Chapter Twenty-Six
There was a gnawing in her stomach; an empty, hollow ache. It made her restless, and she twisted about her bedlinens, curling up on her side and placing her hands over her middle. Perhaps she had eaten something disagreeable that evening?
But that was unlikely. Cook had prepared nearly the same thing as last Thursday. Evelyn had taken it upon herself to work closely with Mrs. Gill concerning the management of every aspect of the household, and she knew the produce to be clean and the meat correctly prepared.
No, she was fooling herself. There could only be one reason for this sudden onset of nausea: her husband’s horrifyingly middle-class declaration of his love for her. At least, that was what she’d thought when she scurried up to bed, her heart palpitating and cheeks flushed.
But now, as she lay in wait for him, she realized the truth with a startling clarity.
It was because she loved him. Desperately, as it turned out.
The revelation pierced her through the heart, then twisted, harrowing her insides with agony at the prospect of him leaving once more. He couldn’t—not now, when she’d only just discovered that her emotional gamut ran wider than serene at one end of the scale and perturbed at the other. Why, here she was now, as maudlin as a stage actress. She was at first mortified at the prospect of being seen as such, but that initial horror soon gave way to a warm glow, as she realized that Marcus saw nothing wrong with that. He simply saw her as Evelyn. Someone strong and steadfast. Someone witty. Someone lovely.
Her eyes became suddenly overwhelmed with that unfamiliar heat, and she squeezed them shut, turning her face into her pillow. There was no holding back the tears this time, and the warmth of them was jarring; she buried her face further, desperate to conceal the evidence of her soft head.
She felt a shock of a panic, and quickly flipped the pillow over, not wanting to feel the wet spots against her cheek.
There came a knock at her door, and she froze.
The door opened, and she heard the familiar sounds of her husband making his way inside. She listened to him depositing his banyan upon a chair and shucking off his velvet slippers—unadorned, for he possessed no crest, which had always seemed strange to her before. Tonight, though, she found it alluring.
Then the bed dipped, and her weight shifted slightly toward the center.
“Oh, you’re awake?” he said in a playful manner.
“Of course I am,” she huffed. “Do I ever fall asleep when I’m to expect you? You know what a poor actress I am besides.”
“That’s not true; you’ve been asleep by nine at least twice in the past week.”
“I’ve been overexerting myself, that’s all.”
Evelyn shut her eyes tighter, even as she felt his hand upon her shoulder. The hateful tears had ceased, but she did not want to risk looking at him with eyes that might still be glassy. His hand slid down her side, under the linens, and paused atop her rump.
“Quite the contrary; you play the frigid lady of the manor so exceptionally well, when we both know what a warm-blooded siren of a seductress you truly are.”
He punctuated his salacious charge by grabbing a handful of her flesh and squeezing.
“Marcus,” she gasped.
“Ah, there you are again, feigning indignance,” he purred in that deep voice as he lowered his mouth to her neck, much like he had in the drawing room earlier that evening. “But we both know that you’ll soon be begging for it.”
An involuntary moan escaped her, for it was true. Not minutes later she was begging for him, as he had said she would be. He was gentle, he was sweet, but he was also a man assured of his place in the world as well as in her bed. Evelyn fell into him with gusto, and eagerly received the pleasure he was so eager to lavish upon her. She’d gotten out of the habit of springing up from the bed when they were done, where she would hurriedly clean herself off and fix her hair; rather, as of late, she would remain tangled up with him, floating off into a warm, hazy sleep as he combed her plait out with his fingers.
On this day she’d been exceptionally tired—having yawned into the back of her hand on multiple occasions when no one was looking—and she had very nearly drifted off when he broached the subject of his leaving once more, as he ran the fingertips of one hand up and down her nude back.
“I meant what I said earlier. I know you think me flip and unserious…” He paused to chuckle softly and place a kiss upon her shoulder. “But I love you. I cannot imagine loving anyone but you, Evelyn. As… unromantic as the circumstances of our initial bond might have been, I am grateful for it. I thank God every day that you turned up on my doorstep that night.”
Her heart skipped again, but she kept her eyes shut, unsure of how to respond. For her entire life she had been bound by rules, which tightened every time her governess caught a sour look upon her face, or whenever her grandmother, the dowager baroness, deigned to speak with her. The rules had kept her safe and above reproach. They’d also kept her na?ve and lonely, marooned on a remote island representing the smallest sliver of what life could be, far away from anything risky or unknown. Until the time came when duty to her family forced her to step beyond the strictures of her world and into the chaos and tumble of the one everyone else occupied.
Of his world.
He’d kept her, as he promised to when they wed. And now he loved her. Cherished her.
Never in her life had she thought she would marry. And certainly, never had she dreamed she might fall in love.
It was an impossibility for her, with her plain face and reclusive family, and Evelyn had accepted it from when she’d first begun pinning her hair up and was being passed over at dances. It had never troubled her.
How could she reconcile that girl with who she was now? A beloved wife. A lady who rode across the moorland with twigs in her hair, looking a fright, only to stand back while her husband called out her father’s butler. A woman who cried into her pillow for want of her love.
She did not know the answer. She did not know what was expected of her, except to be a dutiful wife. So she listened to his honeyed words, his transparent adoration, and fell asleep.
Even as she wanted to respond in kind.
The next morning she rose alongside him, and breakfasted with him as if everything were normal, save the early hour.
But it wasn’t. For she had just discovered she loved him, and he was leaving for London that day.
It was still far too early for Mrs. Hartley to be up and about. Or Selina, who had resumed her daily schedule of moping about her room for most of the morning before finally turning up downstairs around luncheon. Leonora was no doubt awake, but the girl’s new nurse did an excellent job of keeping her confined to the nursery until the rest of the household was active.
Evelyn’s heart was in her throat as she stood at the front entrance, waiting to see him off. Murphy and the groom waited on the drive with the carriage and the team, while Gill waited at the other side of the door. She could hear the clatter of dishes as maids tidied up in the breakfast room. A sooty housemaid dropped her a hurried curtsy as she exited the drawing room, having just swept out the hearth and built a new fire.
It felt terribly public, saying goodbye like this with the staff at their work around them. Perhaps she ought to have done so the night before, or even earlier that morning, when he’d first stirred. But then he’d pulled her against his firm chest, holding her tight and safe, and she couldn’t bear to break the spell.
So now she waited, her fingers fidgeting around the handle of the small birch basket she held. Her entire body was tight and alert, and she wanted to disappear into herself. Was this fear? It did not suit, she thought with a frown.
At the sound of footsteps echoing from the hall, she straightened up and lifted her chin, doing her best to ignore the heat pricking the back of her neck.
Bray nodded to her as he passed by, carrying a large valise out the door held open by Gill. The butler did not close the door, as Marcus was following down the hall in his valet’s wake.
Everything was in its place, quite a contrast to when she’d stood on the other side of the front door of his London house that past summer. Evelyn flushed even hotter at the memory, remembering how poorly turned out she was—what must he have thought of her! She glanced nervously at the carriage waiting outside. The air was cold; she hoped he’d be warm enough on his journey.
“Chin up, it’s surely just some mundane business matter. I doubt I’ll be long.”
For once his voice, velvety as it was, did little to soothe her, for hearing it only reminded her of its impending absence. But she gathered herself, her body recalling the proper posture even as her mind reeled, and she held the basket out to him with a placid smile.
“Here—I had cook set aside a lunch for you.”
Marcus took the basket and returned the smile. “I don’t recall such a send-off last time.”
“Yes, well.” Evelyn reached up to adjust her spectacles, even as they were perfectly straight and settled firmly upon the bridge of her nose. “Now you shan’t have to rely upon the tea cart’s meager offerings.”
“No, blessedly I won’t.”
For a lingering moment they held one another’s gaze, the draft from the open door chilling Evelyn in her loose morning gown, the immense emotions paralyzing her where she stood. In the distance, she heard a bird cry out across the winter morning.
Finally Marcus stepped forward, reaching out to cup her cheek.
Evelyn’s eyes fluttered closed. A million words tumbled about her mind, none of them the proper ones.
“Goodbye, my darling,” he whispered. “It shan’t be as long as last time.”
He leaned in and placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth.
And then he was off. Down the stairs, into the carriage. Evelyn stared after him. Without thinking, her feet took her outside, to wait at the top of the stairs.
When she finally came to, the carriage was well down the drive, a tiny ant in the distance. It was positively frigid out, she realized, and she brought her arms up, crossing them over her chest as she looked out at the horizon.
“Ma’am?” Gill asked from the door. “You’ll catch your death out here, dressed like this.”
“Oh,” Evelyn murmured, and blinked. “Of course.”
She’d barely made it half a dozen steps inside when the sound of the door shutting behind her set something off within her. Something wild and unhinged. Her eyes burned.
She picked up her step, rushing down the hall and up the stairs. The sound of her heartbeat pounded in her head when the tears finally came. She wrenched open the nearest door and stumbled into the library, only just managing to close the door behind her before the first sob escaped her lips. Flinging herself upon a green sofa, she buried her face in her hands and allowed herself to cry as she hadn’t cried since was a small girl.
Marcus had left. Yes, it was at the bidding of his party leadership and against his own will, but all the same, he was gone and she was without him. Without having told him how dear he was to her. How she’d come to depend on him, to rely upon his comfort and support. She released another sob, her body shuddering from the force of it, succumbing to the towering waves of emotion and allowing herself to go under.
Soon, though, her dripping nose won out. She sniffled, and searched about her person for a handkerchief.
“Here,” a detached voice said from behind. “Take mine.”
Evelyn nearly leapt out of her skin as a bolt of terror burst through her. Behind her, standing before a bookcase, was her sister-in-law, wearing a somber face and holding out a handkerchief.
“Selina!” Evelyn cried out, wiping hastily at her cheeks. “I thought you were still—my word, you scared the dickens out of me!”
“Please, take it,” Selina urged, taking a few more cautious steps forward. “I haven’t used it, believe it or not.”
Glancing back hesitantly, Evelyn finally reached out and grabbed it, then turned away and did her best to mop herself up. Why, she must look downright ghastly. Still, the humiliation of being discovered in her current state paled against the despair she felt at Marcus leaving.
“What is it?”
“I’m quite well, thank you.” Evelyn lifted the handkerchief and did her best to be discreet as she blew her nose. It didn’t work; the sound was thunderous.
“Is it Mr. Hartley?” Selina asked.
“Marriage is quite simple,” Evelyn said shakily, “when one knows exactly what the arrangements are to be. It was explicitly agreed upon that I would remain here when Mr. Hartley is needed in London, within reason. So, I am perfectly fine with him having left.”
“Of course,” Selina said, her tone measured.
It was nonsense. Evelyn knew it, and she knew that Selina knew it. Providing clearly false reassurances regarding her mental state had been hammered into her as a girl, along with all the other rubbish that was supposed to mold her into an acceptable wife. But she hadn’t turned out acceptable to anyone. Not even Rowland, in the end. Only Marcus.
Marcus Hartley and his shaggy hair and lamentable manners.
“But—and beg your pardon, but I must say it—you look positively beside yourself,” said Selina.
Evelyn shook her head, but Selina had already resumed speaking.
“Why, I’d thought you completely incapable of any sort of human feeling. You seemed not to care a whit when Edmund passed—”
“I expressly stated my extreme—” Evelyn turned around, indignant, but Selina waved her off.
“Oh hush, you know as well as I that you Wolfendens are all blocks of ice.” She bit her lower lip and looked sorrowfully to the side. “All except Edmund, that is.” After a heavy moment, her gaze drifted back to Evelyn and she tilted her head, curious. “And yet here you are, brought to your knees, overcome at the thought of this barrister—”
“Solicitor,” Evelyn corrected.
“Leaving you to debate some silly legal matter in the House of Commons.”
“It’s actually behind-the-scenes party business—Parliament isn’t in session right now,” she began, but once more Selina seemed not to care about the particulars.
“Well, I must say I have not one ounce of sympathy for you. Your husband is alive and well and you moor yourself up here, alone in Lancashire, bored out of your mind. You know as well as I that the man is absolutely besotted with you. Heaven knows why, but there it is. There is no reason for you to sit here, moping about as if he’s gone off to war!” Selina placed her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing.
“Now that’s a bit—” Evelyn started once more, sniffling as she swiped at her nose.
“And after what he did to Wright!”
“Selina!” Evelyn gasped, shaken out of her low feelings. “You wouldn’t!”
“Of course not, not after your husband chased him from the country!” Selina threw her hands up in the air in frustration. She took a steadying breath and composed herself, crossing her arms instead. “Of course I would never. I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” she lied coolly. “But I do know that if I cared even a jot for my husband, I wouldn’t let him leave me alone in this backwater.”
Then, with an emphatic harrumph, Selina stormed out of the library, no doubt to go sulk in her well-appointed room.
But Evelyn did not dwell on Selina in that moment, for her heart was racing as a thought took hold. Her eyes fell to the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. It was embroidered with a curling S.T.W.: Selina Thomasina Wolfenden. Stew, she thought. Funny, that. She’d never considered Selina’s initials before. Her own initials came to mind, as she recalled the monogram she’d spent a week embroidering upon her new linens that winter: E.H. Evelyn Hartley.
She bolted up from the sofa, then tore out of the library and down the hall.
“Dutton!” she cried out. “Dutton! I need you to fetch my cloak!”