Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter Two

Marianne Coventry circled back around, slunk past the refreshment table, then slipped into her chair behind her parents without a hitch.

A point was made for the gentlemen’s team, and Father stood, cheering with delight just as Beatrice emerged from the crowds.

“There you are, sister,” Marianne said, feigning surprise. “I’d wondered where you’d gone.”

Beatrice eyed her suspiciously. There was no fooling her. “I was sent to find you, Marianne. Mama was worried.”

Mama turned around at the sound of her daughters speaking. “Ah, you have finally returned. I trust the lemonade was worth the lengthy time it took you.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly.

Marianne knew she shouldn’t have taken so long. Speaking with two gentlemen had been pressing her luck. Three was just asking for trouble.

“I was merely taken with Lord Ryecombe being injured, that’s all,” she said.

“Oh, yes. Poor man.” Mother faced forward again. “I do hope he will be all right.”

“I’m sure he will be, my dear,” Father said, patting her hand that she laced through his arm.

Another crack echoed around the field, and Mother and Father both faced the game once more. Unfortunately, Beatrice wasn’t so easily distracted, her blue eyes boring into Marianne.

In every way, the sisters were opposites. While Marianne had green eyes and dark brown hair, her older sister was blue-eyed and blonde. Marianne’s nose was littered with a sprinkling of freckles, and Beatrice had not a blemish to be seen.

Truthfully, Marianne was more than happy with Beatrice being the prettier of the two. Having such beauty meant that Beatrice would marry sooner. Or at least, it was supposed to have meant that.

“Where were you, really?” Beatrice asked, leaning toward Marianne so their parents couldn’t hear.

Marianne smiled innocently. “By the refreshment table.” That wasn’t a lie. Each man she’d spoken to had been by the refreshments.

“And what were you doing over there?”

“Why, getting refreshment, of course.”

Beatrice frowned, though no wrinkle formed in the middle of her brow. “Very well. I’ll allow you to keep your secrets, only because I’m too tired to pull the truth from you.” She stifled a yawn, covering her mouth with her laced glove. “Do you have any idea how much longer the game will last?”

“I imagine another hour or so. Lord Ryecombe’s injury delayed us a good deal.”

Beatrice grimaced.

“Are you not enjoying yourself?” Marianne asked.

Beatrice glanced sidelong. “What is there to enjoy about a cricket match?”

Marianne nodded with understanding. Though cricket was an exciting game to her, and she would die for a chance to play herself, Beatrice had never liked the sport. But after her parents had become acquainted with Lord Ryecombe at the assemblies last evening in Bath, their family had been invited to watch the match at Briarwood. Beatrice had protested the idea, but Father never passed on an invitation to improve his standing with gentlemen.

Marianne couldn’t complain about the match herself. For once, the sun was bright and warm, she was away from the confines of her home, the happy chatter around her buoyed her spirits, and the food was delectable.

The last man she’d spoken to had apparently thought the same thing.

She smiled, looking past Beatrice to try to spot him again, but he was hidden amongst the others. Shame.

“Who are you staring at?”

Marianne hesitated. “Oh, no one. I was just admiring gowns and such.”

Beatrice eyed her with suspicion again, but Marianne leaned forward, clasping her knees in her hands before Beatrice could press her for more information. “Perhaps you and I could take a walk to the refreshment table. I’m certain we could meet some interesting people on our way.”

Heavens, but she was laying it on thickly.

Beatrice shook her head. “I’m not one for socializing at the moment.”

Marianne couldn’t understand it. If she were Beatrice, she wouldn’t hesitate to speak to every man within ear shot. Heavens, Marianne wasn’t even out in Society yet, and she’d already brashly approached three different men.

If Father discovered her improper behavior, there certainly would be consequences. He was taken with appearances, especially as of late. But truly, Marianne’s behavior was as much for her sister’s sake as it was for her own. Ten years had passed since Beatrice’s search for a husband began—and five years since Marianne had believed hers would begin. She wanted Beatrice to be happily settled. Was it so very wrong for Marianne to wish for the same herself?

“If you are so very bored with cricket, perhaps we could play a game of our own,” she suggested next.

“What do you have in mind?” The usual, perpetual somberness dimmed Beatrice’s eyes.

She had not always been that way. When they were children, she was as energetic and enthusiastic about life as Marianne. But Beatrice had become far more serious once she had entered Society at fifteen, when Marianne had just turned ten. No doubt she felt the pressure to marry and marry well.

“I shall bring to your attention a few men in attendance here, then you will tell me if you believe the two of you would make a fine match,” Marianne offered.

Beatrice frowned, staring at the field in silence. Had she seen through to Marianne’s true motives?

“I do not know if I am up for such a game, Marianne,” Beatrice said.

Marianne scooted to the edge of her white chair. “Come now. It will be fun. Here, I shall find the first for you.”

She pointed out a gentleman nearby with a red waistcoat—the first man Marianne had accosted with her questioning that morning. “He is charming, is he not?”

He was also clearly wealthy and had answered all her questions without fault. Born and raised in a renowned city, did not care for cricket, enjoyed reading. All of these added up to what could potentially be a very fine match for Beatrice. If the match was realized, Marianne would finally be free.

Yet, with Beatrice’s disinterested gaze, Marianne’s hope floundered.

“You don’t find him the least bit attractive?” she asked.

“Certainly. But he’s too tall.” This was exactly why Marianne had taken it upon herself to narrow down the potential candidates. Beatrice had become unbearably fussy with prospective husbands. She had to be aware what her hesitant behavior was doing to Marianne, did she not?

Marianne wasn’t sure she wished to know the answer. Either Beatrice knew and willingly continued to injure Marianne—or she didn’t, thereby revealing her lack of consideration for her sister.

Marianne shook the demoralizing thoughts from her mind. “Very well, what about him?” She pointed out the second gentleman she’d questioned, a man with fair hair and a chest reminiscent of a barrel.

Beatrice nodded. “He is handsome. But he does not appear as if he would enjoy reading.”

“He enjoys reading,” Marianne blurted out before thinking better of it. “I mean, I’m certain he would.” She was certain because he’d told her as much.

“Even still, you know I am more partial to darker hair on a gentleman.”

Marianne bit the inside of her cheek. Each man had answered her questions hesitantly but none so much as the third. He was dark-haired and by far the handsomest of all the men she’d spoken to.

She strained her neck forward, and to her delight, she caught sight of him making his way to the refreshment table again. Would he hide another bundle in his satchel?

“What of him?” she asked next.

“Who?”

“The man at the refreshment table.”

Beatrice’s eyes lingered on him before pulling away. “He is of a lower class, Marianne.”

“And?”

Beatrice gave her a dubious look. Obviously, Marianne knew exactly what the issue was, but he was perfect. From what she’d gathered in the few moments she’d spoken to him, anyway.

“You know Father would never approve.” Beatrice raised her chin. “Nor would I. Papa worked too hard to leave behind that life, only for his daughter to return to it.”

Marianne sighed. She was right, of course. As a young family, the Coventrys had never been truly destitute, but there were moments she recalled her parents voicing their fear of not having enough money for food. Before Marianne was ten, Father had realized his dream of making money through trade and various investments enough to purchase an estate of his own. But if the working class was where Father had started—was how he had become who he was today—how terrible could it be?

“He still appears to be relatively wealthy, does he not?” Marianne pressed, eying the man’s fine jacket.

She hardly cared about wealth. She could go without new gowns and the latest fashions if she was simply around the people she loved.

Beatrice didn’t look at him again. “You and I both know wealth only plays a small factor in all this. Father is adamant about keeping up appearances.”

Marianne knew this to a fault. It was the very reason she was still not out in Society. When Father had first made his fortune, he’d been snubbed by a certain number of upper-class individuals. Not wishing to be looked down upon, he swore to obey Society’s standards to a fault, whether that was in his daughters’ best interest or not. Marianne obviously believed the latter, though she did her best to do what Father requested of her.

“As I said before,” Beatrice continued, “I shall not marry anyone I do not love, especially if he is not a gentleman, and neither shall you.” She stood abruptly, clasping her hands before her. “Excuse me. I’m tired of both games now.”

Marianne’s shoulders fell as she walked away. Her sister had said neither of them would marry anyone less than a gentleman. But then, would Marianne even have the chance to marry if her sister never chose a spouse?

As it was, it was probably for the best that Beatrice had not fallen for the working-class man. Marianne wouldn’t like having a man so handsome for a brother-in-law.