Evelyn was certain she couldn’t breathe. She had been able to do so only a moment ago, but her lungs seized, refusing to work properly. For goodness’s sake, she couldn’t even form a word of acknowledgment. Instead, she gave him a firm nod and smiled as he motioned her away from the archery field.
Chapter 8
Apicnic ought not to be exhausting. The essence of that entertainment was to pass an afternoon lazing about with delectable food and stimulating conversation. Even if a hostess provided some recreation, lawn games were hardly taxing. Yet when Marian climbed into her family’s carriage, she was spent. Rachel and Mama chattered on with as much gusto as before they’d arrived at the Wrigley’s home, but Marian settled into the squabs, grateful to be off her feet and away from the hordes. Rubbing at her temple, she wished her companions would be silent, but that was as fruitless a thought as it was uncharitable.
When the carriage stopped in front of Wrenwood Lodge, Marian hurried out of the carriage and into their house, bolting into her bedchamber for a moment of peace. She cast herself onto her bed, not heeding the damage it was doing to her skirts. The day was over, and there was no need to fuss over appearances anymore.
Saints above, Mr. Highmore was a bore. A kind gentleman, to be sure, but a bore nonetheless. Marian knew she ought to be pleased that his attention was fixed so entirely on her, and she was to a degree. Having a man of any sort courting her good opinion was flattering, especially as he was one of only a small number who had over the years, but Marian knew his interest leaned more towards convenience than some stirring of his heart; if she had doubted it before, that fact was made abundantly clear as the fellow avoided speaking to her about personal subjects, preferring to wax poetic about his children and his late wife.
Rolling onto her side, Marian stared at her bedchamber. Her eyes fell to her watercolor hanging on the wall opposite, traveling along the line of the bridge crossing the stream. She was rather proud of how she’d captured the movement of the water and the tufts of grass edging it, though she couldn’t quite ignore the little splotches of purple she’d mixed into the stonework that hadn’t quite blended with the blues and grays as she had intended. Better to study her mistakes than give thought to Mr. George Finch.
With a groan, Marian buried her face into her pillows. The picnic had done much to distract her from that subject, but now, it was impossible to ignore the niggling thought that pricked at her—Mr. Finch was returning home. Years of practice had aided her in ignoring such reminders of that man, but it was impossible to wipe him completely from her thoughts.
Far too often, she’d wondered what had become of him. Yes, she’d had vague reports of his marriage and move to Manchester to aid in his father’s company, but those morsels weren’t hardy enough to satisfy the curiosity. And now, he was widowed and returning home for good.
Shooting upright, Marian cast aside the pillow and growled at herself. There was no good to be had in thinking of that man. The past was over and done with, and though Marian wished to erase the shame that came whenever she thought of that wretched moment at the Huttons’ ball, she did not wish her words unsaid. Better to know where she stood than be flustered by false hope when he returned. And Mr. Finch had made his feelings very clear that night.
Marian rose to her feet and crossed to her dressing table. Her tresses were in a terrible state, and she reached up to shift her hairpins and secure the wayward locks. Throwing open the doors to the wardrobe, she shifted through the rainbow of gowns. If there was reason to be grateful for her unremarkable coloring, it was that she was not as limited in what hues suited her; her hair was a shade somewhere between blonde and brunette without giving a firm impression of either color, and that allowed her far more freedom than those with more distinct manes. That was a blessing of sorts.
It was near enough the time to dress for dinner that she might as well begin the work, and with a quick summons to a maid, Marian cast aside her afternoon dress and put on her evening gown. For all her efforts to right her hair, the maid fared far better at shaping Marian’s tresses into something more fetching than she’d managed on her own. Gazing at the product of Betsy’s work, Marian stifled the sigh that longed to escape; there was no good to be had comparing that outcome with what Rachel or any of the other young ladies achieved.
Snatching a book from her desk, Marian strode from her bedchamber and wandered towards the parlor, content to spend the remaining moments ensconced in the writing of Mr. James Fenimore Cooper. But when her father called out to her, Marian turned from her intended route and stepped into Papa’s study.
The room was far less imposing than one would expect a man’s study to be. Of course, Marian knew little of those spaces apart from her papa’s, but she had read of them in books and heard people speaking of them in such hallowed terms that one expected such a room to be akin to a great temple of manhood. Though everyone insisted on calling it a study, the truth was that Papa’s sanctuary was little more than a corner of the library where he’d placed he’d placed a writing desk, in which he kept his voluminous correspondence.
At present, he sat with his back to the desk, his arms folded as he nodded for her to take a seat in the armchair he’d positioned in front of him.
“You look terribly serious, Papa,” said Marian with a wry smile. But her jest received no smile in return.
“I have something very serious to discuss with you.” Papa’s brows pulled low as Marian sat, his hands shifting to intertwine his fingers across his belly. “There is no point in tip-toeing around the subject, so I will get straight to the matter—your mother and I are concerned about your future.”
Marian straightened. “I am not, so I cannot see why you should be.”
Papa waved that response away. “You have squandered your opportunities for courtship and marriage. For years, we’ve watched as you passed up viable choices for a husband, and after your mother’s report concerning your behavior at the picnic this afternoon, we have decided we must take more decisive action.”
When Marian tried to speak, Papa held up a staying hand, and she remained quiet. A chill swept across her skin and settled into her stomach, her heartbeat slowing as her thoughts rushed forward with various guesses as to what he would say. But none of them strayed close to his next words.
“You have two months to find yourself a husband or I will do so for you,” he said with a decisive nod, turning towards his desk as though that was all that needed saying.
“You mean to choose a husband for me?”
Papa arched his brows. “Only if you refuse to do so. You are eight and twenty and have had ample time to find a man on your own. Giving you another two months is generous, all things considered. Many a father wouldn’t have allowed you so much freedom—”
“So, I am to thank you for forcing the matter now simply because you haven’t bullied me into it earlier?” Marian asked, gaping.
“There’s no need to be dramatic,” he said with a sigh. Shifting in his seat, Papa leaned forward, his dark brows pulled tight together. “This is for your good, my dear. I’ve seen what spinsterhood is like for my sister, and it is not a path I want you to follow. A spinster’s life is an empty, bleak thing that is to be pitied, and I will not see you made an object of scorn.”
An ache formed in Marian’s stomach and spread through her with each of her father’s words.
Like so many others, Marian had dreamt of marriage. It was so much more than a family; it bound two hearts together not by some accident of birth but because they wished for that unbreakable connection. To share one’s life with another. To find love and acceptance. To choose and be chosen. Surely, there was no better feeling than having another say you are their desired partner during this journey through life.
Marriage had been the desired outcome, and when that dream had failed, Marian had battled against failure and disappointment. She could not claim to have erased those sentiments in their entirety, but neither did they plague her in the same manner as they once had. However, hearing her father speak of her life in such bald terms was another matter altogether. There were whispers, of course. The petty judgments of others who viewed the success of a life by narrow margins. But few spoke so plainly as her father did now. And hearing his opinion of Aunt Beatrice’s life was a hard pill to swallow.
Papa relaxed back into his seat and gave her a considering glance. “You have options, my dear. If you would open your eyes to them.”
“Options?” Marian said in a huff.
“Do not feign ignorance. It does not suit you.” Papa gave her a narrowed look. “You know full well that Mr. Highmore is looking for a lady to be a mother for his children. And Mr. Clements seems keen as well, and you have all the attributes befitting a vicar’s wife. You would fill the position quite nicely.”
