Chapter Twenty-Seven
Perhaps it was too late, but Evelyn had to try.
Lloyd bucked, attempting to unseat her as they approached the railway station, but Evelyn held fast and brought him round, pulling up on one side of the reins. He huffed and puffed, seemingly invigorated by the challenge. He had been this way the time she’d ridden him out to Methering Manor, and she had managed that well enough. Now, though, as she did her best to avoid pedestrians while winding through Blackburn’s cobblestone streets, she could very well do without the equine theatrics. A few passersby took notice of the strange sight: an irritable Barb trying to throw his mount, a once fine lady, clad in nothing but a loose morning dress and a cloak, her disheveled hair escaping from its pins.
Aware of being watched, Evelyn for a moment wished she’d heeded Dutton’s fretting, and paused long enough before leaving to don a riding habit and cap.
But despite the wide-eyed stares and whispering behind hands, she did not regret it. For so long she’d held her head high, worn the appropriate attire, put on the proper airs. But to what end? To plan the quadricentennial celebration for a monumental tree? To wither away in the halls of Methering Manor until she became yet another lonely ghost?
No. She was a Wolfenden, for whatever that was worth anymore. Her morals were firm, her loyalty to those she loved unwavering.
She would not leave her husband’s side. Even as he walked about with his dratted hands in his pockets.
Because she loved him with all her heart.
Finally she reached the station, pulling on the reins until Lloyd came to a stop. Her eyes darted about the milling crowd—some of them arriving, others departing, with the rest either receiving or seeing off the former. With the help of her spectacles, she spotted the familiar carriage, with its familiar dour-faced coachman.
“Murphy!”
Several people turned about to stare. Her face immediately colored. So that was what shouting felt like. Evelyn certainly did not enjoy it.
She saw Murphy look about, having clearly heard her, but unsure where from.
She took a deep breath, then dropped the reins from one hand so that she might cup it around her mouth like a horn. She held on tight with her other hand as she nudged Lloyd in Murphy’s direction, picking her way through the mishmash of carts, coaches, and wagons that cluttered the street.
“Murphy! Over here, if you please!”
When the coachman’s searching eyes fell upon her, he stepped back, as if truly bowled over. And then he rushed toward her, the many capes of his greatcoat fluttering about.
“Ma’am?!” he questioned as he exhaled, grabbing the reins and offering her a hand.
Evelyn gladly took it and dismounted with some difficulty. She was growing awfully tired of these frenzied gallops across the countryside upon such a devilish steed.
“A change of plans, Murphy. I intend to accompany Mr. Hartley to London.”
The coachman’s mouth fell open.
“Please see Lloyd back home,” she said airily, as if she had not just asked the impossible. Heaven knew how the coachman would manage with such a horse behind the carriage. She really ought to have Marcus see to improving their stables.
“But, the train, ma’am.” His eyes darted over to the large clock standing before the railway station. “It’s set to depart.”
“Then I’d best be getting on, shan’t I?”
She spun about, her eyes searching. It had been months since she’d departed from here—determined, yet pathetically ignorant—on that fateful trip to London. She recalled the window where Wright had procured her ticket, but she had no time for that. Her breath was coming sharply now as she rushed along the side of the building, doing her best to peer through the windows of the first-class lounge as she went. Her spectacles were fogging up and she frowned, realizing how wilted she must look by now.
But it was no matter. The train had not yet left the station, though it was puffing away, signaling its imminent departure with the steam streaming from its undercarriage. Her heart skipped a beat. Not now, when she was so close! Tears pricked at her eyes.
Calm yourself, she chided, taking a deep breath. The air was putrid and smoky, which set her to coughing.
“Miss Wolfenden? Is that you? Why, it is! It is you!” A high-pitched voice cried out across the busy platform.
Evelyn’s head swiveled around, catching sight of a young girl—well, a woman, really—hanging on the arm of a much larger boy—or young man, she supposed—dragging him along as she hurried toward Evelyn. The girl looked familiar, but Evelyn didn’t immediately place her.
“I did not recognize you with the spectacles, I confess!” the girl shouted, her voice pitching up even further in excitement. “I never would have thought I’d see you here again, on the railway platform!”
“Oh, that’s right.” Recognition dawned on Evelyn. “Er, how do you do?”
It was the crying girl, the one heading to Wigan to start a new position, the one born and raised in Knockton, who had called Selina such a lovely lady. On this occasion, though, she was positively glowing, beaming as she alternated her gaze between the young lad on her arm and Evelyn at a dizzying rate.
“Very well! Though I was a touch melancholy when we last met, if you’ll recall,” she chirped, her grip on the young man’s arm visibly tightening.
Evelyn suppressed the urge to laugh. How tragically appropriate that they meet here once more, only this time with Evelyn as the weepy, disheveled mess.
“And am I to assume your position worked out well?”
“More than well, thank you. And my lad—er, that is, Billy here—he decided to come along with me after all!”
The young man doffed his cap to Evelyn, his face turning the brightest pink behind his freckles.
Evelyn nodded graciously.
“Been married these past three months now,” the girl said proudly.
At that Evelyn gasped.
“Why,” she said excitedly, before swallowing and continuing in a more metered cadence, “that is when I married as well.”
“You don’t say!” the girl squealed, smacking her young husband’s arm—quite forcefully, in fact. The young lad grimaced.
“But…” The train’s chugging was intensifying, and Evelyn felt a surge of alarm. “I’d meant to find him—here, that is. He’s off to London and I… I…”
She placed her hands upon her chest without thinking as her eyes darted about. Where might he be? Was he already on the train?
“Have you quarreled, miss—er, ma’am?”
“No! Not this time, at least!” Evelyn cried.
“Train’s been boarded, ma’am,” the girl’s husband finally piped up. “He’s likely on it now.”
“My word,” Evelyn breathed. She rushed toward the train, her heart racing. After a few steps, though, she paused, then spun on her heel. “I’m so sorry, but pray, what is your name?” she called back.
“Agnes, ma’am! Agnes Bullard!”
“It was lovely seeing you again, Mrs. Bullard,” Evelyn said hastily, with another quick nod. “Now if you’ll forgive me…”
And then she spun about once more, this time breaking into a full run, her breath sharp and painful; the air was too dry, too sooty. Her cloak fanned out behind her, her heart thudded over the groaning and pounding of the locomotive’s mechanical components.
There were conductors at the passenger car doors, but she paid them no mind and kept racing along, calling out toward the windows.
“Marcus!”
Heavens, if she were Mrs. Bullard, she would be positively mortified on her account just now. But Evelyn had no time for embarrassment. She had to find him.
“Marcus!”
The train emitted a deafening whistle, and she instinctively covered her ears with her hands. And then, when she pulled them away, she heard him.
“Evelyn? Evelyn! What the dickens are you doing here?”
Standing at the stairs, holding onto a handle at the door, was her husband.
“Marcus!” she called out, racing toward the door just as the train began to move.
It was ludicrous. It was humiliating and desperate. But it was real, and Evelyn really was going to chase after this train. If she’d known how difficult it would be to exert herself so extensively, perhaps she’d have taken her father’s advice and limited herself to a spartan diet of beans and lettuce. But as it was, such was her desire that somehow she caught it, reaching the door and Marcus’s waiting arms.
He lifted her up from the platform by the waist, then set her down before him and held her tight against his chest; she took in his familiar scent as she gulped in air. Then they both shuffled a few steps away so that the door could slide closed, slightly muffling the clamor of the station outside.
Evelyn shut her eyes and snaked her arms around his familiar form. Her heart felt off-kilter, as if it sputtered like a steam engine coming to life before managing to settle back into its regular rhythm.
“You foolish thing,” he murmured, smoothing her hair with his hand. “Whatever has happened?” He pulled back slightly, tipping her face up to his before adding with concern, “Is everything well?”
“It is,” she gasped, then paused and heaved a few more times. “But no, it isn’t, for I… I mean to come with you.”
“Well, you’re coming along now, like it or lump it,” he said with a touch of wry humor.
“She still needs a ticket,” a voice behind them groused.
Evelyn turned, alarmed to find a perturbed-looking conductor standing before them, arms crossed and wearing an impressive mustache as well as a glare.
“Of course,” Marcus said coolly. He looked gently back to Evelyn. “Your ticket, my love?”
“I… I didn’t have time to purchase one,” she said.
“No ticket?!” the conductor blustered.
Marcus sighed. “Surely we’re able to purchase one from you—”
“Of course you can’t!” the conductor rumbled, stepping toward them. “You think we could operate our business in such a higgledy-piggledy, catch-as-catch-can fashion?” He flung his arm back, gesturing to the hallway where various heads were poking out of their compartments, curious to see what the running woman was about. “What if everyone aboard wished to purchase their fare from me? How would that work, you reckon?”
Marcus looked down at Evelyn, his expression full of all the kindness in the world. Then he looked back to the conductor and his face hardened, his brow narrowing.
“Now, it’s just a small matter. Why, what has this country come to if the wife of a member of Parliament cannot correct her innocent mistake in good faith?” Marcus said sharply, straightening up to his full height.
The conductor’s eyes widened. “Sir, er, that is, the rules are in place for—”
“Of course they are, and I am informing you of our intention to make whatever amends are necessary,” he growled. “Quickly, man. I’ve no wish to attract more of a crowd, for my wife’s sake.”
Sure enough, a rush of whispers made its way down the passage as those closest to the action relayed Marcus’s words. Evelyn could feel Marcus bristling in her hold as he committed fully to the role of an outraged person of influence. Her humble, poorly mannered, martyr of a husband, feigning the irate gentleman?
Her shoulders began to shake. Something in her middle tightened, and she bent forward, hand to her mouth.
“Evelyn?” Marcus turned her about, hands on her shoulders, his face twisted in concern.
“You foolish man,” she said, and then she could say no more.
For she was laughing, truly and in earnest, in tumbles and crescendos, each peal coming quick on the heels of the last. Now this, this she enjoyed. She’d never imagined that laughing would be such a deeply physical sensation, but here it was. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d laughed like that. Sometime in her childhood, most likely. Her eyes watered, and she reached within her cloak to produce a neat linen square, embroidered with her initials, E.H.
“I fail to find any humor in petty theft, sir,” the conductor muttered from behind his stern mustache.
Evelyn ignored him, her eyes fixed upon her wonderful, kind, handsome husband who loved her.
“It’s just that I changed my mind, is all,” Evelyn said to Marcus, her voice shaking with mirth. “At the last minute. And I mean to accompany you.”
Something lit in his eyes, something tentative but hopeful. He reached for her hand, pulled her closer.
“But you’ve not a thing—Christ, Evelyn, you’re in a morning dress!”
Marcus reached up to remove her spectacles, then produced a handkerchief of his own, wiping the lenses without looking. His sincere blue eyes remained upon her, and only her, as if they were not the center of attention of everyone in the carriage.
“It does not matter,” she said with a grin. “The London house is practically inhabitable anyway, it is so lacking in comfort, that I daresay I shall not notice.”
After a moment Marcus laughed too, then pulled her against him, placing her spectacles back upon her face with a slow, tender gesture.
“Evelyn Hartley,” he murmured, eyes upon her mouth. “I find myself completely lost to you. I don’t think you even fathom how much I love you.”
She tightened her grip on his coat sleeves, angling her head toward him.
“Of course I do,” she said, her heartbeat at a full gallop. “For I love you as well.”
She slid her hands up his arms, over his shoulders, and cupped his strong jaw.
“Quite fiercely,” she whispered, the heat flaming in her cheeks.
Marcus smiled.
She pulled his face down to hers. And she kissed him like a woman who’d only just discovered the depths and intensity of her own heart.
For she was.
Behind them, the conductor cleared his throat.
Evelyn paid him no mind.