Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway
Chapter Fifteen
Marianne leaned back against the old beech tree at the edge of her family’s property, pulling her knees closer to her chest so she could balance her sketchbook closer.
Her drawing today was rather depressing. But then, she felt rather depressed. The woman in the sketch also sat against a tree, her face void of any smile. But where Marianne’s hands were occupied with a pencil and a sketchbook, the drawing’s hands were shackled together with a tight chain.
She sighed, allowing the book to fall back onto her knees as she leaned her head against the smooth, grey bark of the tree. The air was still around her, and the nearby pond sat motionless, reflecting the calm, dark green leaves above her.
Greenfinches chirped their warbling songs to one another as they swooped from branch to branch, their soft, emerald feathers muted in the dimming light of the lowering sun. Bluebells and violets grew in vivid patches around the pond and beyond, carpeting the other side of the pond in a blanket of blues, purples, and greens.
This was her safe space. The place she’d seek out whenever she needed peace or a moment to clear her mind. It was also where she found herself whenever her family held a party at Daffley Park, which was the case that evening.
She did not often allow herself to dwell on her hardships. After all, so many others had it far worse than she did. But there were moments when it was easier to allow the negativity to swallow her hope whole. For what hope could she have, knowing Beatrice would never marry—knowing Marianne might end up unmarried, as well?
A light breeze pushed the pond water into rows of never-ending ripples, subdued light shining across the crests. Darkness would fall before too long, and Marianne would have to return indoors. Then again, perhaps she ought to remain outside all evening. No one would notice she was gone. No one would care. No one would—
“Miss Coventry?”
Her shoulders jumped against the tree, and she swung her eyes round to where Mr. Steele stood in the grass a few paces away.
She had not seen him since she’d lied to him about Beatrice four days ago. What sort of desperation had gripped her senses then was beyond her. Would she do something to make her regret this evening, too? “Mr. Steele. You are working late this evening.”
He looked away. “Yes, I must have lost track of the hour again.” Grey half-circles underlined his eyes, as if he wasn’t receiving enough sleep. Had he truly lost track of time, or was he staying later for another reason?
He motioned to her lap, taking a few steps forward. “Do you typically draw at this hour?”
Blast, her sketchbook. She hadn’t hidden it in time. She closed the book and set it to the side of her, anxious to ignore the fact that he’d more than likely seen the drawing interpreting her life.
“No, at this late hour, I am typically in bed reading.”
“But not in the library, as that is reserved for morning reading.”
She nodded, and a heavy silence followed, weighing upon her chest. She could almost hear his thoughts.
Why does she follow such a rigid routine?
What a strange woman.
Clearly, she’s mad.
“I have my reasons, you know, sticking to such a schedule.”
He studied her, still standing a few paces away. “Why do you, then?”
His question was soft, no judgment in his tone.
She contemplated not responding, hiding the truth as she did even from herself. But she could not keep such things in any longer. Her heart wasn’t strong enough to do so.
She reached for a pebble and tossed it into the pond, ripples radiating toward her. “Because keeping to such a rigid routine helps me to forget how empty my life truly is.”
Surely, he would leave now. What man in his right mind would wish to speak to such a ridiculous female?
Instead of leaving, however, Mr. Steele approached, laying his jacket on the ground and sitting beside her. The strong scent of mahogany lingered around them.
“The ground is still wet,” she warned. The moisture from the rain had already seeped through her doubled-up blanket.
“That’s all right.” He shifted against the ground, pulling his legs up and resting his arms on his knees before linking his fingers together.
They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at a greenfinch swooping low across the water.
“That drawing…was it of you?”
Again, she hesitated. How much of her weaknesses did she really wish to expose to this man? “I suppose.”
“This is because you are not yet out in Society?”
Her gaze darted toward him, but he remained focused on the water. So, he knew, then?
As if he heard her silent question, he responded, “I overheard a conversation at the Blue Boar.”
She should have known. It was not as if she was trying to hide it from him. Besides, all of Ashwick seemed to discuss her life with everyone but her.
“Yes, that is precisely why I feel trapped,” she said. “Which is why you must think I’m mad whenever I speak to you. Asking all sorts of imposing questions, urging you to work faster so I can occupy the library again, lying about my sister taking a liking to you.” Heat flushed through her cheeks. “I am ashamed of my behavior.”
Why was he not leaving? After everything she’d said to him, after the way she’d treated him, why did he remain at her side?
“I do not think you are mad. But I am glad to hear the reasoning behind your actions.” He looked over at her, his dark eyes searching her face. “I assume everything you have done was for the sake of your sister? If she marries, then you may enter Society yourself?”
She cringed at how selfish the words made her sound. She wanted Beatrice to be happily settled, but then Marianne also wanted her own chance at a happy match. The older she became, the more difficult that would be.
“Yes,” she responded. “I asked you those questions at Briarwood because I thought I could sort through men faster than she would. Then I lied to you in the hope that you might have convinced her to fall in love with you. But I was a fool. She’d never marry a—”
She stopped herself, but it was too late. Curse her wretched tongue. She glanced at Mr. Steele, but he merely gave a saddened half-smile.
“She’d never marry a lowly woodcarver,” he finished for her.
She grimaced. “Not lowly. But a member of a lower class, yes.”
He nodded his understanding, remaining silent.
How she longed to dive straight into that pond and swim away from her troubles forever.
As if synchronized with her mood, a cool wind blew past them, sliding across her shoulders like a chill, unwelcome embrace. She brought her knees to her chest and rested her chin against them, securing her shawl more tightly around her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to…We were once of a lower class, too. I suppose we still are.”
He nodded. “There is no need to apologize. I’m flattered you would even consider me worthy to marry your sister. But in truth…I’m not worthy.”
“You are being too modest, Mr. Steele.”
“I wish I was.” His eyes sought hers. “But there are things…” He broke off with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
His struggle to speak played out on his face as he grimaced.
“You needn’t worry about sharing if you do not wish to,” she offered.
But he shook his head. “No, you deserve the truth.” He drew a deep breath. “Steele and Son was once a thriving, prosperous company. Father and I ran our business with ease and had many loyal, returning clients. After he died, however, things deteriorated. We lost almost all of our work, and I fell behind on our rental agreement with the shop. To make up the difference, Mother and I moved into a smaller home, but that only helped for so long. We are still months behind in our payments, with our landlord at the very end of his patience.” He glanced at her sidelong. “I am not wealthy. Your sister would never wish to attach herself to me.”
Marianne sat in stunned silence. She’d had no idea how destitute he was, nor how greatly he’d been suffering. She should’ve noted the way he only ever wore his one jacket, or how his boots were never polished, or how his cravat had been worn thin. How could she have been so selfish as to think she had a difficult life when he and his mother were worrying about not having a home in the next few months?
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her brow pulling together. “I can ask my father to advance his payment to you or…”
He instantly shook his head. “No, no, that is not necessary. Thank you, but he is already paying me generously. I would not wish for him to think me ungrateful. His offer truly was a godsend.”
Marianne nodded her understanding. She knew all too well a man’s pride in wanting to provide for himself and for his family.
Her heart warmed at the level of trust he’d placed upon her, telling his employer’s daughter that he was penniless. She would not betray that trust. But surely there was something she could do to help. Perhaps if she knew more of the story.
“Do you know why the work stopped when your father died?” she asked carefully. “Was it because you were spread too thinly with the workload?”
His voice fell quiet. “No, it was another matter entirely. Matters beyond my control frightened people away from accepting work from us any longer.” He glanced in her direction. “You are not the only one whose life is dictated by Society’s rules, Miss Coventry.”
She waited for more, but he stopped, and she knew better than to press the issue further.
“So, there you have it,” he said with a mirthless smile. “Now you see why it would not do to allow your sister to attach herself to someone who is so poor a prospect.”
Wealthy or not, Marianne still could not agree that Mr. Steele was a poor prospect. He was as good a man as she had ever known.
“Now tell me, Miss Coventry, why are you out here all alone?”
She wasn’t sure she was ready to turn the conversation back on her own problems, but she resigned herself with a shrug. “You must have heard the dinner party convening now at Daffley Park. I am out here because I am not welcome in there.”
“So they do not allow you to even attend parties at your own home?”
“Only after dinner. I must remain at mother’s side or at the edge of the room in silence. But I’ve found such a task horribly degrading.”
Mr. Steele nodded, as if he agreed with her assessment. Honestly, she did not know who wouldn’t agree with her, apart from Father, of course. And the Abbotts. Still, it was nice to be understood by Mr. Steele. Then again, she always felt understood by him.
“I’m sorry you feel so trapped,” he said after a moment. “I do wish I could help.”
Did this man’s goodness have no end? “My trials are nothing compared to your own.”
“It is not wise to compare trials or to claim that one’s are more difficult than another’s. After all, no one can understand fully what is occurring within another’s heart. All we can do is strive for empathy. This way, we may better understand a person’s needs, be that friendship or solitude, service or conversation.” He stopped, leaning toward her. “That being said, I believe I may have just the thing to help ease your burden. If only for a moment.”
Her heart grasped onto the hope he extended toward her as if it was a rope, saving her from drowning in the sea of sorrow she’d lowered herself into in the first place.
This man was in no way a poor prospect. “What is that?”
He sent her an enigmatic smile. “We must go in search of it.”