Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter Thirty

Mr. Clark leaned closer, and indignation swirled inside Marianne at his forceful behavior. “It has been said that your sister—”

“Mr. Clark,” she interrupted quietly but firmly, “gossip and rumors may not injure the ones who spread them, but surely they are the culprits for wounding countless individuals who are at the brunt of such cruel behavior.”

He stared at her wide-eyed, the grin finally gone from his lips.

Thank heavens.

It was not as if she wasn’t curious about said rumors, but why would she wish to hear the words of another—true or not—about her own sister? If she was to learn about anything in relation to Beatrice, she would hear it from Beatrice’s lips, and Beatrice’s lips alone.

“Now,” she continued in a whisper, “if you were any sort of gentleman, Mr. Clark, you would end the rumors yourself. At the very least, you ought not bring them up to the very sister of the one whom the rumors are about.” She raised her chin. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ve had enough of our conversation.”

Marianne found Mother and remained by her side the rest of the evening. Doing so kept her safe from Mr. Clark’s nagging, but it also opened up her mind to constantly comparing the dinner party to the assembly the night before.

She could no longer deny which one continually triumphed in her estimations.

When the evening finally ended, she rode home in the carriage with Mother and Father, utterly exhausted. Where she’d feared disappointment the night before, she’d certainly received it tonight at the Clarks’.

“You did very well tonight, Marianne,” Father said. “We heard nothing but compliments about your behavior and kindness. Of course, we expected nothing less from you.”

Marianne looked out of the window with a half-smile. Fortunately, her parents didn’t press her to say anything in response.

When they arrived at Daffley, Father moved to the parlor for a cup of tea, but Marianne declined his offer to join them. Before she could retire, however, Mother lingered in the entryway, and the two of them spoke in hushed tones.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Marianne?” she asked, blinking sleepily.

Marianne nodded. How could she respond any differently without appearing ungrateful? “I am tired, though.”

“Understandably so. You’ve done much socializing, and it takes its toll on one who is not used to it.”

Marianne couldn’t agree less. It was not the socializing that had tired her out but those with whom she had socialized. Was she simply being intolerant? Or…or had her desires changed? Was it not the balls and dinner parties that pulled her any longer but the people—the people she actually wished to converse with, rather than those she was expected to converse with?

Mother kissed her cheek. “Sleep well tonight, my dear.”

Marianne nodded, turning, but she paused only a few steps away. “Mother?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Are dinner parties always like that?”

“Like what?”

She hesitated. Boring. Uneventful. Tiresome. “Never mind. I was simply expecting something different, I suppose.”

Mother watched her curiously. “Different in what way?”

She shook her head and smiled. “Never mind. Goodnight, Mother.”

She turned away, retrieving an already lit candle from the corridor and heading to her room.

Only, she did not go to her room. Instead, she wandered to the library. She knew Mr. Steele would have left for home already, unable to carve in the dim light produced by the candles, but she was still disappointed when she turned the corner to find the room empty.

She ambled inside, eying the white sheet where Mr. Steele’s tools were usually lined perfectly across the small table. Light from her candle illuminated the work he’d accomplished, and she shook her head in awe. He was a talented man. Talented. Kind. Charming. Sweet.

She sighed, shaking her head. Dwelling on Mr. Steele’s many first-rate traits would do nothing but keep her up all night long.

Leaving behind the library and the memories of their almost-kiss, Marianne finally reached her room, setting the candle down and plopping onto the bed with an exhausted sigh.

Something crinkled behind her, and she turned to find a rectangular, flat package about the size of her hand situated just below her pillow.

She tipped her head. Was it from Beatrice? A peace-offering for ignoring her for more than a week?

She retrieved the package wrapped in brown paper, tied together rather scrappily with brown twine. She moved it upside down, but there was no note or writing.

Forgetting all about the dinner party and her terrible evening, she hastily untied the string and unfolded the paper to reveal a handheld, wooden comb sitting atop a folded note. Her lips parted at the detail and beauty of the light-colored wood. She drew it closer to the candle, inspecting it further. As she did so, her heart tripped. Forget-me-nots trailed the top portion of the comb in such minute detail, one might miss them at first glance.

She ran her fingers along the delicate flowers. There was only one person who knew how greatly she loved them.

She retrieved the paper, unfolding it to read the short message.

Mrs. Hickenbottom,

I carved this from a piece of beechwood I found the night we watched the sunset together. May it always remind you of what we spoke of that night, for you deserve every happiness.

E.S.

Tears sprung to her eyes, and her vision blurred as she smiled.

It was from him.

She read and reread the small note, stroking the grooves of the comb carved by Mr. Steele himself. Joy filled her soul, and clarity enlightened her mind.

Now she understood why her evening with Mr. Steele had excelled in every possible way. He had listened to her. He had seen her, even before she was out in Society. She hadn’t loved the dance because it was her first time out in Society. She’d loved it because she loved the woodcarver who’d accompanied her.

Now, even though barriers littered their path toward being together, she could focus on only one question—did he feel the same about her…or did he not?