“I am sorry for causing you such pain, Miss Marian.” The fellow’s brows pulled low, his gaze echoing the agony she felt as he stammered and stuttered through more apologies. Though her frustration and disappointment picked away at her, Marian couldn’t help but appreciate the contrition. They were little words, but there was no doubting he meant them. Unfortunately, they could not undo the damage done.
“Why did you do it?” she whispered, but Mr. Finch shifted in place and answered her question with one of his own.
“What do you mean about your father? What does he have to do with this?” Mr. Finch’s voice was quiet and soothing, calming the waves and winds buffeting her.
Tears filled her eyes, filling the void left by her fury, and Marian looked at Mr. Finch. There was no space left in her for embarrassment or fear, and so she offered it all to him.
“Papa is determined to see me married. I have only one month left to find a husband of my choosing or he will pick one for me.”
*
The weight of guilt and shame redoubled, pressing down on George until he was certain to break beneath the strain of it. He wished Marian would fly into a rage again, for that was far easier to bear than the gathering tears. She was not one to cry, and each one that fell sliced at him, digging deeper into his heart.
“Surely you needn’t accept—” he began, but Marian barked out a bitter laugh.
“I said nearly the same thing to my father, but he is adamant that if I refuse, he will cut me off and banish me to live with my Aunt Beatrice.”
Marian’s voice was empty, testifying as readily as her words that the prospect was bleak, but George couldn’t help but ask, “Is that such a bad thing? I would think it better to be free than to shackle yourself to a man you do not love.”
“To be shackled, instead, to a sour old spinster who will spend her days making me miserable as well?” Marian shook her head, wiping her cheeks. “And I cannot fend for myself, for I have not the connections or education to find a position as a governess or companion. Believe me, Mr. Finch. I have thought it through. I will marry.”
George bowed his head, studying the toes of his shoes, and sorted through what he could say to solve this problem. So much of his daily work with his family’s holdings revolved around meeting a challenge and formulating a solution, yet though he easily managed those business affairs with the skills his father had taught him, he could not sort out how to aid Marian. Or tidy the mess he’d made of her already messy life.
“Mr. Clements may not have been ideal, but he is a good man who would have treated me well. I might not have found the bliss I wished for, but I believe I would’ve been content. Happy, even.” Marian let out a long sigh that held so much of her heart that George felt it to his core. Her gaze did not fix on him but stared off into a distant place.
The guilt twisted in him, tightening into a knot that George wasn’t certain he could ever undo. Marian ought never to look so bleak. She was lively, but without that passion blasting through her, she looked worn and weak, as though unable to fight the coming future anymore.
And George knew precisely what he could do.
“You needn’t settle for a content life, Miss Marian.”
Those tear-rimmed eyes turned to him, a weak smile lifting one corner of her lips. “Choosing contentment is not settling, for it is a far step above anything else I am to find at this juncture. There is still Mr. Highmore, so I am not without hope. However, we have nothing in common nor do we enjoy each other’s company. He is far less of a gamble than whomever my father chooses, but Mr. Highmore desires only a mother to care for his children.”
George’s shoulders tightened, his heartbeat picking up its pace, and though he’d thought himself quite tightly wound before, he’d been wrong. It was an odd reversal for them, as Marian was the one who was usually so excitable while he remained calm and collected. Now, Marian stood there, composed. She may not be at peace exactly, but she was far more in control than he felt at present.
Time. It was a funny thing. George wished to hurry it along but knowing he had plenty had been a comfort. Time to build their friendship again. Time to heal the wounds he’d inflicted. Time to woo her. Things were on too uncertain a footing for him to rush ahead and lay it all out for her. One did not build a house atop a shaky foundation; it must be shored up before it can handle the weight.
George was now contending with more than other suitors.
Heaven save him.
His pulse fluttered like a hummingbird’s wing. He had pictured asking for her hand, but the speeches he’d practiced fled his mind, leaving him a stuttering, sweating fool. And he didn’t even have a handkerchief on hand to dab at the droplets gathering at his temples. When had the afternoon turned so blazing hot?
“You needn’t settle for contentment, Miss Marian,” George repeated, filling his tone with a significance that could not be ignored. Or so he thought.
When Marian did not reply, he cast a glance around them, though no one paid them any heed; the others were all too engrossed in their conversations and work to notice he and Marian had abandoned their baskets.
Reaching forward, George took her hand in his. “You need a husband, and there is a gentleman eager to fill the role.”
Marian merely stared off into the brambles as though she hadn’t heard him, and George laced his fingers through hers. The movement drew her attention, her gaze falling to their entwined hands and then up to his eyes, her brows furrowed.
“Marry me, Miss Marian.” George may have struggled to form the words, but they emerged clear and understandable, and there was no mistaking his meaning.
Again, the lady’s gaze darted down to their hands and back up to him, her expression scrunching further. Then, with a sharp huff of air, she yanked free of him.
“I am in no mood for jests, Mr. Finch.”
Reaching down, Marian snatched her basket up and stalked away before George’s slow wits comprehended what she’d said. And then his chest constricted, making it impossible for him to breathe enough to speak out.
