Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter Eighteen

Marianne had never experienced such a deafening dinner before, though no words were spoken. Only the clinking of silverware on plates and trays echoed about the space.

Beatrice had joined them late, her eyes no longer red, though her lips were still held in a firm line. Marianne avoided her gaze, though it was not necessary. Beatrice had yet to lift her eyes from her barely touched plate.

“My, but we are all silent this evening,” Mother said.

Marianne responded with a silent smile.

“Indeed,” Father said. “No doubt we are all enjoying the food. But let us discuss what is on our minds. Marianne?”

She blinked. What was on her mind? Everything was on her mind. Living at Daffley Park for the rest of her life. Being alone. Her sister not caring for her well-being.

Mr. Steele still working away upstairs. “Nothing at all, Papa.”

She glanced at Beatrice, who pulled her eyes away.

“You are always so carefree, Marianne,” he responded with approval. “Nothing ever brings you down.”

Father was as obtuse as Beatrice, but she could not blame him. After all, she was the one who held in her unhappiness. She was the one who chose to obey his wishes. She’d always thought she’d be rewarded one day for doing so, but her logic was flawed. She would not be rewarded. She would remain at Daffley Park until she was too old to be an amiable match for anyone.

“What about you, Beatrice?” Father asked next.

She stared at her plate. “Nothing at all.”

“Hm, I do not believe that is the case.” Father narrowed his eyes with a smile. “I wonder if you are thinking of a certain Mr. Wakefield.”

Marianne tensed. Father’s question only further proved Beatrice’s earlier words. If only she could warn him off to avoid another escalated conversation. Obviously, he knew nothing of Beatrice’s decision to remain unmarried.

Beatrice took a bite of her potato, no doubt to avoid responding.

Father hardly seemed to notice. “I do think he will make for a fine son-in-law. And a fine husband, of course. What do you think of an autumn wedding, Beatrice? Unless you and Mr. Wakefield are eager to begin your lives together, of course. If that is the case, perhaps the end of summer will be better.”

Beatrice’s cheeks reddened, and Marianne’s chest constricted. As much as she disagreed with Beatrice, as much as she was frustrated with her sister for not caring about her, Marianne could not prevent her heart from reaching out to her. Both of them were mere pawns in Father’s plans. As much as Papa loved them, he had very little sense when it came to their happiness.

“Perhaps she merely wishes to make plans later,” Marianne said, hoping to pull the attention away from Beatrice. “Mama, I am eager to taste what you’ve ordered for dessert tonight.”

Papa spoke before Mother had a chance. “Oh, we may speak of dessert later, Marianne. There are far more pressing matters than your sweet tooth.”

“I think I would prefer speaking of dessert,” Beatrice said.

“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.”

“So you will force her to wed a man she does not love?” came Mother’s quiet voice before him.

He exhaled once more. “Well, something must be done. She can wait no longer. Marianne must be allowed to wed, and she will not enter Society until Beatrice has married.”

The blow his words dealt to her hope was catastrophic, obliterating the pieces into shards smaller than shattered glass. There was her answer.

She stood, mumbling, “Excuse me,” before walking from the room without a glance back at her staring parents.

Beatrice would not change her mind, and Father would not yield.

So Marianne would take her future into her own hands. She was finished waiting for her sunset. She was finished with the rain.

She was ready to shine.