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“Nonsense. Plans must be made. We mustn’t wait, or we shall be all aflutter when the wedding comes. Now, Marianne, what do you think? Won’t our Beatrice look lovely as an autumnal bride?”

Autumnal bride, spring bride, any bride would do, so long as Beatrice would be a bride. But she could not betray her sister’s trust by saying that.

“I hardly think my opinion matters on the subject.”

Beatrice watched her with a calculated gaze, Mother glancing between the two girls with a wary eye.

Father merely shrugged. “I suppose it is Beatrice’s opinion we ought to take into account more than anyone’s. So tell us, Beatrice, when do you prefer the wedding to be held?”

All eyes fell on Beatrice. Would she deliver a response simply to appease Father?

Slowly, she placed her fork and knife together on her plate, straightened her back, then looked at Father directly. “I would prefer a spring wedding, Father. But, I’m sorry to say, not with Mr. Wakefield.”

If the silence had been loud before, it was now thunderous.

“Excuse me?” Father replied, lowering his own fork and knife.

“I will not be marrying Mr. Wakefield.”

Marianne looked between her sister and father, the tension between them visible in their stares and rigid shoulders.

“Why is that?” Father asked, his joviality gone, replaced with flared nostrils and a furrowed brow.

“Because we have nothing in common,” Beatrice responded. “Because I do not love him.”

Was Marianne imagining things, or did she hear a slight emphasis on the word ‘him’? But then, of whom else could Beatrice be speaking?

Father obviously hadn’t heard anything of the sort, a small vein beginning to pulse down his temple. “Mr. Wakefield is quite taken with you, Beatrice.”

“After seeing me twice? I’m certain he will be able to overcome the infatuation.”

Father let out an aggravated huff. “Beatrice, your arrogance is—”

“Just like yours?”

“Do not disrespect me.”

Marianne shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She glanced at Mother, whose worried expression matched Marianne’s. “My dear,” Mother said to Father, “perhaps we might discuss this another time.”

“No, I’d like to have this discussion now,” he stated firmly. Then he faced Beatrice once more. “I will not allow you to make such swift judgment upon the man. He is your perfect match in every way, and you will come to see this for yourself.”

“And if I do not?”

“You will.”

“Why?” Beatrice stood, her napkin falling to the floor, her own nostrils flared so much like Father’s. “Why must I marry a man I do not love? To satisfy your own ends? To raise you up in Society’s eyes? To prove that you are better than every member of each lower class?” She leaned forward, spitting out her words. “I am sorry to be the one to inform you of this, Father. But you are not better than they. None of us are.”

“Beatrice,” Mother said, gasping under her breath.

But Beatrice was already walking from the room, ignoring the calls of both her parents. When it was just the three of them in the dining room, silence returned.

Marianne reeled. Since when had Beatrice not believed they were better than the working class?

“What was that?” Father asked after a moment. He turned to Marianne. “Were you aware of her lack of feelings toward Mr. Wakefield?”

Thankfully, Marianne could answer honestly. “No, Father. I did not know.”

“Well, I will not stand for it.” He sat down in a huff. “She has had long enough to choose a husband. I am through with waiting.”