Page 85 of Desperate Proposals
Milburga, on the other hand, crashed through the vegetation with a series of joyful barks.
It took a considerable effort, stepping carefully through the natty, scraping twigs and branches, but she finally managed it. Once on the main road, she proceeded at a steady clip, only pausing here and there to assess the damage to her clothing: one long tear at the back of her skirts, along with several inches of assorted dirt and burrs along the hemline, including several dead, prickly teasels that stuck to her cloak, her gown, and all over Milburga.
“Tch,” Evelyn chided fondly at the smiling, panting puppy. “You’re a right awful mess!”
It was during her third attempt at removing all the dead plant matter from the collie’s thick mane that she heard the telltale sound of a wagon coming up behind her. Milburga barked out yet another warning, for which Evelyn scolded her as she stood.
The wagon driver held up a hand to her, which she returned, but she could not make him out until he closed most of the remaining distance between them. It was Mr. Davies, a freeholder whose farm abutted Methering Manor’s northern border. Suddenly Evelyn felt acutely aware of her disheveled state. She squared her shoulders and brushed one more dead leaf from the front of her cloak.
“Mrs. Hartley,” he said, coming to a stop before her as he lifted his hat.
The large dray horse at the front of the box wagon cast a discerning glance Milburga’s way, then whickered with disinterest.
“Mr. Davies,” Evelyn said with a nod.
After a brief exchange about the weather, she realized how fortunate she was to cross paths with the yeoman farmer. For his wagon was empty, and he was heading in the direction of Platt Lodge.
The wagon had barely started up again, with Evelyn and Milburga having just settled into the back, when Mr. Davies called over his shoulder to her.
“And how is your Mr. Hartley?”
“Very well, thank you,” she said, projecting her voice as far as she could without shouting.
“That’s nice to hear. The fellows at The Plough had an awful lot to say about him, back when he stood for election.”
“Oh?” Evelyn’s senses came to life, every nerve poised and ready to react. She frowned. It felt strange, maintaining this degree of vigilance.
“Y’know, the usual worries. Just some city toff, ain’t he? Buys the grand house that’s been sitting empty, and suddenly he’s of Knockton.” The man spoke flatly, betraying no opinion of his own.
Evelyn remained silent. Davies, she knew, was a Catholic, but she could not recall whether the family expressed any overt political opinions.
“But then he’s gone and married you! ‘Stop mithering about the gent,’ I told the others, ‘He’s done well; why, he might as well be a Wolfenden himself. And Wolfendens have been in Knockton for centuries.’”
Evelyn found herself rolling her lips to keep from smiling, even though Mr. Davies couldn’t see her from the wagon’s bench. She folded her hands upon one another, the top hand tightly gripping the lower. A thought had come to her.
“At The Plough, you say?” Her voice rose slightly as she once again spoke over her shoulder, unwilling to shout.
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Do they often speak of politics there?” She pivoted to watch the back of his head, holding fast to the edge of the wagon with one hand.
Evelyn was startled by the sudden realization that she hadn’t the foggiest idea of what went on in most social quarters. Not that she’d ever supposed she was omniscient; it was more that she’d never much cared about what transpired beyond the walls of Methering Manor. Not until she set out to leave them.
“Of course, especially more recently, what with the Ireland question and all that. Plenty of folk with big ideas, deep feelings,” Mr. Davies said, reaching up to scratch his hairline, just below his flat cap.
Oh… she had nothing to say on that issue. She’d picked up snatches of conversation at the ball in Birmingham, but as far as she was aware, her husband had never spoken of it. Not to her, anyway. She searched her memory, trying to recall what Mr. Reed had been harping about on the village green days ago.
“And what of board schools?” she ventured.
Mr. Davies chuckled. “Now, don’t be worrying yourself. Most of it is all bluster and whinging. Idle talk. Nothing worth your attention, ma’am.”
Evelyn turned about, watching the road pass by from her perch. Milburga poked at her hand with her muzzle. She acquiesced, and stroked the dog’s ears absentmindedly. Perhaps there was something to what Mr. Davies had said—if politics was a common subject at The Plough, it might be worth looking into. But for now, she’d better set her sights on something less lofty.
For just now, nothing would make Evelyn happier than to arrive home and find Selina reading innocently before the fire, or instructing Leonora in her letters.
She closed her eyes and prayed that would be the case.
Chapter Twenty-Two
