter rippled through the crowd as the men whispered to one another.
“Pray, repeat once more the charges you’d make against my husband, Mr. Hartley, with him not here to defend himself.” Evelyn’s voice was cool.
Mr. Reed’s face quickly turned dark red, an unfortunate color for human flesh which Evelyn recognized from when Mr. Hartley had put Mr. Reed in his place for belittling her intelligence at their wedding breakfast. He stammered, hands wringing and eyes dancing about, as if he hoped someone else might appear and save him from a public dressing-down.
“Mrs. Hartley… politics are not the realm of kind and gentle ladies such as yourself,” he tried feebly. “You ought to return home, and take your leisure—”
“Mr. Reed,” she interrupted, practically spitting his name, “I was born a Wolfenden. Wolfendens have resided in Knockton for centuries. When something concerns Knockton, it concerns me.”
She heard a few muttered agreements from somewhere in the crowd, and felt emboldened by each one.
With an appraising eye, she turned about slowly, lifting her chin higher.
“My husband, Mr. Hartley, may not have been fortunate enough to call Lancashire home his entire life. But trust me when I say that he holds it as dear as he holds me,” she said, her voice strong.
Why, she was even convincing herself—her heart constricted at the thought of his blue eyes and their gentle gaze. Of the dark hair that always fell haphazardly over his face. And yes, of his hands gripping her waist, their reflections locked on each other as he had his way with her. Feeling heat begin to build within her, she decided she’d better change her tack.
Evelyn swallowed and continued, turning about as she spoke. Some men nodded in her direction when she made eye contact, and some even removed their hats in deference.
“You’d fain have Mr. Hartley as your voice, your advocate. He cares deeply for the common man, for the livelihoods of us all. All of Knockton’s people.”
Pausing, she smiled sweetly, even though it felt forced and, to be quite honest, rather tasteless. But she would do what she must.
“Why, he’s even promised to personally fund the quadricentennial celebration for our beloved goat willow.” She elegantly extended one arm toward the tree in question, feeling like a costermonger hawking potatoes at the market.
The tree stood not three rods away, its remaining yellow-green leaves clinging forlornly to their twiggy branches, its venerable trunk thick with deeply striated bark. The overall effect was underwhelming—not altogether that different from the other trees dotting the green—but Mrs. Henham had suggested that a bit of ribbon might bestow upon it the majesty it truly deserved.
“A proud symbol of fortitude and resilience. Just as Knockton has stood and shall stand for generations to come,” Evelyn said, forgetting her shame with every word, feeling her imitation of emotion gradually being replaced with the real thing. “This tree represents all of us. For just as goat willows are symbols of strength, they also represent new life.” Her voice wavered as her hand came to rest upon her middle. Her courses had come the week prior, and she hadn’t realized how saddened she’d been about it until just now. “New life for every one of us, for Knockton,” she said.
Goodness, were her eyes watery? Evelyn took a shaky breath and gathered herself, clasping her hands before her. “And had Mr. Hartley not done so, Mr. Reed would have forfeited our quadricentennial celebration, claiming the funds are needed elsewhere,” she continued, keeping her voice level but as loud as she could make it without shouting.
Mr. Reed’s mouth fell open; his eyes darted about the crowd. He removed his hat and wiped at his brow with a handkerchief. He looked extremely unpleasant, not at all like Mr. Hartley. Evelyn recalled her husband’s cool gaze and metered tone when Baron Methering had called him out at dinner.
A few gasps arose from those in attendance. Then came the muttering, growing louder by the second.
“It’s true,” Evelyn said. “Every word I speak can be vouched for by the ladies of the Knockton Civic Preservation Society.”
“Now, gentlemen,” Mr. Reed tried to regain control of the proceedings, waving his hands about in a futile attempt to calm the rabble. “I think we can all agree that funding Christian schools is of a greater importance than a tree—”
“That’s our tree!” someone called from the crowd.
“He’s disrespecting our flora!” cried another. “Why, the missus and I had our first smacker under that tree!”
The rumblings grew in volume, the content of the shouts lost in the cacophony of the crowd.
“Ma’am?” Murphy was at her elbow again, more urgent this time.
“Right,” Evelyn breathed.
Her heart was racing; she felt so alive. She wanted to remember everything about this moment, from the sight of the red-faced Mr. Reed rushing about in agitation to the shouted objections of the crowd. A pair of bystanders had taken hold of the blue banners and were parading them about the goat willow, hoisting them higher with every turn as they sang some pub ditty she didn’t recognize.
Finally, she allowed Murphy to turn her about and lead her back to the carriage.
Her entire body hummed with excitement as he shut the door behind her. As they pulled away, Evelyn kept her gaze fixed upon the floundering Mr. Reed and the mass of spectators churning angrily around him until all had faded out of view.
She sat back in her seat. A warmth filled her chest. Slowly she raised her hands, placing them one atop the other over her heart. What was this? It felt an awful lot like… pride. Pride was something she understood. Pride was essential. She closed her eyes.
She would have to write to Mr. Hartley tonight, sparing no detail about what had just transpired. A little voice in her head came forward to worry about the forwardness of it all, but she dashed it away.
No one else would read her scribbles; surely she could be forthcoming with her husband. Thus reassured, she allowed herself the tiniest of smiles.