Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway
Chapter Thirty-Two
Marianne’s cheeks burned with heat despite the cold air nipping at her skin. She never should have mentioned the comb. Deep within her heart, she knew it had meant more than a simple farewell between friends.
And yet, his response had revealed his true desires—that even if he did wish for something more between them, he didn’t want to want it. That had pained her more than anything.
“All is well, Mr. Steele,” she said as he approached. “You were right. We shouldn’t be seen out here together.”
“No, we shouldn’t,” he agreed at once. “But I…” He broke off with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck with his gloved hand. The wariness was etched so clearly across his brow, he could have carved it himself. “I have been an utter cad to allow a friendship to occur between us. You do not even know how you risk your own reputation simply by speaking with me.”
Her mind sifted through his words, attempting to make sense of them. “You are speaking in regard to the rumors about your father?”
His silence answered her question.
“But they were false,” she said.
He removed his hat, raking his fingers through his hair. “False or not, the reputation remains. I care about you too greatly to allow our association to continue.”
Her heart lifted. He did care for her. “Surely the rumors will fade as the years pass.”
He paced back and forth as if he had not heard her. “If you only knew what has been said, Miss Coventry. You would leave this moment and never converse with me again.”
That would not happen, no matter the rumors. But she knew he would not believe her until she had proven her devotion. “Then tell me, Mr. Steele. Tell me what the rumors claim.”
He stopped walking and stared at her, clearly debating whether to speak. Finally, with fallen shoulders, the defeat in his stance was apparent. “Father was accused of…being with the wife of one of his employers.”
The blood drained from her face, though she forced herself to react unaffected. “But…but you were not.”
He glanced at her sidelong. “No, my sin is one of mere association. If they believed Father could do such a thing, why would his son not?” He sniffed with derision. “Upper class logic at its finest.”
Marianne watched him, the pieces falling into place within her mind. That was why he had been so careful with her, so hesitant in everything he did—because he did not wish to taint her name as his had been tainted.
Was that also why he could not admit his feelings for her? Or was there something more? “Can you tell me more about the rumors?” she asked with care. “How they came about?”
He stared off toward the gravel lane nearby, rain bouncing up from the small rocks in minuscule splashes. “Mr. French commissioned work from Father for many years. Mrs. French would often speak with Father when he’d install various furnishings around their house, but she began to linger too greatly in his presence. Father always brought me along or sent me alone to try to ward the woman off, but one day, when I was occupied elsewhere, Mrs. French attempted to…to encourage Father to behave improperly. Father instantly refused, declaring his devoted love for his own wife and his respect for Mr. French.”
His lip twitched down in disgust. “Mrs. French, obviously humiliated, told her husband that Father had been the culprit. Mr. French was furious, and rightly so—had she been speaking the truth. Unfortunately, the gentleman created story after story, discouraging anyone from accepting work from Steele and Son again.”
He shook his head, still clearly affected by the horrifying details. “Mrs. French’s conscience eventually got the better of her, and she apologized to Father in a correspondence, declaring his innocence in the whole situation. But it was too late. We lost every last one of our well-paying, long-standing customers.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “The physician said Father died from a fever, but Mother and I know what really killed him was his grief. He simply could not understand how his friends and associates, people he had known for years, could truly believe he would do something so heinous.”
Marianne’s chest ached as she imagined the anguish his family must have endured. She longed to reach out, to caress Mr. Steele’s furrowed brow and ease his wounds. “I’m so sorry. I cannot imagine having to go through such a terrible experience. But…not everyone believes such things.”
His eyes found hers.
“As you can see, I am still here,” she continued, “despite the rumors, despite what it might do to my name and reputation. Surely that tells you something.”
He sobered, a gaunt look in his eye. “Yes, it tells me that I was selfish to seek a connection with you from the start, knowing your name would be sullied if connected with mine.” He shook his head. “I should have been honest with you. And I certainly never should have given you that blasted comb.”
The words fractured her heart, and she scrambled to put the pieces back together. She could see Mr. Steele’s reasoning. If he pursued any sort of relationship with Marianne, he would lose any chance of maintaining his work at Daffley, thereby forfeiting his and his mother’s home and his own future at his shop.
She could not ask him to do that.
She took a step away from him, embarrassment rushing through her limbs as swiftly as the drops fell from the sky. How could she have been so selfish to have even considered them being together?
“Forgive me, Mr. Steele. I could never ask you to choose between me and your livelihood. I never should have put you through this.”
She shook her head, backing away then turning on her heel and fleeing from beneath the cover of the trees.
This time, Mr. Steele didn’t attempt to stop her.
Rain poured down over the brim of her hat and fell against her shoulders, the cold seeping through her riding habit. In contrast, warm tears blurred her vision, and she squeezed her eyes to be rid of them.
How could she have been so foolish? So heartless to have put him through such torment? So stupid to have believed there was some chance of them being happy together, of both receiving what they wanted and needed?
“Miss Coventry?”
She gritted her teeth, trying to run faster than his words, but he called out to her again.
“Miss Coventry, please!”
She spoke over her shoulder, though she plowed ahead through the rain. “No, Mr. Steele. You needn’t explain your reasoning. I understand it all too well.”
“No, you do not. Please, do not leave like this.”
The pleading in his voice tugged at her conscience. She did not wish to leave like this either, but then, what were they to do?
Slowly, she turned to face him. He stood more than ten feet away, his boots planted in the sopping grass, his hat and satchel nowhere to be seen. Had he left them beneath the tree? Rain slipped from his hair to his brow, trailing down the angles of his nose, lips, and jawline, and his dark jacket shone all the darker due to the rain.
“The comb.” He paused, swallowing as the lines in his neck angled. “It was not a mere token of friendship or farewell. It was the only way I could express my feelings for you. The only way I could share how deeply I love you.”
The words took root in her heart, swirling slow warmth throughout each of her limbs before she had the chance to stop it.
“But you would have no future with me as your husband,” Mr. Steele continued, his eyes red-rimmed and shining with moisture.
She struggled to accept his words, her common sense failing her as she stared at his pained expression. “I know I would have more of a future with you than I would with anyone else.”
“You do not know what you say. We would be poor. Destitute.”
And she would make them all the poorer. She didn’t wish to put such a strain on him and his mother. But how could she bid farewell to the one man who knew her, the one man who loved her?
Her heart thumped painfully against her chest, each tap like a mallet to the chisel, carving his name into her soul forever. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said, her voice breaking.
His chest rose and fell beneath his waistcoat, his breath puffing out in white clouds as the cold air encircled them both.
“Nor I, you, my love,” he said. His lips parted again as if he wished to say something more, but they closed a moment later as he winced.
Shaking his head, his jaw twitched, and he advanced upon her, closing the distance in a few strides. Swiftly, he pulled off his gloves and dropped them to the ground, reaching out and holding her face gently in his hands.
Silence pulsed between them, the rain softly tapping against the grass, their eyes unmoving from one another’s until his gaze dropped to her mouth. He moved his thumb along her bottom lip before he leaned forward.
No more words were spoken—no more words were needed. They were of the same mind, same heart, same desires. She closed her eyes, tipping her head to the side at his soft urging and waited with anticipation until his lips finally pressed against hers.
Rain pattered against her cheek, sliding down her skin and leaving a cold trail behind the drops. How the sensation contrasted sharply to the warmth infusing her entire being as Mr. Steele kissed her. With his heated breath against her cheek, his hands cradling her face, Marianne had never felt more loved.
She slid her arms around his shoulders, tipping her head further to the side as their kiss continued. She felt at home in his arms, as if this was what she’d been missing her entire life. How had she ever lived without this man? How was she to live without him now?
Reality settled its way into Marianne’s thoughts once more, though she did her best to set it aside. Mr. Steele must have noticed the change in her focus, for his kisses slowed, and he pulled back, resting his brow against hers.
They remained still for a moment, his hands resting at her hips, hers on his shoulders, neither of them wishing to dispel the peace around them.
But the spell had already been broken merely by a simple thought.
“What are we to do?” she whispered.
“I do not know. We could speak with your father…”
The very idea made her throat constrict.
He pulled his brow back from hers. “He will not listen to us, though,” he finished.
She nodded. Father was far too aggravated with Beatrice’s choice to never marry. Marianne saying that she had decided to marry a woodcarver would be even worse.
“We cannot keep it a secret,” she said, though she longed for that to be a viable option.
He nodded at once in agreement. “Speaking the truth will only infuriate your father to the point that I will no longer be employed here.”
That could not occur. Too much was at stake for him and his mother to risk losing any amount of pay from Father.
“What options are we left with, then?” she asked, despair swiftly swallowing her hope in one large gulp.
He must have sensed her worry, for he reached forward, gently wiping away the moisture sliding down her cheek. “We keep up our hope and pray for a sunset.”
Warmth settled again into her heart, and she raised on the tips of her toes to press a lingering kiss to his lips.
But a voice disrupted their moment of solitude, deep and loud…and coming directly from the house. “Marianne!”