Page 104 of Desperate Proposals
“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 emphaticharrumph, 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!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Perhaps it was toolate, 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. Butto 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.”
