“If only it were that easy, Mr. Finch, but it plagues me, and I fear I can think of little else.” Her lips trembled, and she raised her gaze to meet his. George couldn’t breathe at the sight of her tears. “What about me is so repugnant that a gentleman goes from swain to stranger between one moment and the next?”
Hearty objections rose to his thoughts, demanding he speak, but he couldn’t get the words past the pain in his throat. He straightened his jacket, shifting the layers of cotton scratching at his skin. Whatever victory he might’ve felt at Mr. Clements’ surrendering the battlefield fled as his ribs constricted, squeezing tight around him. His conversation with the fellow played through his mind, pulling it apart and piecing it back together.
When George had hatched the plan, he hadn’t considered the possibility that Marian would mourn the loss or fashion it into some indictment against her character. It wasn’t as though Mr. Clements had won her heart—of that much George was certain. Yes, rejection stung, but what did it matter when Marian didn’t truly wish to win the fellow?
And now, he was faced with the sheen of tears in her eyes and those wretched doubts made him wish he could turn back time and choose another path. But that was not a new feeling. If George had made a very different choice all those years ago, none of this would be an issue.
“I am so very sorry, Marian.”
She swiped at her cheek and shook her head with a brittle laugh. “It is not of your doing, Mr. Finch, so there is no need for you to apologize. The fault lies on my shoulders. I ought not to be surprised that Mr. Clements found me lacking. It is nothing new.”
“That is not true, Marian. The fault lies with me.”
Pressing a hand to her forehead, Marian let out a sharp huff, though the smile she turned on him was more akin to a grimace. “As gallant as it is of you to try to shift the blame, I do not appreciate false comfort. I’ve already spent hours with my sister-in-law assuring me it is Mr. Clements who is lacking or that someone or something else is at fault. But with my history, I cannot blind myself to the truth of the matter. I am the one constant in all my failed interactions with men.”
George winced, his head lowering as the weight of those words pressed down on him. Not only was he one of the men of whom she spoke, but his present actions had now added doubly to her self-reproach. A better man would meet her gaze, but George could not bring himself to do so. Though his insides twisted at the thought of speaking the words, he knew he would suffer more if he allowed Marian to bear the brunt of this disaster.
“I am not speaking in vague terms, Marian. I convinced Mr. Clements you two were not suited for one another.”
Chapter 27
Blinking at the man, Marian tried to comprehend his meaning, but the words were too strange to be understood. But then Mr. Finch continued to spew more.
“I spoke with Mr. Clements at the festival, and I pointed out the difficulties that might arise from a vicar marrying a woman of your passion.” Mr. Finch shifted from foot to foot, fidgeting like an ill-mannered child during church services, and still Marian stared at him. His gaze finally rose to meet hers, his eyes wide as he added, “I couldn’t bear to see you courting a man who did not value your spirit. Mr. Clements was more preoccupied with his wife’s position in the community than who you are, and I couldn’t stand by silently as such a milksop courted you. If he didn’t care for the whole you, he didn’t deserve you.”
The air thinned. Or had the world begun spinning quicker? Marian couldn’t be certain of anything, except that she needed to sit and there was no place for her to do so.
“You filled his head with reasons to break with me?” she whispered.
Mr. Finch’s gaze darted away from her, his cheeks pinking. “I only nudged him. That is all. The fellow is a fool of the highest order.”
Marian pressed a hand to her stomach, her eyes closing as she turned her back to the blackguard. Her lungs jerked as she struggled for breath, and her ribs strained against her corset as a storm began to blow in her heart. It flowed through her veins like an icy river as Mr. Finch’s confession mingled with Papa’s edict, their words battling one against the other.
Time was short, and Mr. Finch had driven away her best possibility of marriage. Heavens above.
“Miss Marian, I am so very sorry to have caused you pain, but it was for the best. He didn’t deserve you—”
“What do you know of it, Mr. Finch?” Marian fought to keep her voice calm, but there was no mistaking the bite to it as she whirled on him. “What do you know of what I need in a husband? What do you know of my plans and future? What gives you the right to deem him unfit?”
“I was only doing what I must to protect my friend.”
“Friend?” Marian’s voice rose, and she fought to keep her tone even, but her words came clipped and fast. “You do not know what that word means, Mr. Finch. A friend does not scheme and manipulate. Without knowing anything about the situation or asking my opinion on the matter, you barreled in and caused me pain. That is not friendship.”
“Miss Marian—”
“No!” She forced herself to breathe. Forced the air to pull in and out of her lungs. The winds were buffeting her sails, and her tiller fought to break free of her grasp while Mr. Finch stared at her with those confused eyes and Papa’s voice ticked down the days until her future would be chosen for her.
Marian did not require a handsome man; she firmly believed in the transformative power of love and respect that made plain people beautiful. However, not even in her wildest imaginings could she picture being content with a fellow like Mr. Biddlesby, who had only a passing acquaintance with soap and water and whose remaining teeth were rotting in his mouth. To say nothing of his gruff manner and dour disposition.
“For all your worries about Mr. Clements disliking my flaws, the husband my father chooses will enjoy them less. The vicar may not have been the best choice, but he was better than my others. Do you wish me married to one of my father’s cronies? Or perhaps Papa will simply place an advertisement in the newspapers. ‘Wanted: one husband willing to take on a difficult spinster—’”
Marian’s hands flew to her mouth, holding back the words that wished to fly out of their own accord. Her skin flushed as her pulse raced, and she forced herself to focus on all the reasons she should not fly off the handle at Mr. Finch. But logic did little to calm the storm.
“Breathe, Miss Marian.”
Mr. Finch’s hand was at her back, his voice low, and Marian felt the urge to shove him away, but she didn’t want to be that harpy again. She didn’t want to be lost in the tempest that threatened to drag her to the depths. So, she chose to cast aside her pride and focused on his calm tone. As much as her illogical heart wished to throw itself into the fray, she forced herself to calm. She would conquer it. She would remain in control. Slowly, carefully, Marian gained ground by increments.
When her lungs worked once more, she stepped away. Mr. Finch’s hold on her heart was tenuous, but it was there, allowing her to look at him without shrieking about the unfairness of the situation or cursing him to Hades.
