“That remains to be seen, but we have high hopes,” said Mother as they alighted from the carriage.
“You needn’t discuss me as though I were not present,” said Evelyn with far too much prim disapproval for one who had not heard the majority of the conversation.
“I am happy for you, dear sister,” said George, offering up his arms for each of the ladies to take.
“I am, as well,” said Evelyn with a silly smile pasted on her face and a lovesick sigh on her lips.
But any other conversation was curtailed as they entered the first shop and were distracted by all the goods Bentmoor had to offer. George required nothing at present, though a fine set of driving gloves and a green silk waistcoat caught his attention, and though he could not claim to enjoy the excursion itself, warmth spread through him, filling him to bursting as he reveled in the time spent with Mother and Evelyn.
Since Juliette’s passing, his nights had been filled with silence, and though work occupied his days, far too many conversations focused on ledgers and goods. And so, he reveled in their attention and the discussions that ensued as they met others out and about. They moved from shop to shop, and though George’s strength ebbed, he was grateful for the excursion. This may not be the manner in which he wanted to spend his first day at home, but regardless, he was home.
Stopping before the bookseller’s shop, Evelyn and Mother engaged Mrs. Doddington and her daughter in conversation while George’s attention drifted away. Miss Doddington attempted a few coy looks in his direction, but he felt no inclination to flirt with a young lady who was hardly more than a child; besides, he’d had his fill of flirtatious ladies. And so, George nodded and smiled in a vague manner that would not raise her expectations, utilizing the skills he’d learned in many useless meetings in which men sat about discussing business affairs with voluminous and all too empty words, as though their importance increased with the amount of time they wasted.
George’s gaze drifted across the street and up and down the storefronts, amazed at how little had changed in the years since he’d left. He supposed it ought not to be surprising, as time rarely touched these provincial places, and when it did, such alterations were slow. But so many years of Manchester’s inconstancy had altered George’s expectations of the world.
Just as he began pondering such philosophical things as progress and the march of time, George’s gaze fell on a familiar head of hair. His stomach fluttered, and he stared at the lady, though with her back to him, there was little to confirm his suspicion. Yet it looked so very like the styleshepreferred. Far simpler than fashion dictated, it lacked the explosions of curls most ladies favored. No sparkling ornaments or gaudy false flowers. Only a series of braids woven together into a bun that its mistress thought plain, but George found elegant. And it entirely suited her.
No doubt a glance at her companions would confirm her identity, but George couldn’t look away from her. His world narrowed, fixing solely on her as his gaze bore into her, willing her to turn. Her head shifted, giving him her profile, and George stilled.
The conversation continued around him, but it was as though someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. Their words and the noise of the street grew muffled, washing away the world around him. It was at that exact moment that his mind stopped functioning, leaving him propped up in the street, staring at her. There had always been a possibility that their paths might cross once he returned, but George hadn’t thought it would be when the dust and dirt of travel still clung to him.
Marian Wakefield stood there like a phantasm called forth from his imagination. He ought to turn away. There was little good to be found in dredging up the past. He had sealed their fate that night at the Huttons’, and there was nothing to be done about it. But George’s feet moved before he realized what was happening. His instincts must be keen to survive, for they kept him from walking into the path of a carriage whilst his attention was fixed on her. And then he was at her back, standing there like a lump, his mouth opening with no words to fill it.
“Why, Mr. Finch, you’ve returned to us,” said one of her companions, though George couldn’t give the lady more than a nod. His thoughts were not functioning well enough to form even polite inanities.
George’s gaze fixed onherback and noticed the stiffening of her spine before she turned to face him. Marian watched him with a frigidity that he knew he well deserved.
Good heavens, she had not altered one jot since that wretched night. He supposed five years was not so very long ago, but it felt like a lifetime. There were little differences, but the change had more to do with her bearing than any alteration to her appearance. She stood there with the confidence and regality of one no longer in the first stage of her life, who now knew who she was and accepted it. Gone were the awkwardness and insecurities that had plagued her during their friendship. Marian Wakefield was a woman who had found her place in the world and was content with it.
Those years had wrought a change in himself as well, though George had no idea how to convey that to her. Not that it would do any good. His mouth opened, and he struggled with words. Having dreamt of seeing her again for so long, he was surprised by how scattered his thoughts were.
“Good afternoon.” George tried not to wince. Though it was an entirely proper greeting, it was hardly what he wanted to say. “It is good to see you again.”
Marian nodded and gave no other response. The two ladies at her side rambled on about some nonsense that George hardly noticed, but the lady with whom he wished to speak did not open her mouth.
“Pardon?” he asked when the others demanded his attention, and George finally turned his gaze to them.
“I understand you’ve returned to Farleigh Manor,” said Mrs. Wakefield. “It shall be good to have you in the neighborhood once more.”
George gave a vague nod and the other lady added, “Your mother was telling me all about it the other day.”
Scouring his memory, he tried to recall this lady’s name.
“She does seem pleased I have returned,” said George, just as his lagging thoughts snapped into place. Rachel Kenworth. But no, that wasn’t correct. She had married the Wakefields’ son. George’s gaze remained fixed on Marian as he said, “I am glad to see you have remained in the neighborhood.”
Marian said nothing in reply, nor did she deign to meet his gaze.
There was little point in torturing himself so. Fate may have tossed them together once again, but their opportunity had passed. His thoughts replayed their final conversation again, leaving George to wonder why his good sense had failed him that night. It did little good to bemoan his foolishness all those years ago, yet George couldn’t help himself. He’d spent years banishing Marian from his thoughts, and it hurt no one but himself to linger a moment longer by her side.
“Our family has been long established here. I do not see why you think we would leave,” said the elder Mrs. Wakefield, snapping George out of his stupor.
“I hadn’t meant—” But George was saved from explaining when another set of ladies called to both Mrs. Wakefields, drawing their attention away from him. Marian remained in place, though she gave him no more attention than before. She didn’t go so far as to give him the cut direct (though heaven knew he deserved it), but it was by no means a warm reception.
Was there any reason to reopen old wounds? An apology was on the tip of his tongue, but life had drawn them down different paths, and he couldn’t see how focusing on what was past and done would do either of them any good. Best to treat her like the old friend she was and nothing more.
“It is good to see you again, Miss Marian.”
The lady stiffened, and George gave her an apologetic smile.
