Page 108 of Desperate Proposals
“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 fewmore 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 heldearly, 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…”
