Page 82 of Desperate Proposals
He allowed the hand holding her letter to drop to his side as he leaned forward onto the window frame. He was to sup with Collier that evening, at the doctor’s dratted third-rate club. Marcus wished he did not have to attend, but to what end? So he might while the night away with thoughts of Evelyn missing him?
Lifting the letter one last time, he stared at her signature:Most gratefully and sincerely yours. A queer feeling plucked at his heart. He swallowed and straightened up, tucking the letter into his breast pocket.
He nodded to Fennel as he made his way out. The old man smiled, an ear-to-ear grin that fully displayed his remaining teeth. It was somewhat unsettling, and Marcus couldn’t recall having ever seen the butler so cheered.
He thought on it as he started down the hall, and after a few paces he halted and turned about.
“Are you well, Fennel?”
Many had counseled him to pension the servant off, but Fennel was adamant that he’d serve the house until he lay in his grave. Marcus had always taken the man’s work ethic forgranted, spry as he’d always been, but if his mind was going, well… the thought was enough to dampen Marcus’s high spirits.
“Of course I am, sir. Hale and hearty.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. Fennel was stooped and haggard in appearance, but that was nothing out of the ordinary; he had always been thus, ever since Marcus’s father—his initial employer—had died. Marcus sighed.
“It’s just… such a gregarious smile… isn’t it a bit much?”
“Oh. Well, I suppose, sir, it is only that there will soon be children running these halls once more.”
The benign statement hit Marcus square in the chest, and he took a step back. Of course. He’d not been a fool—he’d even spoken of the prospect with his wife. But suddenly the thought of Evelyn bearing him a child, of them being happy together, possibly in this very home, as happy as he’d been as a child…
“I suppose that’s true,” he managed to reply, his throat thick.
His mind was a muddle as he bade Fennel a good evening and walked out the door.
He arrived at Collier’s club at the agreed-upon time. Let it never be said that Marcus Hartley disrespected that most British of courtesies: punctuality.
The Transom Club was a middling sort of place, with a membership roll full of middle-class professionals. Marcus had his own club, the Reform, which counted many of his fellow liberal MPs as members. It was only natural to have a need for a sanctuary free from the constant clashes between his mother and Fennel. But he didn’t much care which club it happened to be, only that the reputation was solid and the company like-minded. A comfortable seat and amiable conversation were all one really needed.
Collier, however, was of a different mindset, constantly worrying whether or not his club was sufficiently fashionable.Marcus hadn’t the heart to inform him that it was very much not. Why, it wasn’t even in St. James’s.
Still, he smiled wide and gave Collier a generous greeting as he seated himself alongside his friend in the parlor set aside for socializing.
“Haven’t been here in a spell,” Marcus said, settling himself into the lumpy chair. “When was it? Last spring?”
“New Year’s,” Collier corrected him, with an atypical smugness.
“Oh. Right,” Marcus said, suddenly very glad they were not in the room with the hired piano.
Collier must have been thinking along the same lines, for he said, “Never understood why they brought in the piano. I supposed it was only because the Savage Club introduced theirs.” He shook his head. “We’re not musicians here, not even artists!”
“Yes,” Marcus said flatly, not wishing to speak further of the piano he’d seized control of in an uncharacteristic turn of good feelings and wine. He slouched further into his uncomfortable chair, hoping none of the members in the room recognized him from that unfortunate evening.
Collier blew out a sigh. “That’s the thing; they’re constantly chasing the newest innovation, trying to outdo the other clubs with the latest gimmick.” He chuckled nervously, then glanced about before leaning forward. “To be frank, their coin would be better spent on modernization efforts. Take this room.” He jerked his head to indicate their surroundings. “It could certainly do with new furnishings. Hang the piano.”
Hang the entire clublands, Marcus wished to say, but he bit his tongue as Collier went on about the mismanagement of the club and the laxity of their admittance as of late. He knew how desperate Collier was to join the hallowed grounds of The Athenaeum, thus far to no avail.
And without any clout, Marcus could offer little aid in that regard.
Ruefully, he thought of his mentor, lording over his celebratory ball at his Birmingham manse.SirPhilip Towle. But then, another thought. Of Evelyn. His wife. Standing before a motley crew of villagers, as resolute and assured as Nike, the winged goddess of victory. Without thinking, Marcus placed his hand atop her letter, safe within his breast pocket.
Against his heart.
Suddenly he remembered something, and he sat up, clearing his throat.
Collier halted mid-sentence.
“Sorry, I just recalled—I’ve another favor to ask,” Marcus said sheepishly.
