Marian’s breath stuttered, her muscles tightening. “Are you listening to yourself, Papa? You wish me to welcome the courtship of a man who wants a marriage of convenience or to ‘fill a position.’ Surely I ought to desire more than that.”
Papa’s brows rose. “I apologize if that offends your sensibilities, Marian, but it does no good to paint over the truth. I do not understand why gentlemen are blind to your enticements—you have them in spades and would make any man a fine wife—but there is no reason to deny yourself a fulfilling life simply because your prospects aren’t plying you with flowers and sweet nothings.”
Marian’s lips trembled, though she refused to give the underlying emotion any power over her. She had little in this world, but she had her dignity, and she would not give life to her tears; they were hers and hers alone.
“My life at Wrenwood Lodge is a good one,” said Marian, forcing her voice to remain steady. “It may not be what I dreamt of as a child, but I am no great burden on you or Mama, and I do my part to assist the household. I see no need to alter it for something so cold as a marriage of opportunity.”
Papa watched her for a long moment before responding. “You may feel that way now, but you will feel differently when you are established in a house of your own. You have too much to offer a man to waste away in spinsterhood.”
Marian’s teeth clicked together, her jaw straining to keep her mouth closed when there was nothing good to be said in response to that. Her heart thumped a rapid beat, and she focused on slowing it down whilst formulating something better to say than refuting the condemnation he’d spoken; it would do little good. Far too many espoused his beliefs concerning the inferiority of spinsters for her to persuade him differently.
“Forgive me, Papa…” Marian cleared her throat and continued. “But regardless of any edict you may set down, there is nothing that can compel me to speak the marriage vows if I do not wish to.”
Papa straightened and leaned forward, watching her with narrowed eyes. “We’ve shared many battles of will over the years, Marian, and I do not wish for this to become another. You’re refusing to accept marriage simply because your life at home is comfortable and your suitor is not some love-struck swain sweeping you off your feet. As I cannot change the latter, I will alter the former.”
Marian’s breath caught, her eyes widening, but before she could question his meaning, he answered.
“If you wish to remain a spinster, then I shall send you to live with your Aunt Beatrice. She would like a companion but cannot afford it with her meager annuity, and you would fit the bill quite nicely. I will continue to give you some pin money to pay for your room and board, but you can be certain it will not be enough to cover those incidentals you enjoy purchasing. No more books. No more trips to the theater. No concerts. No paints and brushes. And as Beatrice is not musically inclined, she will not have a piano at your disposal…”
Papa continued to list all the things she’d do without, though it was unnecessary. The threat of being uprooted from Devon and thrust into the desolate outskirts of London was strong enough. To be far from proper nature yet unable to afford the enticements of the city was unthinkable. In a quick moment, Marian pictured her life at Aunt Beatrice’s side, waiting on her hand and foot as the two of them remained locked away in her tiny flat with nothing but Aunt Beatrice’s cold disposition to warm them.
“I see,” whispered Marian, her hands clenching in her skirts.
“Now, now,” said Papa, coming to his feet and resting a hand on her shoulder. “It isn’t as bad as all that. I shall give you two months to settle things, and by the time you and your mother organize the wedding it shall be close to Christmas, which will give you quite the festive ceremony. That will be a treat. And it is not as though you are without prospects. You have two gentlemen at the ready if you will capitalize on their interest. Not to mention that Mr. George Finch has returned. You two were friends once upon a time, weren’t you? Widowers are far less interested in the whole courting dance, and you might come to an understanding with him.”
Marian felt a twinge in her jaw, and she released the tension there. “I assure you Mr. Finch would not think of me as a marriage prospect regardless of his circumstances.”
“Ah, well,” said Father with a shrug. “Whatever comes, you have possibilities if you simply will grasp them. There is no reason you cannot be engaged of your own accord by the deadline.”
Letting out a huff, Marian turned her face away from her father.
“I am doing this for your good, Marian,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “I know you do not believe it now, but in time, you will see. Any marriage is better than none, so do not be so picky, my dear. My father was foolish enough to allow Beatrice to choose as she wished, and her life has been a misery. I will not allow you to follow that path.”
Patting her on the shoulder, Papa strode out of the study while muttering about dressing for dinner. There was a lightness to his tone and step that spoke of one certain he had won. And—the devil take him—he had.
A tear slipped down Marian’s cheek, and she scrubbed it away. Her hands lay limp in her lap as she stared through the window, though she could not focus on the greenery on the other side of the glass. Her pulse thumped in her neck, echoing the painful throbbing in her chest, and though she made a valiant attempt at sorting through this mess for some solution, she knew better.
Marian’s thoughts sifted through other possibilities, but she was not some independent creature, free to make her own decisions. A lady had few options through which to earn her bread, and those required connections or education. Or both. Marian had neither. Marriage or Aunt Beatrice; there was no mysterious third option.
A life with Aunt Beatrice was bound to be difficult and miserable. Life as the convenient wife to Mr. Highmore or Mr. Clements may turn out to be a wretched thing, but surely they held more possibilities for happiness. To a degree. And at least the choice would be hers.
Chapter 9
George Finch stood like a statue, his breath frozen in his lungs. With slow movements, he inched forward, drawing a low creak from the floorboards. Farleigh Manor had grown noisier in the years since he’d last traversed its halls, and he sent the house a silent reproof. It wouldn’t do to alert his quarries of his presence before the trap was sprung. Creeping towards the parlor door, George leaned closer, listening to the murmur of voices within.
Seizing the knob, he swung the door open and burst into the room with a hearty greeting, which was followed by a shriek from the ladies.
“You wicked boy!” said Mother with a scowl that was completely undone by the warmth with which she embraced him.
Evelyn did not bother with pretenses and threw her arms around his neck. “We didn’t expect you for hours!”
Stepping back, George gave them both a wide grin. “I couldn’t bear to sit in the carriage another moment and came ahead on horseback. My trunks shan’t arrive until tonight or tomorrow.”
“Of course,” said Mother with far too much emphasis on those words for George to ignore them. It was the tone everyone had employed since Juliette’s passing whenever carriages emerged in a conversation, and though traveling was not wholly pleasant, very little of that sentiment was tied to Juliette’s phaeton overturning, tragic though that was.
But any argument he may have mounted died on his lips as George studied the pair before him. Mother had visited after Juliette’s passing, so it hadn’t been so very long since they’d last met, but it had been nearly four years since he’d laid eyes on his sister, and Evelyn had altered much in that time. In all her features, she looked much the same; her fiery hair blazed like a bright beacon, and freckles coated her skin, both of which drew the eye in a manner the young lady detested (though George thought they suited her). But there were small alterations to his sister’s bearing and appearance that bespoke someone who was no longer a girl but a woman of five and twenty years.
When had the time slipped by?
