Page 84 of Desperate Proposals
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.
