Page 8 of Desperate Proposals
If only she’d known, if only she’d realized—but never mind that. That was in the past now. She must press on. For Rowland Hindmarsh was but one man in the whole country. Surely there were many more well-to-do bachelors eager for a helpmeet.
And for the marriage bed. For some reason her cheeks colored at the thought. She’d never thought much about consummatinga marriage, for she’d never expected to wed. But as Rowland had reminded her, that was something to consider now. She shook her head again and took a centering breath, halting in place.
First things first.
“I will return home. Then I will begin my search anew,” she said to herself with a resolute nod.
A passing man in rough dress gave her a funny look, but she ignored him. Evelyn had new business to attend to. And the first order of that business was finding the railway station. Glancing about, the streets looked unfamiliar—though of course they were, as she knew nothing of the city. However, her surroundings looked much… harsher than the neighborhood Rowland resided in.
She wended her way around the heaving masses. Most were dressed in drab, workaday garments, heavily mended and hanging so loosely Evelyn felt they could all do with a good washing. A woman clutching a bundled babe walked in her direction, and Evelyn felt a spot of relief. A mother would surely aid her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, waving at the woman. The mother eyed Evelyn suspiciously, but stopped, shifting the weight of the child to her other arm. “But where are we?”
The woman squinted at her. “Are you bein’ funny?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” Evelyn said, taken aback. The woman’s frown deepened, so she hurriedly added, “I’m simply lost.”
“Well, it’s Lambeth, isn’t it?” the woman said breezily, then took off once more.
Evelyn watched her disappear. “Lambeth?” she said, stunned. She hadn’t been there at any point earlier that day, that was for certain. How far had she fled?
Someone shoved into her, grousing vaguely in her direction as they lumbered on.
Evelyn stared after them, gaping in shock. Thank goodness Rowland had rejected her, she decided; she certainly wouldnotenjoy living in London. Just then a burst of violent shouting gave her another start. She craned her neck. At the edge of the road, a group of quarreling men were blocking traffic and scattering the other pedestrians, who were more than happy to give them a wide berth.
Evelyn’s hand involuntarily rose to her throat. Suddenly she wished she’d taken Wright up on his offer to accompany her. He certainly would know how to find the railway station. Keeping her head high, she moved quickly around the belligerent men, who had by now escalated their shouting of coarse threats to shoving. Even as she steeled herself, she could feel her heart racing in her chest. Bothersome thing.
Perhaps if she might find the river, or even a church…
Her heartbeat still thudding mockingly in her ears, Evelyn rounded the corner. Before her stood a moldering old tower and, behind it, a large, castle-like hall with dark walls.
Of course. Lambeth Palace. Even she knew of this place! A surge of hope doused Evelyn’s anxiety. She silently gave thanks as she approached the massive building at a more sedate pace. For even better than a church—she’d stumbled across the archbishop’s London residence.
Although darkness had now fallen, there was a bustle about the great gate, with several scattered lanterns casting a low light. Men were disassembling temporary tables made of sawhorses and long boards, while women were collecting and bundling linens. A smaller group were taking down a tent not far from the others. It seemed a grander affair than a daily alms collection at the gate. Evelyn tried to recall the date, which she had lost track of, so obsessed had she been with her inevitable eviction from her family home. It was sometime near the end of June…
“Ah!” She finally realized as she approached the gate, feeling pleased with herself. “The Feast of Saints Peter and Paul.”
“What?” An older woman holding a basket full of crockery turned, then tilted her head, a suspicious look on her face. “If you’re here for the festival, we’ve nearly finished. His Excellency has gone and fed three hundred hungry souls.” Her eyes narrowed and she looked Evelyn up and down. “But you don’t look like you’re missing your supper. Or breakfast, for that matter.”
Evelyn opened her mouth, ready to administer a frigid retort. For she was positively famished, regardless of her robust figure. But everyone milling about and tidying up must be in the archbishop’s employ, and she wasn’t nearly as foolish as Edmund was. At least, she prayed she wasn’t. She pressed her lips shut.
“No, you’re quite right. I am not here for bread.” She could feel her empty stomach wail at the falsehood. “But I am in dire need of assistance.”
The woman’s stern face did not change; she was unconvinced. “Come back tomorrow, then.” She turned, heaving the basket up against her middle, crockery clinking.
“No,” Evelyn called out. The woman froze. “That is, please. Please! I beg you.”
The woman turned about, unable to resist her curiosity.
Evelyn hesitated for a moment, realizing what a strange image she must present. A well-fed, well-spoken young lady, alone and unchaperoned, wearing a black straw bonnet that was—as Evelyn had realized upon arriving in London earlier that day—very much not the style anymore, begging for aid in front of Lambeth Palace in the dark.
But then she remembered herself. She was a Wolfenden. She held her gaze steady, her posture perfect.
At last the woman sighed, cast a glance back to her compatriots, then ambled toward Evelyn.
“What is it, then?”
Where to begin? Must she explain every awful thing that had befallen her? She’d rather stand before this stranger in her underthings. This was nearly as appalling as the girl sobbing at the railway station that morning.
