Turning down the Wakefields’ lane, George sat perched on the edge of the seat, his knee bouncing. Though he tried to avoid the rough patches of road, he swore it had grown more uneven, for it felt as though he was being shaken to bits. Surely the parish council ought to see to their maintenance.
Houses dotted either side of the road, but George paid them no heed as Wrenwood Lodge came into view. The buildings were all fairly uniform along this stretch of road, and though not as imposing as his family’s estate, they were good-sized dwellings for those among Bentmoor’s higher echelons. And in the midst of them sat an edifice that looked so very like the rest, except that the stucco exterior was a stunning shade of peach. It hadn’t been altered in the years since he’d last set eyes on it; even the vines crawling along the edges looked to be the same as before. No doubt, their servants spent a fair amount of time maintaining the foliage, for it was a fine accent to the building without overpowering it.
Leading the horses around to the stables, he gave them to the groom’s keeping and wandered to the front door. George peeked at his pocket watch and grimaced. He was nearly an hour earlier than the invitation dictated; his determination not to be late had pushed him to leave his house far earlier than necessary and to drive the horse harder than usual. With Bentmoor such a distance from his home, it was always better to overestimate the necessary time to travel in case he met with trouble on the road, but George had overdone it. He debated for a moment as to whether or not he should wait until the appropriate time, but his feet made the decision for him and hurried up the front steps.
In short order, the butler had George in the house, divested of his hat and gloves, and deposited in the parlor, though not before giving him a gimlet eye. George might’ve quaked beneath the weight of that gaze if he hadn’t known it was Powell’s usual manner. As the butler was loyal only to his position, George knew the fellow’s irritation had naught to do with the upset between him and Marian and everything to do with his showing up horrifically early, which offended Powell’s sense of propriety.
George watched the butler as he sauntered out of the room. A throat cleared, and George whirled about, his chest tightening as he took in Marian, allowing the silence to linger for a moment as he reveled in the sight of her.
The lady he’d known all those years ago had a knack for blending into the background. More than her unremarkable coloring and features, Marian Wakefield had comported herself as though wishing to vanish into the ether. Now, Marian stood there looking much the same. Her appearance was unaltered, yet she was vastly different from the young lady he’d known. Her gaze was direct and unflinching, her posture not shrinking but meeting the world with a steadiness that bespoke one in command of her surroundings. A regality came from her very core, shining through her in a manner that seized George’s attention, unwilling to release him.
Marian Wakefield was not pretty. That was too flimsy a word. She was striking. Eye-catching. George’s gaze drifted along the sweeping curve of her neck. With several strong words, he silently reminded himself once more that his purpose in being there was to heal the friendship he’d broken and not to ogle the lady.
Friendship first. Then win her heart.
“Miss Marian.” George’s voice gave out at that moment, choosing to make him sound like a veritable youth—though he supposed it was fitting since he felt as ungainly as a lad of twelve. Then, coming to himself, he swept into a bow. “I am sorry I did not see you there. I fear I was so taken with Powell’s austerity that I was blind to anything else. Am I wrong in thinking he has worsened since I was here last?”
Marian blinked, though a spark of laughter lit her gaze. “It is not your imagination, sir. He is quite determined to set himself up as a man deserving of high regard. My parents think it a mark of his skill as a butler. Everyone else thinks it irritating.”
George felt like laughing, not so much at the words themselves, but at the fact that she spoke them to him. And if he weren’t mistaken, he would say her tone was quite light. Marian was sharing a laugh with him.
“Thank you for sending me the invitation. I hadn’t…” George wasn’t certain if it were better to ignore the nastiness or confront it, but fortune favored the bold, so he finished, “…I hadn’t expected it after our previous conversation.”
Marian chuffed and gave him a faint smile that held more than a touch of self-deprecation. “Isn’t that a delicate way of describing how I lambasted you.”
“You said nothing I didn’t deserve.” George tugged at his coat and rocked on his heels. “I owe you a proper apology—”
But she held up a staying hand. “You said quite enough with your letters and flowers.”
George frowned. “I don’t think that possible. I—”
“Please, Mr. Finch. I—” She paused and furrowed her brow in that manner he remembered all too well. Marian was such a thinker and spent quite a lot of time lost in her thoughts, her brows always wrinkling in the same manner as she sorted through things. “Whatever your faults, I have them as well. I would prefer if we could simply begin again.”
She motioned him towards the sofa, and he sat beside her. Her hands were clasped primly in her lap, and George’s knee began bouncing again. He stared at her, sorting through what he could say, but his thoughts evaporated, leaving his mind empty at present.
“Your mother’s at-home mornings are quiet affairs,” he said, glancing at the empty room around them. “Not even the hostess shows? Scandalous.”
The lady’s lips twitched, and Marian shook her head. “She is always present, but not when her guests arrive earlier than the allotted time.”
George smiled at that. Another silence descended upon them. It had never been difficult to engage Marian in conversation before, yet at present, it was not such an easy endeavor.
“We have been enjoying very fine weather,” said Marian, though that was immediately followed by a wince. She covered her eyes for a brief moment and then peeked at him with rosy cheeks. “I have a talent for making any situation quite awkward. We hardly need to speak of the weather.”
The world grew sunnier until it felt as though the parlor was ablaze with the noonday sun, and George couldn’t stop the smile stretching across his face. This was his Marian. His friend. He had hoped to see a glimpse of her for the past fortnight, and there she was. He felt like leaping to his feet with a shout.
“But it is very fine weather, indeed. Quite worthy of remarking,” he said with a nod and just the right hint of haughtiness to his tone to draw out another faint smile from her. Then, leaning closer, he said in a conspiratorial tone, “And I quite adore your awkwardness. It is endearing and far more entertaining than people who never grow flustered.”
Marian shifted in her seat, smoothing the folds of her dress as her cheeks turned a fetching shade of pink. “You needn’t say such things, Mr. Finch.”
“What things?”
Peeking at him from beneath her lashes, she frowned. “You needn’t ply me with compliments as some sort of penance for what has passed. As I said, I think it time we let go of the past and begin anew.”
George blinked at her, struggling to know what to say to that first statement, but before he could address it, Marian added, “And I’ve had time to consider my own actions in the matter, Mr. Finch, and I am quite ashamed of my behavior.”
“Balderdash.”
Marian straightened. “Pardon?”
