Page 27 of Desperate Proposals
Evelyn felt she should keep moving, so she opened another door, this one to an old spiral stone staircase which welcomedher with a familiar draft of chilly air. She decided to head down, as they would soon sit for dinner.
“Do you plan to reside in London… often?”
The sound of his steps behind her reverberated off the walls of the stairwell.
“Do you not fancy it?”
“No, I do not.”
She had no desire to speak of her last foray into the city, though recalling it lent her a measure of strength. She’d done all that on her own. She straightened her spine, to the extent that further improvement of her posture was possible.
“Perhaps you ought to give it another chance, when you aren’t—”
Evelyn halted and turned to look up at him, several steps above her.
“Let me make myself plain: I am of Knockton. Wolfendens have been here for centuries. I certainly shall consider accompanying you to London, on occasion, if absolutely necessary”—she stressed these last words, lest he think her statement open to interpretation—“as I mean to fulfill my duties as a wife in every capacity. I understand one should…” She trailed off, then clasped her hands before her, thinking. “As a politician, one must participate in certain social obligations, I suppose.”
A wry smirk appeared on Mr. Hartley’s face. Evelyn wanted to scoff. But she waited.
“You’ve considered this?”
“Of course.” Evelyn turned about and began descending once more. “We are to be married.”
“I confess, I’m impressed.”
“Hm,” she said, then resumed her train of thought. “As your wife, I will venture to London only when needed; otherwise, I prefer to remain here. Do you object?”
“No, of course not.”
She arrived at the landing and waited, watching him descend in his own time. There was something about the way he moved that some might find endearing, she thought. He lacked an awareness of himself, a rigidity that for her had become rote.
“And how do you find Platt Lodge?” She finally gave voice to her central concern. The previous owners had not been in residence for much of her youth, and she wondered at its habitability after enduring Mr. Hartley’s hospitality in his London home. “Is it suitable?”
“Hmm. It is nowhere near Methering Manor in age,” Mr. Hartley said, looking upward at the staircase. “Was it ever besieged, this place?”
Evelyn blinked several times, trying to keep up with his digressions. “Er, yes. During the rebellion. Thankfully only minor damage was done. The main house endured. No Wolfenden has dared practice Catholicism since, though. Or dabble in politicking.”
Until now, she thought, glancing over to him, praying he wouldn’t try to make a jest on the subject.
He reached out to place a hand upon the wall, his eyes intent upon the ancient stone. “Fascinating.”
Evelyn stared at his hand, and a proud feeling seeped into her chest. For countless generations her people had persisted, living and dying within these walls.
And now she would be leaving. She decided to move the negotiations along.
“Wright informs me you have no carriage.”
“That will be rectified in short order, I assure you,” Mr. Hartley said absentmindedly, his hand still upon the wall. He seemed hesitant to remove it and direct his attention back to Evelyn, so lost in thought was he.
Evelyn decided this was a mark of good character, his admiration for the manor. One that might even outweigh his many faults. Perhaps they would get on, eventually. Platt Lodge was nowhere near as storied as her ancestral home, nor could she imagine ever holding anywhere near the fondness for it that she did for the manor, but she could learn to love it, in time. Perhaps.
For one day the manor would cease to be her home; even were she not to marry Mr. Hartley, she would be cast out when her father eventually passed. She’d known it since the fateful day Edmund had failed in his attempt to close his lips around that villainous billiard ball and lost not only those twenty pounds, but his life and Evelyn’s—and Selina and Leonora’s—future. But for as long as she did still live upon these lands, in this district, she would be at ease.
Mr. Hartley now studied her, his expression not stern, but focused.
Evelyn suddenly became aware that they had been standing in silence for far too long, and she considered moving for the door, but it would only accentuate the tension. Still, she felt heated, being scrutinized thusly.
But she dared not move. Finally, when it was apparent that he would not speak and free them from this discomfort, Evelyn did, her voice low.
