Page 9 of Desperate Proposals
Her mind briefly wandering, Evelyn wished she had asked the girl’s name. She hoped she’d arrived safely at her destination in Wigan.
She pursed her lips, debating how to answer. Finally she said, curtly, “I… I must speak with the archbishop.”
“Ha!” The woman shook her head, laughing heartily. “Fat chance of that, begging your pardon, of course, miss. Ah,” she paused, shifting the basket so she might lift a corner of her apron to dab at her eyes, “but I’ll thank you for the laugh. It’s been a day, it has.” She shifted the basket once more, ceramics jangling, and turned to leave.
“Wait!”
The woman paused.
Evelyn’s cheeks colored, but she prayed the woman would not see in the darkness.
“I’ve… I’ve been ill-used.” She swallowed, hoping that would convey the meaning of what had transpired between her and Rowland. Then, thinking it might be better to speak in specifics, she added, “By a gentleman.”
Well. That wasn’t quite so terrible. She’d said more than she ought to, but now there could be no confusing the situation. She had placed her faith in Rowland, and he’d utterly failed her.
The woman turned, her expression softening. Her eyes dropped once more. Out of deference, perhaps?
“Oh dear,” she whispered, shaking her head gently, her gaze still focused on Evelyn’s middle. “Poor thing. You poor, poor thing.”
Chapter Three
The footman set acrystal dish before Mrs. Elizabeth Hartley, along with an extra plate, then beat a hasty retreat, rounding the table with his tray to deposit a matching dessert before Marcus, minus the plate.
“Syllabub?” Marcus frowned at the dainty dish before him, quite like a champagne coupe but taller, and filled with the familiar soft and bland peaks of white. “I thought cook was making floating islands?”
“Tch,” his mother scolded him from across the table, her dessert spoon already in hand. “It’s nearly the same thing, all cream and eggs.”
Marcus sat back with a sigh, rubbing one temple with two forefingers. It’d been a hot, miserable day. Miserable news from Towle. Then he’d endured miserable suet dumplings on a miserable stew to placate his mother, whose tastes were as common as her origins. His cook was awful at executing most anything, that was true, but he happened to excel at one thing: desserts. And Marcus always fancied dessert.
“If they’re nearly the same thing, then I wonder why you requested a change of course?”
Mrs. Hartley began to speak, then thought better of it, and popped a spoonful of the light, unexciting dessert into her mouth instead. Her small spaniel, Walter, chose this moment to sit up in his chair alongside her, tail swishing in a flurry. He yipped.
“Of course, darling,” his mother murmured, ladling two heaping spoonfuls of syllabub onto the small plate.
Walter, unable to contain his excitement, began circling in the dining chair, huffing and sneezing until Mrs. Hartley shifted the plate in front of him. The dog attacked it.
For a moment Marcus considered pressing the issue, begging his mother to explain the differences in dessert preparations, knowing full well she hadn’t the foggiest idea of what a whisk was, let alone how to properly use it. But his sweet tooth prevailed, so he instead picked up his spoon and shoveled a large heap of the simple dessert into his mouth. It reminded him of being a lad in short pants, but other than that it wasn’t half bad. Not that he would admit it. They consumed their syllabub without conversation, the only sound the incidental clinking of spoons against crystal.
Besides Walter lapping at his portion, of course. The dog licked with such gusto that the plate repeatedly rose from the table only to thud back down again.
When Mrs. Hartley finished, the footman collected her dish, then Marcus’s. He didn’t bother retrieving Walter’s plate, having been bitten once before.
Before they could stand from the table and retire to the other room to begin their evening rituals—newspaper reading and scowling for him, needlework and mindless prattle for her—she cleared her throat, looking a bit flustered.
“What is it, Mama? Are you ailing?” Marcus gave an affectionate half-chuckle, for his mother, like all mothers, was perpetually suffering from one thing or another.
When she didn’t immediately chide him, he furrowed his brow. She seemed apprehensive, or worse—her mouth was tight, her eyes wide. Marcus sat up. He couldn’t ever recall seeing her this serious.
Finally she spoke. “I’ve heard something concerning from Mrs. Venables, and I beg you, tell me it is false!”
Walter had both of his front paws on the table now, and was craning his neck to chase the plate, even though he’d already licked it clean. Without looking, Mrs. Hartley picked up the dog and settled it into her lap. It was not enough to break Walter’s focus, though, and he kept straining against the bonds of her embrace, grunting as he attempted to return to his empty plate. Marcus felt an unlikely kinship with the odd little creature. They were both desperate for something they could never have, struggling against the constraints of society to reach it.
“Marcus!” His mother’s sharp tone brought his attention away from her pet and back to her.
“How can I respond to any charges against me while I sit over here in ignorance? Enlighten me, if you would.”
“It is said you’ve… oh dear me, it’s truly wicked! Marcus—you would never. Would you?”
