Page 81 of Desperate Proposals
Evelyn swallowed and continued, turning about as she spoke. Some men nodded in her direction when she made eye contact, and some even removed their hats in deference.
“You’d fain have Mr. Hartley as your voice, your advocate. He cares deeply for the common man, for the livelihoods of us all. All of Knockton’s people.”
Pausing, she smiled sweetly, even though it felt forced and, to be quite honest, rather tasteless. But she would do what she must.
“Why, he’s even promised to personally fund the quadricentennial celebration for our beloved goat willow.” She elegantly extended one arm toward the tree in question, feeling like a costermonger hawking potatoes at the market.
The tree stood not three rods away, its remaining yellow-green leaves clinging forlornly to their twiggy branches, its venerable trunk thick with deeply striated bark. The overall effect was underwhelming—not altogether that different from the othertrees dotting the green—but Mrs. Henham had suggested that a bit of ribbon might bestow upon it the majesty it truly deserved.
“A proud symbol of fortitude and resilience. Just as Knockton has stood and shall stand for generations to come,” Evelyn said, forgetting her shame with every word, feeling her imitation of emotion gradually being replaced with the real thing. “This tree represents all of us. For just as goat willows are symbols of strength, they also represent new life.” Her voice wavered as her hand came to rest upon her middle. Her courses had come the week prior, and she hadn’t realized how saddened she’d been about it until just now. “New life for every one of us, for Knockton,” she said.
Goodness, were her eyes watery? Evelyn took a shaky breath and gathered herself, clasping her hands before her. “And had Mr. Hartley not done so, Mr. Reed would have forfeited our quadricentennial celebration, claiming the funds are needed elsewhere,” she continued, keeping her voice level but as loud as she could make it without shouting.
Mr. Reed’s mouth fell open; his eyes darted about the crowd. He removed his hat and wiped at his brow with a handkerchief. He looked extremely unpleasant, not at all like Mr. Hartley. Evelyn recalled her husband’s cool gaze and metered tone when Baron Methering had called him out at dinner.
A few gasps arose from those in attendance. Then came the muttering, growing louder by the second.
“It’s true,” Evelyn said. “Every word I speak can be vouched for by the ladies of the Knockton Civic Preservation Society.”
“Now, gentlemen,” Mr. Reed tried to regain control of the proceedings, waving his hands about in a futile attempt to calm the rabble. “I think we can all agree that funding Christian schools is of a greater importance than a tree—”
“That’s our tree!” someone called from the crowd.
“He’s disrespecting our flora!” cried another. “Why, the missus and I had our first smacker under that tree!”
The rumblings grew in volume, the content of the shouts lost in the cacophony of the crowd.
“Ma’am?” Murphy was at her elbow again, more urgent this time.
“Right,” Evelyn breathed.
Her heart was racing; she felt so alive. She wanted to remember everything about this moment, from the sight of the red-faced Mr. Reed rushing about in agitation to the shouted objections of the crowd. A pair of bystanders had taken hold of the blue banners and were parading them about the goat willow, hoisting them higher with every turn as they sang some pub ditty she didn’t recognize.
Finally, she allowed Murphy to turn her about and lead her back to the carriage.
Her entire body hummed with excitement as he shut the door behind her. As they pulled away, Evelyn kept her gaze fixed upon the floundering Mr. Reed and the mass of spectators churning angrily around him until all had faded out of view.
She sat back in her seat. A warmth filled her chest. Slowly she raised her hands, placing them one atop the other over her heart. What was this? It felt an awful lot like… pride. Pride was something she understood. Pride was essential. She closed her eyes.
She would have to write to Mr. Hartley tonight, sparing no detail about what had just transpired. A little voice in her head came forward to worry about the forwardness of it all, but she dashed it away.
No one else would read her scribbles; surely she could be forthcoming with her husband. Thus reassured, she allowed herself the tiniest of smiles.
Chapter Twenty-One
When Fennel handed himthe small, neat letter with the elegant, looping handwriting, Marcus felt an excitement he’d not known since boyhood, when he would eagerly anticipate a seaside holiday or the end of the school term. He didn’t wait for Fennel to leave; he immediately broke the seal and read Evelyn’s message, abandoning the open newspaper before him.
He laughed, grinning like a fool as he flipped the page over, relishing the image of the cold and repressed Evelyn turning a crowd against Mr. Reed with nothing but her carefully metered speech and a slightly raised eyebrow. He stood up and walked across his study to stand in the fading light filtering through the window, where, with one hand over his mouth to suppress his glee, he reread the entire thing. Then a third time, wishing very much he’d been there to see it all. And when he got to her final sentence, he could scarcely tear his eyes away:
Each day I find myself aware of your absence, and wonder what to tell Mrs. Gill regarding your return.
If Marcus had read such a statement in anyone else’s correspondence, he would’ve found it stilted and odd. But here,the words sent his heart racing and warmth coursing throughout his body.
She missed him.
She’d said as much, in her own way. And damn if Marcus had not missed her as well, these past two lonely weeks.
Fennel had retreated even further into himself, silent and unyielding, and they’d lost another housemaid due to the elderly butler’s intractability. Marcus wished dearly for Evelyn—not just to warm his bed, but to help him sort out his household. They had not been married long, but Platt Lodge had already become much more livable and comfortable than before. The servants even smiled at him from time to time. It had truly become a home, not merely a house.
