“I suppose it is not entirely proper for me to call you that any longer,” he said, though he had not the slightest notion as to what else to call her. “It may take some time for me to acclimate to your new address.”
Marian’s shoulders stiffened. “‘Miss Wakefield’ is easy enough to manage.”
Though they were some distance from the blacksmith’s forge, George was certain it was right beside him, for his ears rang as though Mr. Thomas’s hammer were striking the anvil with a mighty crack again and again. George stood there, mute and blinking, and the world around him spun as his wits failed him once again.
Surely he had misheard her. It had been five years since their last meeting, and though George was well aware of his stupidity, he hadn’t expected other men to follow his foolish example. Someone else must have snatched her up.
“Miss Wakefield,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables as though he were a simpleton. He certainly felt like one at present.
Marian stepped away, turning to her mother. “I am going to be late, Mama.”
Mrs. Wakefield pulled away from her conversation with a nod. “Time has gotten away from me, dear. Fetch us the carriage, and we will be on our way in a trice.”
“But Miss Wakefield,” said George, but she ignored him, hurrying away from him with a determination that couldn’t be overlooked.
George needed a seat, but more than that, he needed to stop her. However, his faculties were in utter disarray after that revelation, and his legs and arms refused to cooperate whilst his thoughts struggled to grasp the truths dropped in his lap.
Marian Wakefield was not married. How was that possible?
Of course, George had imagined that possibility, but it had been nothing but a fancy—the vain hope of one who had come to understand just how massive a mistake he’d made. Not once had he truly believed she would remain unwed after such a long time. Marian Wakefield would be married to a gentleman with far more sense than he and have a passel of children. Happily situated.
But instead, she was free.
Standing there like the lump he was, George watched as the lady and her family climbed into the carriage, unaware that his very world had been upended.
Chapter 10
Pious was a term far too often misunderstood. Like bluestocking, it was viewed in extremes, bringing with it connotations of unfeeling hearts and unyielding opinions. Poor examples only added to the belief that those who embraced such terms were devoid of any merriment and apt to view the world with a frown, clinging only to their beloved scriptures or high intellect. They were two sides to the same coin, and neither was viewed in a kind light. And Marian had never understood why that was.
Though she couldn’t claim to be a scholar of the highest order, Marian enjoyed delving into various subjects, and she enjoyed church. To many, it was merely a requirement the Lord (and society) exacted, quickly to be forgotten until the next Sabbath. But Marian appreciated the time for self-reflection and expanding her spiritual knowledge. At least, she usually enjoyed Sunday services.
Mr. Clements was a good man. Though he could do better with the daily ministries required of a vicar, he was earnest and devout. It was clear to anyone who knew him that the church had been his vocation of choice and not merely a convenience. But, heaven save her, he had ruined Marian’s love of gospel oration.
Though he took pride in his sermons, there was little substance to them. Mr. Clements delivered them with great animation, and the minutes were filled with engaging stories that drew titters from the congregation and even outright laughter at times. Yet if the services were a feast, Mr. Clements’ meal was naught but sweets and cakes—delectable, to be certain, but neither filling nor the sort of thing one should eat regularly. Only the final few moments were meaty, but it was not time enough to delve into any subject.
“Miss Wakefield.” The moment Mr. Clements finished, Mrs. Henshaw spun around to face Marian from over the back of the pew. “I was hoping to speak with you today. There is so very much we need to discuss concerning the concert.”
Marian kept her brows from rising. “There is still much to be done, but we have most of it in hand.”
“I fear we ought to reconsider the order of the performances,” said Mrs. Henshaw, her expression pinching as she shook her head. “It has me in such a dither that I haven’t slept a wink in days.”
As it was Marian who had done the majority of the work and fretting concerning the program, she didn’t know why Mrs. Henshaw was so overwrought by it. “I assure you I have considered every aspect and put the performers in the order that will best display their talents and without too much time between the pieces. Nothing is worse than drawn-out pauses as the musicians take and leave the stage.”
With the same words she’d employed many times before, Marian explained once more the process she’d employed. It had taken countless attempts to settle on the correct order, but she felt certain the concert would be splendid. But before Marian could give a full accounting of her methods, Mrs. Henshaw waved her explanation away.
“I understand, my dear, but I cannot help but think that grouping the pieces together by instrument would be better thematically. Or perchance, we might order it according to the style of music. Surely it will confuse our audience if they are all mixed together.”
Marian’s hands clenched, and she forced her fingers to relax, hiding them in her skirts so as not to give herself away. How many times would they discuss this? Marian didn’t fully understand what Mrs. Henshaw or the other ladies thought a “theme” was, but their attempt to organize the program according to that ever-changing definition was a mistake.
With a smile she hoped was understanding, Marian explained once more, “I have tried organizing according to your themes, but there are too many other issues to consider. It wouldn’t do to place our best performers before those who are less certain of their skill, and I would prefer to stagger those who are giving more than one performance. And we must be mindful of the tempo of each song, rather than the style, with the slower songs intermixed at proper intervals with the lighter tunes. I appreciate your concern, but I have spent hours poring over every possibility and have landed on the best one. I promise you I have it all in hand.”
The congregation began trickling towards the doors, and the pair followed after them.
“Oh, Miss Wakefield,” said Mrs. Henshaw with a smile and a shake of her head. “You are such a gem, and you do so very much to aid and assist where you can, but there is no need to be so rigid in our approach to this concert. It is for charity, and all that matters is that we raise money for the poor. I fear you are far too focused on perfection and not enjoyment.”
“Need we choose one over the other?” asked Marian, blinking against the morning sunshine as they stepped into the courtyard. “Doing my best to organize the program isn’t going to lessen the enjoyment of the performers or the audience. Nor do I insist on perfection. But success does not happen by accident, and if we wish this concert to be a triumph, we must put in effort.”
“But I feel very certain this is the right course of action.” Mrs. Henshaw stopped just outside the church door, and with a side-step, Marian nudged her out of the way of the crowd.
