“Marian, you must assist me!” Miss Lettie Donaldson rushed over and took Marian by her free arm, fairly dragging her towards their circle of friends. “I fear I am at a loss, for Mr. Birks is quite insistent that verse is superior to novels, and he cannot be reasoned with.”
“I will always take my Keats, Browning, Wordsworth, and the like over your Irving or Scott.” The fellow in question did not waste time allowing the newcomers to grasp the subject at hand before launching into a defense of his opinion, citing all the poetic greats.
“You are impossible, Mr. Birks!” said Lettie, though the hint of a smile in her tone testified that she felt quite the opposite. “It is far more impressive to write an entire novel than a few scant and convoluted lines that require rigorous study to decipher.”
Mr. Birks placed a hand over his heart as though she had wounded him, employing all the melodrama expected of poets and their ardent devotees. “Miss Donaldson, you are missing the point entirely. Those geniuses capture so much more emotion in a ‘few scant and convoluted lines’ than your novelists do in thousands.”
“Heaven save us all from these two,” murmured Mr. Gadd as he drew up next to George. “They have been arguing for the better part of a set and do not seem ready to lay the subject to rest.”
“I suppose there is nothing to do about it,” whispered George. “Until they finally accept the inevitable and marry, we are forced to witness their nauseating banter.”
“And then heaven save us from the doe-eyed Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Birks.” Mr. Gadd fought back a smile. Marian didn’t bother hiding hers, and George slanted her a warm look that had her grinning for a whole new reason.
As much as the gentlemen jested and mocked, they all wished to see the pair united in holy matrimony: Lettie and Mr. Birks were too perfect a match. And though Mr. Gadd had protested the debate, he joined in with as much enthusiasm as the rest. Laughing and teasing, they argued and twitted as each party staked their flag in their respective camps and argued their points with all the raucousness of parliamentarians battling social reform.
Marian added a word here and there, but she was struck by the picture they made and couldn’t bring herself to speak out, for it might break the magic of the evening. Heat that had naught to do with the press of bodies spread through her, warming her so thoroughly that she could've stood on the moors on a midwinter’s night without feeling the chill.
These were her friends. Marian’s chest expanded, filling her to bursting with more contentment than anyone deserved, and she cast her gaze to the others, wishing she could share that feeling with them and spread her good fortune.
A nudge at her elbow had her turning to George. His brows furrowed together before lifting in question, and Marian longed to wrap her arms around the dear man, for there was no manner in which to articulate her present feelings. How could he, who had never felt the sting of loneliness, comprehend what it meant to be surrounded by others who not only enjoyed but sought out his company?
Marian shook her head, though it did little to reassure George, so she gave his forearm a covert squeeze before turning her attention back to the conversation at hand.
“This is a debate without an answer,” said Marian. “Both prose and verse have their place in the world for they serve different needs. To say one is better than the other is to ignore the diversity of human existence.”
Mr. Gadd’s brows lifted, and George murmured, “Brava, Miss Marian.”
Lettie gave her a mocking frown. “If you wished to annihilate both sides of the debate, you have done so, but you cannot lay waste to our conversation without offering up a replacement, Miss Marian. I demand a new subject.”
“Yet I would argue that poetry captures the essence of human existence with far more skill than novels,” said Mr. Birks with an arched brow.
“Leave it be,” said Mr. Gadd with a grin. “Marian has trounced your argument quite thoroughly, and it smacks of a poor loser to continue debating the fact—”
“Miss Hutton, how wonderful of you to join us!” said George with an all-too-dashing smile, drawing everyone’s attention to the addition to their party.
Like a leak in one of those great flying balloons, all the air rushed from Marian; the flame that had kept her aloft extinguished, and between one heartbeat and the next, her spirits crashed to the ground with a mighty thud. Marian tried to dust her heart off, but her smile strained as she turned to greet Miss Juliette Hutton.
Chapter 2
“Iam so pleased you all were able to attend,” said Miss Hutton, turning her gaze to meet each of theirs, and Marian fought to keep her grin from straining.
“You and your mother have outdone yourself tonight,” said George, sweeping a hand out to take in the entire ballroom.
The others hastened to add their compliments to his, and Marian murmured a few words in agreement, though they all knew the majority of the event would’ve been planned by Mrs. Hutton and not her daughter. Her heart thudded a rapid beat, and Marian forced her expression to relax, taking her smile from a grimace to a calm and collected raise of the lips in greeting to the addition to their group.
But Marian’s eyes could not leave Miss Hutton as the young lady moved to stand directly next to George. Miss Hutton did not go so far as to place herself between him and Marian, but the young lady’s position made her preference for the gentleman clear. Marian eyed the narrow space between the pair. Was George moving closer to Miss Hutton?
Miss Hutton inserted herself into the conversation as easily as she had inserted her person into the group, and Marian stopped herself from gnawing on the edge of her lip. It was of no consequence that Miss Hutton sidled up to George, or that his head turned fully towards the newcomer. Or that he did, in fact, draw nearer to the young lady as well. Yes, he laughed at her comments, but it was in George’s nature to be warm and welcoming.
Still, Marian couldn’t help but examine every word they exchanged and every movement between them, or notice just how much his attention was fixed on Miss Hutton and not the rest of the party.
Fashion and what the world defined as “beautiful” were ever-changing things, but Marian was certain that regardless of time or place, Miss Juliette Hutton would be considered lovely. Mr. Birks’ poets and Lettie’s novelists were keen to describe a lady’s hair as the color of ripened wheat, and though Marian had thought that a bit of creative license, Miss Hutton proved it was not. The lightest shade in her coiffure had the same brightness of the sunshine skittering across the tops of a field ready for harvest, and beneath it, a dozen other shades blended into a golden hue.
The young lady’s lips were pink and full, and though much of the perfection was due to Mother Nature’s generosity, Marian was certain it had been helped along with a healthy dose of rouge. The young lady’s eyes were clear and bright, providing the perfect blue highlight to her fair coloring—to say nothing of her gown, which was a confection of silk and ruffles with flowers adorning her hair and skirts in a manner that declared to all the world that here was a lady with means to match her beauty.
Marian tried to keep her thoughts from straying into places they ought not to go, but it was impossible not to compare her own appearance to the shining example of womanhood at George’s side. If Miss Hutton were akin to a kingfisher, with its bright and gorgeous plumage of yellow and blue, then Marian Wakefield was little more than a wren with bland brown coloring that blended in with the world around it. A common bird found in every part of the country, going unnoticed and unseen by the vast majority of people.
Giving herself a silent shake, Marian forced such wretched thoughts from her head. A wren may be an apt description of her nondescript appearance, but people adored the wren’s trilling, melodious song far more than the kingfisher’s squawks. There was more to attraction than plumage.
