Chapter Twenty-One
When Fennel handed him the small, neat letter with the elegant, looping handwriting, Marcus felt an excitement he’d not known since boyhood, when he would eagerly anticipate a seaside holiday or the end of the school term. He didn’t wait for Fennel to leave; he immediately broke the seal and read Evelyn’s message, abandoning the open newspaper before him.
He laughed, grinning like a fool as he flipped the page over, relishing the image of the cold and repressed Evelyn turning a crowd against Mr. Reed with nothing but her carefully metered speech and a slightly raised eyebrow. He stood up and walked across his study to stand in the fading light filtering through the window, where, with one hand over his mouth to suppress his glee, he reread the entire thing. Then a third time, wishing very much he’d been there to see it all. And when he got to her final sentence, he could scarcely tear his eyes away:
Each day I find myself aware of your absence, and wonder what to tell Mrs. Gill regarding your return.
If Marcus had read such a statement in anyone else’s correspondence, he would’ve found it stilted and odd. But here, the words sent his heart racing and warmth coursing throughout his body.
She missed him.
She’d said as much, in her own way. And damn if Marcus had not missed her as well, these past two lonely weeks.
Fennel had retreated even further into himself, silent and unyielding, and they’d lost another housemaid due to the elderly butler’s intractability. Marcus wished dearly for Evelyn—not just to warm his bed, but to help him sort out his household. They had not been married long, but Platt Lodge had already become much more livable and comfortable than before. The servants even smiled at him from time to time. It had truly become a home, not merely a house.
He allowed the hand holding her letter to drop to his side as he leaned forward onto the window frame. He was to sup with Collier that evening, at the doctor’s dratted third-rate club. Marcus wished he did not have to attend, but to what end? So he might while the night away with thoughts of Evelyn missing him?
Lifting the letter one last time, he stared at her signature: Most gratefully and sincerely yours. A queer feeling plucked at his heart. He swallowed and straightened up, tucking the letter into his breast pocket.
He nodded to Fennel as he made his way out. The old man smiled, an ear-to-ear grin that fully displayed his remaining teeth. It was somewhat unsettling, and Marcus couldn’t recall having ever seen the butler so cheered.
He thought on it as he started down the hall, and after a few paces he halted and turned about.
“Are you well, Fennel?”
Many had counseled him to pension the servant off, but Fennel was adamant that he’d serve the house until he lay in his grave. Marcus had always taken the man’s work ethic for granted, spry as he’d always been, but if his mind was going, well… the thought was enough to dampen Marcus’s high spirits.
“Of course I am, sir. Hale and hearty.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. Fennel was stooped and haggard in appearance, but that was nothing out of the ordinary; he had always been thus, ever since Marcus’s father—his initial employer—had died. Marcus sighed.
“It’s just… such a gregarious smile… isn’t it a bit much?”
“Oh. Well, I suppose, sir, it is only that there will soon be children running these halls once more.”
The benign statement hit Marcus square in the chest, and he took a step back. Of course. He’d not been a fool—he’d even spoken of the prospect with his wife. But suddenly the thought of Evelyn bearing him a child, of them being happy together, possibly in this very home, as happy as he’d been as a child…
“I suppose that’s true,” he managed to reply, his throat thick.
His mind was a muddle as he bade Fennel a good evening and walked out the door.
He arrived at Collier’s club at the agreed-upon time. Let it never be said that Marcus Hartley disrespected that most British of courtesies: punctuality.
The Transom Club was a middling sort of place, with a membership roll full of middle-class professionals. Marcus had his own club, the Reform, which counted many of his fellow liberal MPs as members. It was only natural to have a need for a sanctuary free from the constant clashes between his mother and Fennel. But he didn’t much care which club it happened to be, only that the reputation was solid and the company like-minded. A comfortable seat and amiable conversation were all one really needed.
Collier, however, was of a different mindset, constantly worrying whether or not his club was sufficiently fashionable. Marcus hadn’t the heart to inform him that it was very much not. Why, it wasn’t even in St. James’s.
Still, he smiled wide and gave Collier a generous greeting as he seated himself alongside his friend in the parlor set aside for socializing.
“Haven’t been here in a spell,” Marcus said, settling himself into the lumpy chair. “When was it? Last spring?”
“New Year’s,” Collier corrected him, with an atypical smugness.
“Oh. Right,” Marcus said, suddenly very glad they were not in the room with the hired piano.
Collier must have been thinking along the same lines, for he said, “Never understood why they brought in the piano. I supposed it was only because the Savage Club introduced theirs.” He shook his head. “We’re not musicians here, not even artists!”
“Yes,” Marcus said flatly, not wishing to speak further of the piano he’d seized control of in an uncharacteristic turn of good feelings and wine. He slouched further into his uncomfortable chair, hoping none of the members in the room recognized him from that unfortunate evening.
Collier blew out a sigh. “That’s the thing; they’re constantly chasing the newest innovation, trying to outdo the other clubs with the latest gimmick.” He chuckled nervously, then glanced about before leaning forward. “To be frank, their coin would be better spent on modernization efforts. Take this room.” He jerked his head to indicate their surroundings. “It could certainly do with new furnishings. Hang the piano.”
Hang the entire clublands, Marcus wished to say, but he bit his tongue as Collier went on about the mismanagement of the club and the laxity of their admittance as of late. He knew how desperate Collier was to join the hallowed grounds of The Athenaeum, thus far to no avail.
And without any clout, Marcus could offer little aid in that regard.
Ruefully, he thought of his mentor, lording over his celebratory ball at his Birmingham manse. Sir Philip Towle. But then, another thought. Of Evelyn. His wife. Standing before a motley crew of villagers, as resolute and assured as Nike, the winged goddess of victory. Without thinking, Marcus placed his hand atop her letter, safe within his breast pocket.
Against his heart.
Suddenly he remembered something, and he sat up, clearing his throat.
Collier halted mid-sentence.
“Sorry, I just recalled—I’ve another favor to ask,” Marcus said sheepishly.
“Oh,” said the doctor, with a slight initial consternation that immediately melted away as his natural affability brought forth an easy smile. “Of course, Hartley. Only say the word.”
“By the by, many thanks for the recommendation of the Birmingham doctor. Seemed an awfully sharp fellow.”
Collier nodded, reaching up to adjust his own spectacles.
“And I cannot begin to express my gratitude for handling the whole… charity business while I was in Lancashire.” Marcus glanced about, but the other occupants of the parlor paid them no mind. Even so, it was best to be circumspect.
“Not at all,” Collier began, dipping his head. But then he grimaced ever so slightly. “My housekeeper is up in arms over the whole thing. Never thought her the sanctimonious type, but… well. She’s not touched my study since I started the whole thing; it’s a right mess. Everything at sixes and sevens; I can barely locate books or journals.”
Marcus grimaced as well, but in anticipation.
Collier laughed, a low, pleasant chuckle that carried across the room, turning a few heads in their direction.
“At any rate, I’m glad to put that all to rest; it’s quite unseemly, having women at your door at all hours. I haven’t the foggiest of how you manage it! Is your mother aware, do you reckon?”
Suddenly it seemed as though every other conversation within the parlor had dropped out, making the doctor’s words sound louder than expected.
Collier’s face reddened; clearly he sensed it as well.
After a silence that felt much longer than it probably was, the gentle din of conversation picked up once more.
“Never mind all that,” Marcus said, his voice lower now. “You’re a doctor, man! Any individual might be at your door at any hour, whether lady or gentleman. And you did an excellent job in the management of the whole thing for nigh on a month.”
Collier appeared placated by the praise, nodding along slowly even as his ears were still slightly pink.
“Which is why I need you to take it on again,” Marcus said.
“What?!”
“Come now, it would only be for a few more months.”
“But what if I’ve matters outside of London—”
“You never leave London,” Marcus said, cocking an eyebrow. “Unless you’re coming to visit me.” In fact, that had been the catalyst for their friendship, once introduced; neither man had the time or inclination to leave their work in the city.
Until now.
Collier frowned. “I’d been…” the doctor began, then shook his head as if he did not wish to explain himself.
“Say no more,” Marcus held up a hand. “I presumed too much. This is not your cause, but mine.”
“It’s not… I am of the same mind as you. The problem of bastardy is not just one of morality, but of health. But there’s… well. I mean to spend some time in the countryside this winter.”
“Really?” Marcus regarded his friend with interest.
“My family wishes to see me,” Collier said, looking away, a clear evasion if there ever was one. The doctor, apparently, would not be forthcoming about whatever mysterious reason he wished to return to his place of origin in the Midlands.
Taking pity on his friend, Marcus turned the conversation on himself. “Alas, I must be in Lancashire as well,” he started, all too aware of the letter in his pocket.
“You?” Collier forgot his discomfort, staring at Marcus, taken aback. “But you truly never leave… you said your wife wished you gone?”
“Not my exact words, but it’s true that she does not mind my absence.” Marcus felt a stab of irritation. “Until now, that is,” he added, glancing around the parlor. It was garishly done in the style of ten years prior. Hell, why did Collier even bother with these people?
“Until now?” the doctor said with interest, his attention now focused on Marcus, scrutinizing him as closely as he could without a loupe held before his face.
Evelyn’s words echoed in Marcus’s head. Each day I find myself aware of your absence, and wonder what to tell Mrs. Gill regarding your return. Marcus swallowed. He’d never expected to experience this kind of feeling, this overpowering affection, this… yearning. Let alone for someone like her, a baron’s daughter. A rustic baron’s daughter.
“She’s written me,” he said through the thickening of his throat. “Said she’s… aware of my absence.” He waved a hand, feeling the heat of embarrassment upon the back of his neck. “Pah, it’s ridiculous; pay it no mind. She certainly meant nothing by it.”
When he received no response, he glanced to Dr. Collier, patiently observing him with interest. Marcus felt even more of an oddity, some sort of strange specimen in a glass case.
“It’s odd, but it’s her way,” he elaborated, uncomfortable in the silence but not willing to meet his friend’s eye.
“She misses you,” Collier stated bluntly.
“Perhaps,” Marcus choked out.
“And you, you miss her.”
Marcus drew in a breath, forgetting any shame that still lingered. “You know, it’s the strangest thing—I believe I do.” Then he added, almost to himself, “Quite fiercely, all of a sudden.”
He only prayed that Fennel could be trusted to handle his private charity, for Marcus could not bear it any longer. He must be in Knockton.
With his wife.
It was a decent enough day for November, Evelyn decided.
Up ahead, Milburga charged forward on the footpath, ejecting a flock of thrushes from the hedgerows and into the sky. The birds chirruped noisily as they scattered, letting their irritation be well-known. The collie met this chastisement with a series of sharp barks before wheeling about and racing back to Evelyn, nearly knocking her over with enthusiasm.
“Yes, yes. Very well done,” Evelyn said calmly, stroking the dog’s head.
Milburga preened, stretching upward into her owner’s caress, her tail swishing happily. Evelyn straightened up and smoothed the folds of her cloak, taking care to pluck a stray dog hair from one shoulder. Milburga galloped off again, relishing their outing to the fullest.
It was impossible not to smile, and Evelyn allowed herself to. She had ceased fighting the reflex, realizing there was no need to appear stoic in the presence of such a silly and carefree creature as a dog.
She continued on in high spirits, following far behind Milburga and her long, loping strides. She breathed deeply, enjoying the crisp air and the lack of rain. She had vowed to enjoy the seasonable weather while it lasted, for soon it would turn cold, and the countryside would lie dormant. And besides, she had found she took pleasure in mapping the terrain around Platt Lodge, memorizing the clutches of trees, the gentle hills, the fences and stiles.
Suddenly Milburga began barking again, the same quick warning sounds she’d used to alert Evelyn to the threatening presence of the thrushes.
Evelyn squinted, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the brightness of the sky, gray though it was. Her spectacles had yet to arrive, despite her husband’s assurance that he’d send them along from London, ahead of his own return.
A slight twinge of loneliness struck her at the thought of Mr. Hartley. With his absentminded lack of manners and too-long hair, his intense gaze and his physicality… the way his voice rumbled when overwhelmed with passion. Her cheeks heated.
Milburga returned down the path, still barking while also mixing in the occasional strangled yelp. It was almost like a canine imitation of human speech, as if she were close to refining her English enough to converse with Evelyn.
“Hush, hush,” Evelyn admonished, reaching down to pet the collie, who was circling her so quickly that her hand only slipped briefly across the puppy’s back.
She stood and searched the horizon once more, her concern growing at the intensity of Milburga’s warning.
Far in the distance, several furlongs off, Evelyn spotted a horse and rider paused atop a knoll. Her heart kicked up. Without thinking, she picked up the pace, walking as quickly as she could, though she still could not discern much beyond a silhouette.
Then she broke into a run, with Milburga galloping alongside her.
Evelyn’s heart pounded; her breath wouldn’t come fast enough. She’d asserted to Mr. Hartley that she had the matter of Selina and Wright well in hand, and she’d bristled at his interference. She could keep her family in line, after all. And she had—Selina hadn’t ridden out since they’d returned from Birmingham. Or so Evelyn had thought.
The horse and its rider turned, then took off in the direction of Methering Manor.
It was no use; giving chase was absurd. The rider was nothing more than a dark smudge in the distance, no matter how hard Evelyn ran or squinted. Defeated, she came to a halt, her breath coming in gasps, a sharp pain stabbing her side.
Panic seized her, and for a dizzying moment Evelyn felt completely at sea.
But she quickly gathered herself. She was no longer a foolish rube; she was Evelyn Hartley, a competent woman who’d set off for London on her own to procure a husband. And upon her word, she had done just that.
She had promised that husband that she would solve this matter. And so she would. As her breath slowed, she realized she felt uncomfortably clammy at the back of her neck, just underneath her bodice. She threw her cloak back, welcoming the cool November air upon her skin.
She must return to the house, as quickly as possible. She turned her head, catching sight of the main road in the distance to the west. It lay beyond a fallow field, then a thorny patch of dense shrubbery, and finally a grove of spindly trees with long, scratching branches. But the main road would return her to Platt Lodge far more directly than the winding footpath she and Milburga had chosen for their afternoon constitutional.
Evelyn expelled a sigh of resignation, then began picking her way through the field, doing her best to avoid the slickest patches of mud. Despite her efforts, her hem was visibly soiled after just a handful of steps, but she kept going, a sense of dread creeping through her limbs.
Milburga, on the other hand, crashed through the vegetation with a series of joyful barks.
It took a considerable effort, stepping carefully through the natty, scraping twigs and branches, but she finally managed it. Once on the main road, she proceeded at a steady clip, only pausing here and there to assess the damage to her clothing: one long tear at the back of her skirts, along with several inches of assorted dirt and burrs along the hemline, including several dead, prickly teasels that stuck to her cloak, her gown, and all over Milburga.
“Tch,” Evelyn chided fondly at the smiling, panting puppy. “You’re a right awful mess!”
It was during her third attempt at removing all the dead plant matter from the collie’s thick mane that she heard the telltale sound of a wagon coming up behind her. Milburga barked out yet another warning, for which Evelyn scolded her as she stood.
The wagon driver held up a hand to her, which she returned, but she could not make him out until he closed most of the remaining distance between them. It was Mr. Davies, a freeholder whose farm abutted Methering Manor’s northern border. Suddenly Evelyn felt acutely aware of her disheveled state. She squared her shoulders and brushed one more dead leaf from the front of her cloak.
“Mrs. Hartley,” he said, coming to a stop before her as he lifted his hat.
The large dray horse at the front of the box wagon cast a discerning glance Milburga’s way, then whickered with disinterest.
“Mr. Davies,” Evelyn said with a nod.
After a brief exchange about the weather, she realized how fortunate she was to cross paths with the yeoman farmer. For his wagon was empty, and he was heading in the direction of Platt Lodge.
The wagon had barely started up again, with Evelyn and Milburga having just settled into the back, when Mr. Davies called over his shoulder to her.
“And how is your Mr. Hartley?”
“Very well, thank you,” she said, projecting her voice as far as she could without shouting.
“That’s nice to hear. The fellows at The Plough had an awful lot to say about him, back when he stood for election.”
“Oh?” Evelyn’s senses came to life, every nerve poised and ready to react. She frowned. It felt strange, maintaining this degree of vigilance.
“Y’know, the usual worries. Just some city toff, ain’t he? Buys the grand house that’s been sitting empty, and suddenly he’s of Knockton.” The man spoke flatly, betraying no opinion of his own.
Evelyn remained silent. Davies, she knew, was a Catholic, but she could not recall whether the family expressed any overt political opinions.
“But then he’s gone and married you! ‘Stop mithering about the gent,’ I told the others, ‘He’s done well; why, he might as well be a Wolfenden himself. And Wolfendens have been in Knockton for centuries.’”
Evelyn found herself rolling her lips to keep from smiling, even though Mr. Davies couldn’t see her from the wagon’s bench. She folded her hands upon one another, the top hand tightly gripping the lower. A thought had come to her.
“At The Plough, you say?” Her voice rose slightly as she once again spoke over her shoulder, unwilling to shout.
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Do they often speak of politics there?” She pivoted to watch the back of his head, holding fast to the edge of the wagon with one hand.
Evelyn was startled by the sudden realization that she hadn’t the foggiest idea of what went on in most social quarters. Not that she’d ever supposed she was omniscient; it was more that she’d never much cared about what transpired beyond the walls of Methering Manor. Not until she set out to leave them.
“Of course, especially more recently, what with the Ireland question and all that. Plenty of folk with big ideas, deep feelings,” Mr. Davies said, reaching up to scratch his hairline, just below his flat cap.
Oh… she had nothing to say on that issue. She’d picked up snatches of conversation at the ball in Birmingham, but as far as she was aware, her husband had never spoken of it. Not to her, anyway. She searched her memory, trying to recall what Mr. Reed had been harping about on the village green days ago.
“And what of board schools?” she ventured.
Mr. Davies chuckled. “Now, don’t be worrying yourself. Most of it is all bluster and whinging. Idle talk. Nothing worth your attention, ma’am.”
Evelyn turned about, watching the road pass by from her perch. Milburga poked at her hand with her muzzle. She acquiesced, and stroked the dog’s ears absentmindedly. Perhaps there was something to what Mr. Davies had said—if politics was a common subject at The Plough, it might be worth looking into. But for now, she’d better set her sights on something less lofty.
For just now, nothing would make Evelyn happier than to arrive home and find Selina reading innocently before the fire, or instructing Leonora in her letters.
She closed her eyes and prayed that would be the case.