Chapter Twenty-Two
Selina was nowhere to be found.
After searching both Selina’s and Leonora’s bedrooms, Evelyn rushed downstairs. With more force than she’d ever opened a door before, Evelyn clattered into the drawing room.
“My word! You gave me a start!” Her mother-in-law placed a hand upon her chest. She eyed Evelyn up and down, taking note of her dishevelment. “And what have you been about?”
“I took a tumble. Into the hedgerow. Clumsy me,” Evelyn lied.
Mrs. Hartley surveyed her again before looking back to Leonora, who was seated alongside her. The two of them had an album open upon their laps, with scraps of paper scattered across a table before them. Leonora was calm, seemingly unperturbed by Evelyn’s harried entrance.
“I beg your pardon,” Evelyn started, her eyes darting about the room for signs of Selina. “I was looking for Mrs. Wolfenden.”
“Mrs. Wolfenden,” Mrs. Hartley scoffed. She glanced sidelong at the little girl beside her, and her tone softened, if just slightly. “She’s abed, I’m afraid. Complained of a headache after lunch.”
Evelyn felt a rush of panic. Selina absolutely was not abed. Evelyn had just knocked thrice upon her door before going in and finding it deserted.
“She said she did not want to play collages,” Leonora protested in a tiny, yet sharp voice.
Evelyn’s eyes fell to the scissors in her niece’s hands.
Mrs. Hartley placed a hand over the scissors, then gently extracted them from Leonora’s ferocious little fingers, gracing her with a gentle smile to keep her calm. It was no mean feat; Evelyn’s hair had been on the receiving end of that grip before.
“Now, now, Granny Hartley is here. I said we’d make some assemblages, and we have, haven’t we, dear?”
“I…” Evelyn stuttered, trying to think of something she might say, were she unaware of Selina’s appalling deception. “I am glad. I hope she might join us for dinner, if she fares better.”
Neither Mrs. Hartley nor Leonora even glanced her way as she bade them goodbye.
Once the door had shut, Evelyn took a deep breath, her head on a swivel. She must find Selina. She had succeeded in defending her husband—temporarily, at least—by chastening the horrible Mr. Reed in front of an audience, but she could not manage to keep her brother’s widow in line to protect the family’s reputation? She pictured Mr. Reed posturing on the village green, rosette fastened to his lapel, and shuddered at the thought of what he might do with knowledge of Selina’s actions.
She frowned, considering what to do. Then she realized there was one place that could immediately confirm her suspicions—the stables.
Evelyn’s heart thudded in her chest as she rushed from the main house toward the outbuildings. There had to be an explanation for this. Selina had sworn that she would not ride out to Methering Manor again. Surely she would find her within; surely Selina would not ruin everything that Evelyn had done for them—securing a husband to keep them, to provide them with some semblance of a future.
Why, she would even be cheered to catch Selina mucking out a stall; it didn’t matter what, as long as she was here. For if she’d gone to Methering…
There were voices coming from within, and Evelyn strode confidently through the open door, her head held high even as she looked a fright. For if Selina did happen to be there, by Jove, she would give her a piece of her mind.
“Evelyn?”
She stopped mid-step, shocked to hear that voice. “Mr. Hartley?”
He was not as she recalled. Which was ridiculous, as he’d only been gone a little over a fortnight. But it was true, all the same. His hair was no longer sloppy; rather, it appeared rogueish, devil-may-care. He seemed taller, stronger… perhaps it was that he stood in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up to the elbows, his thick forearms accentuating how wide his hands were. How masculine.
Her panic over Selina’s disappearance sputtered, and spun out into another kind of rush, something heady and warm.
“You’re home,” she murmured.
Something in his expression changed; his gaze hardened. He came to her, taking her hands in his.
“I just arrived,” he said in that low, rumbling purr that danced along her back.
“You just arrived,” she repeated, her gaze falling to his mouth.
“When I received your letter, I—”
Whatever he was about to say was forestalled by the clearing of a throat behind him.
Evelyn stiffened and looked up to find Murphy standing before them. He was still in his hat and greatcoat, whip still in hand. She pulled back from Mr. Hartley and folded her hands primly before her.
“I beg your apologies, sir, ma’am, but I’ll go tend to the team and, er, see to the matter we were discussing. That is, if it’s alright with you… sir,” Murphy said in his lilting accent.
“Of course,” Mr. Hartley said, without looking away from Evelyn.
The coachman left, leaving them with only the sounds of gentle whickering and equine sighs.
Evelyn fluttered her lashes, willing herself back to form.
Mr. Hartley’s eyes trailed down her front and back up again, and he frowned, reaching for a burr that clung to the lining of her cloak.
“What’s all this? Did you take a fall? Are you—”
“I am well, thank you,” Evelyn said in a rush, catching his thick wrist before he could wipe at a streak of mud on her sleeve.
His gaze fell to it, and remained there for several achingly long moments, until his expression transitioned into something sterner, stronger. As if her delicate grasp were a crucible, alchemizing whatever this new feeling was between them, turning it into something akin to…
She dropped his hand.
Akin to what? Her heart stuttered, unwilling just then to consider the ending to that thought.
“Evelyn,” he began, reaching for her once more.
She turned away, her cloak swishing about her muddy hem.
“What were you discussing with Murphy? And why here? Are you not weary from the journey? You ought to have come to the house immediately,” she said, her voice somewhat strained. She hoped he would not notice.
For a moment she feared he’d not allow the pivot in conversation, but then she heard his long sigh, and her body relaxed the smallest amount.
“We were checking something. To see if Gerry was in his stall.”
Her stomach flipped, even as she held herself as still as a doe warned by the crack of a twig.
“He was not.”
She could hear him come up behind her. A selfish desire shot through her, that he’d place a hand upon her shoulder at the least, or, dare she even wish it, snake his arm about her waist and pull her into him.
Alas, he did neither.
She turned her head, just slightly, that she might locate him in her periphery. “Oh?”
“You know what this means, then,” he said. He had lowered his voice, ostensibly to remain circumspect, even though they were the only people within the stable.
Selina.
“Mrs. Wolfenden,” he said in a foreboding tone, “has ridden out to the manor.”
Evelyn felt a hot flush in her face, even as a shiver ran up her spine. She placed a hand upon her cheek. Was she ill?
She lowered her hand, balling it into a tight fist. She could feel his eyes upon her, waiting. But what could she say? She had begun to consider herself a clever, desirable woman, more than capable of being a competent wife. Certainly not some foolish na?f. But surely someone worth their salt would be able to manage such a meager household, consisting only of herself, two widows, and a small girl. Suddenly she felt herself laid bare; that she was in no way worthy of her forebears, the brave men and women who had been the stewards of Knockton across the centuries. And she was in no way an adequate partner for him, the Honorable Marcus Hartley, MP.
“Right,” he said firmly. “I’m heading over.”
“What?” she gasped, spinning about. “But you only just returned home!”
“That I did,” he said blandly.
Mr. Hartley crossed the stable and retrieved his neatly folded coat from where it had been laid over the wall of an unoccupied stall. He put it on without ceremony, then gave one last exaggerated shrug before smoothing down the lapels.
Evelyn was confused. Was he cross with her? Disappointed in her? And her father—what would her father say upon Mr. Hartley’s arrival at the manor?
Even if she’d a mind to voice any of these concerns, a whinny interrupted the tense silence. She turned to the door; Murphy, sans hat and greatcoat, held the reins of her husband’s mount, a fine chestnut named Dolly who stood patiently in her tack, nickering as the coachman affectionately rubbed her snout.
She looked back to Mr. Hartley. His jaw was set, his noble brow resolute. Oh no. She recognized that expression. He was off to set the world to rights.
“Surely you’re not going to confront her! Not in front of anyone!” she cried in alarm.
“Her?” He scoffed, striding over to place an affectionate hand on her shoulder. “Absolutely not. I’m going to confront him.”
Confront Wright? In front of Selina? In front of her father, and the entire household staff? Evelyn opened her mouth, desperate to stop such a humiliating public display. But no words came out, only an unladylike stammering containing nothing recognizable as English.
“Take heart,” he said. “I shall be home for dinner.”
With a warm smile that did little to quell her fear, he gave her shoulder a pat and walked away. He mounted his horse, then gave Evelyn one more nod.
“No,” she finally managed, in barely a whisper.
But it was no use. He was too far away.
And then he was off.
How long she stood there, eyes wide and mouth parted, she did not know. Her limbs felt of gauzy silk, her head heavy, her chest tight. When finally these sensations receded, Evelyn realized the horrendous pounding filling her ears was her own heartbeat.
“Ma’am?”
She looked to her right. Murphy was standing there, the concern on his face making his features appear even more pinched. She recalled him trailing behind her as she parted the assembled crowd at Mr. Reed’s gathering, growling at the spectators to give way to the lady.
Evelyn blinked. She sniffed, then lifted her chin.
“Ma’am, are you quite alright?”
“Yes, perfectly fine. Thank you, Murphy.” Then she turned to him. “Bring me a mount.”
“Well, that’s… I…” The coachman hesitated, considering his next words. “The thing is, ma’am, what with Mr. Hartley upon Dolly and… well, there’s not a—”
“Then bring me the cart-horse,” Evelyn said in her most regal tone, never mind that her hair was a ratty mess and her clothing not far behind.
“Gerry? But ma’am, he’s… that is to say, Mrs. Wolfenden took him out.”
Drat. Of course. How could she have forgotten that?
“What…” Evelyn started, panic rising again as she realized how much distance her husband would have put behind him by now. She took a steadying breath, collecting herself. “Are there any beasts left in this stable or not?”
Murphy’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “There’s the team, but they’ve only just returned. They’re being watered, ma’am.”
Evelyn wanted to shout. Instead she clenched her fists behind the folds of her cloak and thought.
“However… we do have one other mount.” Murphy said, seemingly against his better judgment. “But he’s not a gentle sort. Not a lady’s horse, if you take my meaning.” His words trailed off as he looked at Evelyn, scratching his chin as he considered her.
“Bring him.”
Murphy stared at her for a moment before nodding. He then whistled, loud and sharp. A stable boy appeared, seemingly from nowhere.
“Saddle up Lloyd. Bring him around for Mrs. Hartley.”
The boy gave Evelyn an uncertain glance.
“Be quick about it, lad!”
The boy nodded firmly, then ran off.
The coachman blew out a sigh. “Don’t go getting pitched into the dust, ma’am.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “As I already possess the appearance of one thrown from their mount, I doubt anyone shall be the wiser, should it come to pass.”
For a moment, Murphy was clearly doing his utmost not to grin. But all mirth quickly fled, and he shook his head.
“I don’t mean to be the one standing before Mr. Hartley, hat in hand, mind.”
Evelyn had no worries about that. Though she didn’t often ride these days, she’d been doing so since the day she was big enough for her own Fell pony.
The sound of hoofbeats prompted both of them to turn.
The stable boy had returned. He was leading—with some effort—a massive creature, a dappled gray Barb with a black mane. The horse reared back with a violent neigh. Murphy let out a low curse, and rushed forward to assist the boy in calming it.
The horse snorted several times, pawing at the ground with its hooves and shaking its head ferociously.
Evelyn did not blink. She had to intercept Mr. Hartley. She wanted to help him. She needed to help him, and her family. The thought of him making such a public scene was intolerable; word of such a display was bound to make its way outside the manor and haunt her for the rest of her days. But when Murphy handed her up onto the irritated equine and the stable boy ran off with the mounting block, eager to avoid Lloyd’s hooves, another thought took hold.
Of the night she and Mr. Hartley met, when he’d gotten his hackles up in defense of unwed mothers. Then the memory of him at her father’s table, at the far opposite end, bravely squaring off against him. And then of the wedding breakfast, when he’d praised her beauty and wit as he pointedly told Mr. Reed of his good fortune.
She was his wife, and her family was his as well. She would not allow him to face down all of Methering alone. Not this time.
It had not been the reunion he’d hoped for. At least, it wasn’t yet.
Marcus’s spirits had been high upon his arrival at the railway station. Murphy was there with the carriage, bearing the good news that Mrs. Wolfenden had not ridden out since he’d been in London, not even once. Evelyn had upheld her promise to keep her relations in line, and Marcus was glad for it.
And even gladder still once he’d had Murphy procure him a sad cake, chewy and stuffed with currants. Marcus had consumed the entire thing, even as he’d thought it perhaps too large.
Now, though, with Methering Manor appearing on the horizon, he was thankful for the prodigious size of the cake, for otherwise he’d be acutely miserable at the moment, famished as he journeyed to confront the baron’s corrupt butler and put an end to this unseemly affair once and for all.
At least he’d seen Evelyn, however briefly.
He asked Dolly to slow, as gently as he could. Marcus hadn’t meant to push her so hard, but time was of the essence. If he didn’t catch Mrs. Wolfenden at the manor, he would have nothing but mere conjecture to stand on. And Marcus absolutely did not wish to worry after Evelyn’s sister-in-law for one minute longer. He’d had enough of his own family’s antics over the years; he had no intention of his in-laws being regarded as the Sedleys had been.
And he wanted Evelyn to be happy, at ease. Christ, how he wanted her happy.
This fondness for her, this desire… he wasn’t a foolish man. He set his jaw, hands flexing upon the reins. He could see where this would lead.
Well, Marcus intended to meet it head-on, with all of his characteristic fervor. His passions had always consumed him, and he saw no use denying what had become plain as day the moment he’d read the close of her last letter. Each day I find myself aware of your absence. Far from being damned with faint praise, he was raised up beyond any heights he’d yet attained.
And if she did not love him, well. Then he would end his days in her service, torturing himself with her cool hauteur and detached companionship. Her flashes of sharp insight and wit. The way she lifted her chin in defiance at every setback, that she might look down upon everyone—even him.
A calm had settled upon him when he’d come to the realization. She was his wife, in every sense of the word, and he knew what that meant to him.
Which was why he now crossed the dry moat and, eschewing the ancient, imposing front gate, rode around to the back of the manor. Evelyn had done her best, of that Marcus had no doubt. But he had doubted this Wright fellow from the outset, when the butler had practically sneered at his first arrival here. How long ago that now seemed.
Unfamiliar as he was with the manor, he began to have an uneasy feeling. This was an old stronghold built for war, not comfort; there might not be another entrance.
But thankfully, practicality had won the day at some point in the manor’s history. Marcus came upon a small back entrance, flanked by a tidy lean-to on one side and a bowing wooden bench on the other. He assumed that someone would have been alerted to his presence and would appear at the door. But when he dismounted, the scene was still quiet, empty. He frowned and quickly dealt with the reins so Dolly wouldn’t step on them while grazing.
He knocked. After several seconds the door flung open, revealing a sour-faced middle-aged woman in housekeeper trappings.
“Yes?” She scowled, looking him up and down. It took her a moment, but her hard expression finally relaxed as she recognized him. “Ah, Mr. Hartley.” She frowned once more, this time in confusion. “But what are you about? Did Wright not—” She cut herself off and set her features, less discreetly than she was likely hoping.
Interesting, that.
“Actually, Wright is exactly who I intend to speak with,” Marcus said with a forced lightness. He gestured to the door. “If I may?”
The housekeeper, whose name he could not recall, pursed her lips but nodded, stepping aside so he might enter.
“At my last visit, his lordship had expounded at length upon the merits of stilt-walking.” Absolute rubbish, but Evelyn had mentioned the baron had fancied stilts for a time. It was as good an excuse as any.
“Stilts! Yes, I recall that period,” the housekeeper replied warily, her body visibly stiffening at the memory.
Marcus surreptitiously glanced about the kitchen. It was large, stone-built, and dark. Only a few maids were about, chopping vegetables or sweeping up. He marked several doors, all of which were closed. Two wide, arched hallways stood at opposite ends of the room.
“Well,” he said, turning a wide smile upon the housekeeper, “his lordship generously offered me his, er, stilts, should I choose to pursue the pastime. Wright, he said, would be able to assist me.”
“Oh—of course.” The housekeeper glanced away for a moment. When she met Marcus’s eyes again, she was the picture of professionalism. “Would you prefer to wait within?”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” Marcus said, waving her off. “I’ll pull up a chair down here.” He reached for a worn wooden stool that stood flush against the wall.
The housekeeper stared at him as if he were an unnatural creature, then nodded.
“Janie?” she said sharply. “Come with me, if you will.”
One of the maids straightened up and set her broom aside, and they both departed briskly through the archway on the right. Marcus looked to the identical archway on the left. The servants’ quarters must be within.
The remaining maid’s chopping slowed, finally coming to a stop. She looked up.
Marcus grinned at her.
Unmoved, the girl said nothing, and returned to her work. Not very promising, but perhaps he could speak with her if his search turned up nothing. After sitting in silence for a minute or so, he cleared his throat. The girl looked up again, this time with a slight annoyance.
When Marcus did not speak, she raised her eyebrows.
“Sir?” Her voice sounded younger than she looked, but perhaps even more irritated.
“I’m sorry, but I find myself a bit parched… if it wouldn’t be too much trouble…”
Uncertainty lit upon the girl’s brow, but she paused her chopping and wiped her hands on her apron before heading for a massive sideboard where an assortment of earthenware mugs hung from hooks.
“Er…” Marcus swallowed, hating himself for inconveniencing her, but determined to clear her from the room. “But I think I might prefer something a bit stronger, if possible.”
The girl stared at him for a moment, then nodded wordlessly. She left quickly, no doubt desperate to hand him off to someone else better equipped to deal with problematic gentlemen and, more importantly, someone possessing a key to the manor’s liquor.
Marcus waited several moments to make sure no one else appeared. Excellent. He hadn’t expected to empty the room so handily. He stood up and crossed the kitchen, opening the first door. Dry goods lined the shelves within. He shut the door and went to the next one. Linens. The third was locked; a butler’s pantry, no doubt. Marcus gave the handle a good shake, in case someone—or two someones—were ensconced within. The final door was also locked, and he gave it the same treatment. Nothing.
He paused to think, his eyes scanning the now empty kitchen until they fell once more upon the arched entryway. It was dark, betraying nothing about what lay beyond. The next step, naturally, would be to search the servants’ quarters, but he felt uneasy snooping about.
Marcus blew out a sigh, wishing he’d asked Evelyn to tour the lowermost parts of the manor all those weeks ago. Of course, there was no reason for it to have seemed important at the time.
Evelyn. She’d all but sacrificed herself for the sake of her niece and sister-in-law. He’d once inadvertently accused her of being heartless; how far from the truth that was. Marcus squared his shoulders and set forth through the dimly lit archway.
He had only ventured a few steps when the sound of a door opening rang out. Someone had entered the kitchen from outside. Quietly, he moved further into the darkness, shielding himself from view. He waited, his mind sketching out possible plans of action as he listened to footsteps moving slowly about.
Finally, a familiar voice called out.