Mr. Highmore, it was.
Chapter 26
An invitation was a small thing. George had received enough of them in his life that he gave them no thought. He certainly did not lie in bed imagining the forthcoming event or primp before his bedchamber mirror—especially not for something as simple as berry picking. Yet he had spent an inordinate amount of time doing both.
Of course, when he’d arrived home four weeks ago, George hadn’t anticipated anything more than basking in the joys of family and perfect afternoons precisely like this one. Though autumn’s chill crept into the darkness and shadows, in the glorious light of the day, the weather was what everyone would wish it to be for berry picking. Neither too hot nor too cold.
With Michaelmas fast approaching, everyone gathered blackberries aplenty to fill their tarts, pies, and puddings. However, such afternoons were focused as much on the lively conversations as the fruits of their labor, with a good many berries landing in his mouth rather than his basket as they laughed and chatted the hours away. But today’s festivities were not nearly as diverting as he recalled them being.
George glanced down at the pile of berries spilling over the edge of his trug. At this rate, he’d have enough for all of Cook’s goodies all on his own.
Evelyn stood beside the large bush, an apron draped over her skirts, though she had long ago abandoned her gloves and bonnet. Mr. Townsend was situated less than an arm’s length away from her, spending more time distracting her than picking the berries. She laughed, her smile as bright as the afternoon sun, and George’s heart lightened at the sight of it.
But heaven help him, if Mr. Townsend fed her one more berry from his hand, George would break the fellow’s fingers. That might teach Mr. Townsend a thing or two about discretion. Most of the party were occupied with their work or chatting with others, so they paid the pair no heed, but the man was hardly being discreet.
George huffed, and his skin itched as he considered the fellow. That he made Evelyn happy was nearly enough to make George like him. However, the more he came to know Mr. Townsend, the less he liked him. The fellow was good-natured, to be sure, but there was a glibness to his manner that did not sit well with George. Carefreeness and flippancy were close bedfellows, and he feared Mr. Townsend strayed too far into the latter.
Reaching gingerly around the thorns, George tugged a few berries free and dropped them into his basket, thinking about what he ought to say to Evelyn. Surely she could do better than Mr. Townsend. Evelyn was such a sweet and loving girl and deserved a man who was equal to her. But Father’s words returned to George’s thoughts, reminding him of his courtship with Juliette.
With another pull, he grabbed a few more berries. A thorn caught his hand, and his fingers tightened on reflex. Dropping the ruined berries to the ground, George flicked away the drops of juice and looked for something with which to wipe his hand. But the reason he was gloveless was the same reason he did not wish to use his handkerchief; anything that touched this mess would be irrevocably stained. There was no helping matters, though, so he pulled out the bit of linen with his clean hand and wiped off the other.
George’s mood (and berry picking hand) was not helped by the fact that his gaze more often traveled to the lady on his other side than the blackberry bushes and their many thorns. Marian's attention was fixed on her work, hunting her quarries with a determination that ensured that not a one was left for those following her; the lady’s brows were pulled low, frowning at the offending brambles.
Knowing that he had been the source of much irritation, George scoured his memory for anything he might’ve done to send her into such a state. However, he held onto the remnants of his good spirits by realizing that if he’d been the cause, Marian wouldn’t be working beside him. She had no qualms with telling him precisely how he’d vexed her.
Straightening, George brushed off a few leaves and twigs clinging to his jacket and considered how greatly his heart stirred at that thought. What man was pleased to have such a forthright woman as his wife? But after living with a lady who preferred her husband to read her thoughts rather than simply telling him her frustrations, George preferred honesty.
But such musings did nothing to answer why Marian was lost in her troubled thoughts. If he had any hope of pulling her out of them (and thus freeing himself out of his own doldrums), George needed to identify the trouble. And eradicate it.
Of course, there was one clear source, though he did not wish to broach that subject. Setting his trug down, George studied the treasure he had gathered. A friend did not hesitate to speak about any topic—even the other’s courtship. Besides, it might give him a gem of knowledge that might help him to draw Marian away from undeserving beaus.
“Are you unhappy that Mr. Highmore is not in attendance?” asked George, but Marian did not pause in her work, her attention never wavering from the brambles. Raising his voice a touch, he asked, “Is Mr. Highmore not joining us?”
Marian finally shook free of her thoughts and turned her gaze to him. “He is occupied with his family today. They have some picnic tradition they did not wish to throw over.”
“And you did not wish to join them?” George felt like patting himself on the shoulder for how evenly he asked that question.
But his glee faded when she answered, “I had already accepted the Meechams’ invitation.”
Turning back to his work, George reached for a few berries as his mind churned over the issue. But there was no helping it. “What is troubling you, Miss Marian?”
The lady paused, her hand hovering in the brambles for a moment before she straightened and looked at him directly. “I like that you call me Miss Marian.”
“That is your name,” replied George with a grin.
But her expression dimmed, which he hadn’t thought possible, and Marian turned back to her work. “I have only been Miss Wakefield since my sister married, and it makes me feel old. ‘Miss Marian’ sounds like a young lady.”
“You are a young lady. Eight and twenty is hardly ancient.”
“Perhaps.” Marian whispered that word with such a sad note to her voice that George felt like taking her by the hand. Or into his arms. Or any number of inappropriate things.
Instead, he returned to the question at hand. “I ask again,Miss Marian, what is troubling you? I know my foul mood is due to my forthcoming trip to Manchester, but I cannot surmise yours.”
“You are leaving?” she asked, straightening to look at him, and George’s heart lightened at the disappointment coloring her gaze. Or at least, he thought he saw disappointment there.
“Business is forcing me to go, but only for a short time. There is a delicate bit of negotiation that is best done in person and not through correspondence.” George fought to keep the frown from his expression. There was little point in moping about it. Had there been any other option, he and his father would’ve found it.
Perhaps his brothers might keep an eye on Marian’s swains during his absence.
