The whirlwinds died, leaving her feeling all the emptier with their absence. Her shoulders drooped, and Marian fought to keep her heart from showing. Did Mr. Finch truly mean to cause her more pain?
*
Eyes were a funny thing, for they loved playing tricks on their owner, bending the world around them into something altogether different than the truth. They may look at the same object again and again, seeing it differently each time. And though Marian Wakefield’s face was entirely familiar to George, it was as though he had never seen her before. The George of five years ago had thought her a plain creature, but looking at her now, he couldn’t comprehend how his eyes had been so deceived.
Were his eyes playing tricks on him now? He didn’t think so, though he knew the others in the congregation did not see what he did. Marian was lovely.
It brought his mother to mind. Not that the two ladies shared similarities in appearance; rather, they were both found lacking by beauty’s strict standards. Having suffered a severe bout of smallpox as a child, Mother’s complexion was scarred from the disease that had stolen away most of her family, and though her bright red hair demanded attention, it was often the bumps marring her skin that drew the revulsion of the petty and small-minded. Yet George never noticed them. It was as though his eyes did not see those “imperfections.”
So, were his eyes lying to him? In all honesty, George didn’t know, nor did he care. All he could do was curse the young fool who had been so blind to Marian’s charms in favor of Juliette’s surface allures.
His insides gave an unhappy turn, and George sent a silent apology to his late wife. It was not as though Juliette had been a terrible match, and she didn’t deserve to have her memory blackened by regret, but there was a wide difference between happiness and merely rubbing along—a fact that George knew all too well. When the reality of life settled upon a married couple, it was not attraction or ardor that bound a pair together but friendship and admiration. And George had discovered too late that it was far easier to develop the former than the latter.
Far too many times in the past years, George had longed to seek out his friend and talk to her about everything and nothing—and now, Marian stood on the other side of the churchyard, yet George remained fixed in place (though some of that had to do with the many parishioners who insisted on waylaying him). He couldn’t help but study the lady and castigate himself for the choice he’d made.
And he would tell her so if given the opportunity. However, apologies were all well and good, but how did one go about healing such a breach?
George nodded, giving a few excuses before tearing himself away from well-wishers, but making his way through the churchyard was like trudging through molasses. Every time he pulled free of one group, another latched onto him, insisting on greeting him like all the rest. George resisted the urge to scrape them off and continue on, and instead gave them a few platitudes, smiles, and promises to call on them or to receive their call now that he was in residence at Farleigh Manor.
It took far too much time and effort to make it to Marian’s side. Miss Marian. Miss Wakefield. In the silence of his thoughts, he’d taken to calling her by her given name, but it wouldn’t do to continue with that habit. Yet it felt unnatural to call her anything else.
“Miss Wakefield,” he greeted, his voice far weaker than intended. In such moments, George would prefer to sound strong and unflappable, but when facing her, it was difficult to muster anything of the sort.
But it was the lady’s sister-in-law who answered first. “Mr. Finch, how good to see you again. I must admit I am surprised to see you visiting our parish. I would think your mother would wish you to attend services with your family.”
“Oakham is not so very far from Bentmoor,” said George.
“It is some eight miles away, sir,” said Mrs. Wakefield. “That is hardly a short journey.”
He nodded, though he couldn’t be certain what Mrs. Rachel Wakefield had said. His gaze was fixed on Marian, though the lady did not meet his eyes. And though he preferred to make a subtler attempt, he supposed it was a good enough time to show his hand.
“I had hoped to renew my acquaintance with our dear Miss Wakefield,” said George. “We were friends once upon a time, after all.”
Marian’s eyes snapped to his with a hard frown, but her sister-in-law gave it no mind.
Mrs. Wakefield laughed. “Then you ought to have called on us, Mr. Finch. I am certain my mother-in-law would welcome the visit.”
“You are right, of course,” said George, giving Marian a hint of a smile. He’d done precisely that, but the hale and healthy Marian had been too overset by a megrim to attend him. His gaze sparked with a challenge, hoping it might prod Marian into teasing him, but she stiffened, her nose turning up before her eyes drifted away to study the others in the churchyard.
“I was hoping to have a moment of your time, Miss Wakefield,” George began, but the lady dropped her sister-in-law’s arm and stepped away.
“I must speak with Mrs. Norwich about a pressing matter. Please excuse me,” said Marian as she moved away from him with all haste.
If Mrs. Wakefield sensed the discomfort between the pair, she gave no indication, continuing to chatter on about the various events he’d missed in the past few years, and George nodded at appropriate intervals as his gaze followed Marian.
George swallowed, trying to clear the sour taste from his mouth, but his throat was too stiff and dry to be of any good. He stood there like the lead lump he was, useless and uncertain of what to do. For all his plans, he hadn’t been able to get Marian to even acknowledge him or engage him in any manner—meaningful or otherwise.
How was one supposed to apologize if the offended party would not countenance a conversation?
But George knew he deserved it. Marian had given him the opportunity and, fool that he was, he’d turned a blind eye to it. Luckily, experience had taught him a valuable lesson, and he knew he would have to keep trying: his Marian was worth the fight.
Chapter 12
Having reached the grand age of five and twenty, Evelyn Finch was no child, but the urge to rock back and forth on the seat seized her, though she knew full well it wouldn’t make the carriage move any faster. With so much of their family attending the assembly in Bentmoor tonight, the Finch clan was bound to be tardy. It was near impossible to get eight individuals all ready and out the door on time. With the added frustration of needing two vehicles to carry them all there and that Bentmoor was so many miles from Oakham, Evelyn was ready to leap from the carriage and run there herself.
“Calm yourself, Evelyn,” said Bridget with a laugh. “You shall give your gentleman the impression that you are too eager.”
Robin chuffed, slanting his wife a wry smile. “I recall a certain young lady who was quite eager herself.”
