Marian’s smile stiffened, and she shifted through possible responses. “The stories you shared of your childhood were quite endearing.”
It took some maneuvering, but Marian cajoled him with honeyed words, drawing him into conversation. And though she couldn’t say it flowed with any ease, it did come. She couldn’t claim some deep stirring of her heart towards the man, but he was more interesting than Mr. Highmore, and Mr. Clements appeared interested in her as something more than a convenience. Try as she might, she couldn't avoid comparing the two, and with all things considered, she thought Mr. Clements the far better choice.
An impulse seized her, and she glanced at Mr. Clements’ arm. No doubt other ladies wouldn’t hesitate to take hold of it, but Marian couldn’t bring herself to be so bold. Though the road was in good condition, she forced herself to wobble, hoping it might push him to offer his arm up freely.
It did not.
And then Mrs. Norwich’s house drew close, and the opportunity slipped by. Marian comforted herself with the thought that she had laid a foundation upon which she could build, but Papa’s edict poked at her, reminding her that time was speeding by. It had already been a fortnight, and she had hardly made any progress. Only six weeks remained, and as she hadn’t found success in the ten years since she’d entered the marriage arena, every moment mattered.
When the maid answered the door, Mr. Clements ushered Marian in, assisting her with her bonnet and gloves, before they were led into the parlor. Only Mrs. Norwich was there at present, but that was no great surprise. For some reason, people believed they ought to arrive at the exact time a meeting was set to begin. Or even later. Suggest to them that they must arrive before the appointed hour for it to begin on time and they acted as though it was ludicrous, unnecessary, or both. It was not such a difficult concept to grasp, yet so few paid it any mind.
At least Mr. Clements was punctual. That was another point in his favor. Marian couldn’t bear forever hounding a tardy husband or arriving late to every function. Better to be absent altogether than to disrupt the proceedings.
The others arrived soon enough, though Mrs. Henshaw meandered in five minutes late, full of her usual apologies. Marian would believe her contrition more if the lady wasn’t a habitual offender, and she contented herself by imagining sneaking into the Henshaws’ home and setting all their clocks ten minutes fast; that might be useful.
Mrs. Henshaw eventually settled, and the ladies began their discussion in earnest. Mr. Clements sat in their circle, though he offered no comments, merely watching as they outlined their plans for all the various details that needed sorting. Marian braced herself. She knew what was coming and that she must speak up, but she also knew her opinion would not be well received. Yet she could not remain silent on the matter.
Then Mrs. Hatwell was given the floor.
“I have the most delightful ideas for decorations,” she said, opening a bundle of papers to reveal sketches. Handing the sheets to the ladies and vicar, Mrs. Hatwell described the utter beauty that would be their concert. The flower arrangements were magnificent, and the sketches were breathtaking, but Marian couldn’t help but stare at it all.
“How many arrangements will there be?” asked Marian.
“Two pedestals for the entrance and on either side of the stage, and then one for each of the refreshment tables,” said Mrs. Hatwell. “I had wanted to put a few along the walls, but after our discussions about economizing, I thought it best to reduce the number.”
Marian blinked. “That would bring the total to seven.”
“The drapery and bunting would fill in the gaps,” said Mrs. Hatwell. “I assure you it will not be too bare.”
The words of the immortal Bard declared, “Screw your courage to the sticking place”—a phrase that sounded like little more than gibberish, and of course, she hardly liked the idea of taking advice from the wretched Lady Macbeth, but the words strengthen Marian’s resolve, nonetheless.
Taking in a breath, she dove into the heart of the matter. “That was not my concern. The point of this concert is to raise funds, yet we are speaking of taking on extraneous expenses. Surely there are better things we could do with the money than pour it into decorations.”
“But we do not want it to look shabby,” said Mrs. Henshaw, turning to the others with an expression that showed so much horror that Marian might’ve laughed aloud if it weren’t for the situation. “People expect there to be decorations.”
“Do they?” asked Marian, struggling to keep the bite from her tone. “People are coming for the performances. Though they appreciate the decorations for a moment, it is the music that is the highlight of the evening, and it seems a waste to put so much money into frippery.”
She winced inwardly at her word choice, for she knew it was a mistake the moment she spoke it. The other ladies puffed themselves up like agitated hens, positively affronted that Marian dared to use such a flippant description for the masterpiece. But before she could apologize or soften the offense with further explanation, the ladies all began speaking over one another, defending the necessity of having an abundance of flowers for the evening.
The ladies spoke with such a tone of incredulity, as though only a fool would disagree with them, and though there was nothing malicious to their tones and words, they grew agitated and put-out until Marian felt like a raincloud at a picnic. Casting her thoughts inward, she examined her motives and her suggestions. No one else in the group hurried to defend her stance, and it was hard not to wonder if she mightn’t be wrong.
“I do not wish to degenerate Mrs. Hatwell’s efforts,” said Marian, holding up one of the sketches. “This is beautiful, and I am awed at your talent for creating such masterpieces. But I am concerned about the excessive costs of this evening. If the point is to raise money, it ought to be simple.”
Then, turning to Mrs. Henshaw, Marian added, “Was it not you who lectured me about how I ought not to try for perfection?”
But the lady in question brushed this away with a dismissive hand. “That is not the same, Miss Wakefield.”
“How—”
“We are not expecting everything to be perfect, but to put no effort into the decorations is ghastly and smacks of laziness.”
Mrs. Hatwell leapt back into the fray before Marian had a chance to open her mouth, adding with a vigorous nod, “And your concern over costs is precisely why I have asked various ladies to donate much of the greenery and fabric. We shall need to supplement it, and if we do the work ourselves, it shan’t cost us more than a few pounds to decorate.”
Marian fought back the instinct that begged her to gape at that assertion. “That is still a significant expense, Mrs. Hatwell. And how much time will it take to create this masterpiece?”
The lady waved that away. “That isn’t a concern. If we each spend a few hours a day sewing, we can ready the bunting in time. Together, we can manage the arrangements on the day, though I would ask that we all arrive in the morning to ensure that it is done in time.”
“So, it is well and good for us to waste time with decorations, but for me to request the performers to meet before the concert to discuss the particulars is too demanding?” Marian couldn't help it as her tone grew more brittle; how else was she to react when they were holding her to such hypocritical standards?
