Epilogue
Knockton, Lancashire, March 1874
The weather was fair, though the turnout middling on account of the prior evening’s storm, as the ground was still terribly soggy and the village green enveloped in a rolling mist. The festive bunting drooped under the moisture in the air, and there were tents pitched about the muddy green, making it look far more like an army encampment than a celebration.
But Marcus refused to let it dampen his spirits.
“Don’t you reckon she ought to have held off on the celebration until the weather was more… cooperative?” Dr. Collier asked from underneath his umbrella.
“Cooperative? Last night it rained pikels with the tines pointed downward, man,” Marcus chuckled. Unlike Dr. Collier, he’d eschewed an umbrella. “This is a fine spring day, all that considered.”
Dr. Collier squinted. “Pikels?”
“Pitchforks,” Marcus replied breezily. “An old Lancashire phrasing.”
“Ah,” the doctor replied, clearly dubious.
“Mr. Davies!” Marcus called out to the old farmer walking past. “Excellent to see you again. Have you received your badge?”
Marcus pointed to the colorful scrap of metal he’d pinned upon his hatband. Knockton Monumental Goat Willow Quadricentennial, it read, altogether too many letters to fit on something only slightly larger than a halfpenny. Marcus had suggested an image of the tree with 1474–1874 below it, but Evelyn had bristled at the idea, deeming it too abstract. Marcus, of course, paid for the badges all the same.
“Uh, er, not yet. But I wanted to bring young Ronald over, that he might show your doctor friend his elbow, like I’d mentioned the other evening.” Mr. Davies gently nudged his grandson, a dark-haired lad with a wide, round face.
“Of course,” Dr. Collier agreed.
Soon after Dr. Collier had arrived in town, Marcus had taken him over to The Plough for an evening. The poor man had been peppered with every kind of question, with shirts lifted up to expose strange moles and trouser legs rolled up to display puzzling rashes. And here, it seemed, was one more.
“Go on, then, lad,” Mr. Davies said.
Marcus stepped away, having had his fill of the medical profession for a while. He spotted his wife speaking to Mrs. Henham outside the largest tent, and his stomach flipped. Would he ever cease to be amazed that this strong, beautiful creature had deigned to not only accept his love, but return it in her own odd, restrained way?
With a grin he lifted his hat and ran his hand over his hair. It was shorter than usual; Evelyn had insisted that Bray clip it so he looked presentable today.
As if she felt his gaze upon her, Evelyn looked up. She started, then offered the smallest of smiles back. She exchanged a few more words with Mrs. Henham, then crossed the muddy grass to him.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Hartley.” She accepted his peck upon her cheek, hands folded in front of her.
“Marcus,” he corrected.
“Yes, yes, in certain circumstances, but I’m overseeing an event at the moment,” she said, her voice grave with the responsibility of doing right by the goat willow. With a solemn expression, she surveyed the green, searching for latecomers.
Something seized in Marcus—he did not wish her to be disappointed by the wet weather, and the resulting small turnout.
“Take heart, my love, it’s still a—” he began, only to be cut off.
“It’s remarkable,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “I never anticipated such a success!”
“Right,” Marcus hastily added with a grin. “And it’s all due to your brilliant planning.”
“Well, that is uncharitable to the rest of the Preservation Society.”
He reached for her hand, but she waved him off.
“Not now, darling. Later. Mr. Reed is about to present his arborist. I only came over to fetch you and any other stragglers.”
“As you wish,” Marcus said, offering his arm instead.
She took it readily, and allowed him to lead her to the open tent where caned chairs had been lined up in neat rows before a low stage. It was nearly half full; they selected seats near the back.
Mr. Reed sat smugly upon the stage alongside a preoccupied-looking fellow who was shuffling his notes about, wearing spectacles similar to Evelyn’s. This must be the arborist from London. A fat lot of good that pledge had done Mr. Reed, for Marcus had handily defeated him in the general several weeks ago. The prime minister had called for the election to be held early, but it did not stem the tide his party was up against; the liberals were routed across the country. Marcus, though, was the envy of many of his colleagues, having had little trouble dispatching his unpalatable opponent.
Mr. Reed stood up to speak, but the gentle din of conversation amongst those assembled did not wane. He made a show of clearing his throat, but still no one paid him any heed. Finally, he held up his arms in surrender, palms down. Slowly the tent quieted. Marcus smirked, glad to have bested such a wet dishrag of a man.
“Thank you all for coming to celebrate our beloved goat willow, whose magnificent trunk and limbs have offered shelter and shade to all in this fair settlement for nigh on four hundred years. And thank you very much to the Knockton Civic Preservation Society for their capable organization and contribution of refreshments—in particular, Mrs. Evelyn Wolfenden Hartley.”
A smattering of applause filled the tent, and Mr. Reed nodded in Evelyn’s direction, though he did not meet her eyes.
“Can you imagine,” Evelyn leaned toward Marcus, murmuring below the fading clapping, “if he had won the election? I shudder to think of him up there as MP Reed, proud as a peacock.”
There was more applause, as Mr. Reed returned to his chair and the arborist took center stage.
“All thanks to my clever and insightful wife,” Marcus said in a low tone, reaching once more for her hand.
She allowed him to hold it, her cheeks turning pink.
“Well, first, allow me to thank you all for inviting me here to your lovely village, that I might have the privilege of examining your beloved goat willow. It truly is a remarkable specimen, indeed. I must say, though, that the most interesting observation I’ve made in my study is that it’s actually not four hundred years old.”
The entire tent went deathly silent. Evelyn turned to look at Marcus, her face stricken with alarm.
“It is, in fact, somewhat shy of one hundred and fifty years. Still a notable age, to be sure, but far younger…”
A collective gasp rippled through the tent, followed by an eruption of several panicked conversations, each one rising in volume and ire until the arborist could no longer be heard.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll just…” Mr. Reed was up on his feet, his arms extended out again as if he might physically tamp down the unrest.
Oh, this was splendid. Absolutely splendid. Marcus covered his mouth with his hand.
“How could this be?” Evelyn held one hand to her breast, her mouth as close to gaping as he’d even seen. “Marcus? Are you… laughing?”
He rolled his lips together, biting them shut, and shook his head furiously.
“Of course not,” he choked out.
Evelyn gave him a look of censure before turning back to the stage, which was now a scene of chaos. Everyone in the tent was on their feet and crowding about, shouting their rebuttals at the poor arborist, who looked very much like he wished he had never accepted Mr. Reed’s invitation.
“I cannot believe it,” she said, her tone flat. “I feel a terrible fool.”
“No, no,” Marcus said, tightening his grip upon her hand, then reaching up to turn her face back to his. “You’ve made me the happiest man in Lancashire.”
Her eyes searched his, and she sighed, relaxing into his touch.
“As odd as it is, I believe you.”
He lifted her gloved hand to his lips and placed the briefest of kisses upon it. Then they leaned into each other as pandemonium swirled around them, as if they were the only two people in the world.