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“In the library? Heavens, no. I work on it in the drawing room where the light is not so brightly reflected against the whiteness of the cloth.”
“A valid reason.” Why did his brown eyes twinkle so amusedly? “What explanation do you have to read in the library? Apart from the obvious answer of being near books, of course.”
She tore her eyes from the gentleman and swept her gaze around the room. “I’ve always loved it in here, but ever since Father had the room refinished, the smell of the wood is intoxicating.” She shrugged. “I do not know how to explain it, exactly. It is soothing in a way. Almost like an embrace. To have that mixed with the comforting smell of old books, it will be utter perfection in this room. If only they could bottle that smell more frequently instead of roses or jasmine.”
His eyes fixed on her. Had she done it again? Said something to make him uncomfortable? Overstepped her bounds?
“What is it?” she asked.
The amusement in his eyes had faded, replaced with a wary brow. “I must simply return to my work, or your father will be displeased. That is all.”
Embarrassment pinched her chest. Why did she linger when her task was already accomplished? “I will leave you to it then, Mr. Steele. Good day.”
She left the library and the woodcarver behind.
There. She’d done it. She’d apologized, delivered a peace offering, and made an agreement to keep their communications secret. Now she could forget about the man and move on with her life and her routine.
Oh, but she would need to retrieve the basket from him at some point. Now, when could she fit that into her schedule?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marianne looked forward to Sunday every week. She didn’t mind sitting on the hard pews in the freezing temperatures of winter nor the boiling heatwaves of summer. She didn’t mind listening to an hour-long sermon of scriptures she already knew by heart. She didn’t even mind when her legs begged to be stretched or her eyes began to droop.
Because on Sunday, Marianne was free. Well, as free as she could be. Without Father there, she was even more so.
When normally, she would patiently await the end of the sermon, today, she used every last ounce of her willpower to not leap from the pew and dart outside to speak with as many people as she could while Father was not present. Inwardly at times, she felt like a puppy free from her restraints for the first time, ready to lap at strangers simply because she was happy to see them. Outwardly, however, she was as calm and collected as Beatrice.
No, she could never be that calm. Beatrice hardly ever showed any emotion now, apart from boredom.
When the sermon finally did end, Marianne followed behind Beatrice and Mother as they moved to pay their respects to the vicar, Mr. Ellison, who stood just outside the church doors.
Once they’d moved on, Marianne lingered behind, taking any chance to speak with someone other than the members of her household.
She’d always liked the vicar and his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Ellison were some of the few individuals who did not treat her like a social recluse. Not that she blamed the rest of town for doing so. She was the only one of her age who was not yet out in Society, married, and having children of her own.
“Mr. Ellison,” she greeted. “Thank you for your sermon. Your words always carry me through each new week.”
The middle-aged man gave her a kind smile. “Miss Marianne, you truly are a light. There are many times I receive gratitude and compliments, but with you, I know they are always sincere.”
He patted her hand warmly, and she curtsied before returning to Mother and Beatrice, the two of them having continued down the path toward the carriages.
Marianne was not yet ready to leave her one social event of the week, however, so she slowed her pace and breathed in the fresh scent of the morning air. The rain had halted for a moment, and though the sun did not break through the clouds, nothing could mute the brilliant green of the grass nor the glorious pink of the rose bushes surrounding the churchyard. Birds chirped in the ash trees behind them, and the soft chatter of friends and family members greeting each other warmed her heart.
How she loved Sundays.
“Marianne?” Mother called from up ahead.
Marianne finished the final distance between them. “Yes?”
“We must pay our respects to the Abbotts.”
Marianne nearly groaned. Father insisted that they seek the approval of the Abbotts, the foremost family in Ashwick. But each time, the elderly couple ignored Marianne entirely and stared down their noses at everyone else. Indeed, they were the ones who’d encouraged Father to keep Marianne from Society until Beatrice married. Father had instantly agreed, not willing to risk anyone looking down on his family.
Marianne tried very hard to like everyone. But the Abbotts held a special place in the “strongly dislike” portion of Marianne’s acquaintances.
“Mama,” she began in a soft voice, “might I stay behind this time? I could greet the Clarks instead.”
Mother hesitated. She understood Marianne’s plight and was more willing to bend the rules of Society than Father was. She’d been the one to convince him that Marianne no longer needed a governess at eighteen.
