Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway
Chapter Thirty-Five
Marianne’s family remained silent.
“She has a right to know,” Mother said.
Father shook his head. “No, she does not.”
Beatrice’s gaze did not falter from Marianne’s. Rain filtered down from the ends of her blonde locks. “I am in love.”
Marianne’s breathing stopped. “With whom?”
Beatrice winced.
“Charlie Macrae,” Father responded with disgust.
Marianne searched her mind for the name but could not place it.
“The Clark’s stable hand,” Mother said softly.
Heavens. Marianne could hardly believe her ears, darting her eyes toward Beatrice. Her sister looked away in shame. She’d always been as adamant as Father about marrying a gentleman. Surely she was in jest.
But as her red eyes met Marianne’s once more, the truth was confirmed. “I met him months before we left for Bath,” Beatrice explained. “I told him we could never marry, but he pursued me anyway.”
Thoughts streamed forth as Marianne attempted to make sense of the revelation. This was why Beatrice had not wished to participate in Marianne’s game to find eligible gentlemen at the cricket match. This was why she’d spent so long at the Clarks’ without anyone’s knowledge. This was why she’d cried before dinner that one evening in the drawing room—no doubt from heartbreak. Had Marianne truly been so blind, so preoccupied with her own life that she’d missed Beatrice’s grief altogether?
She grimaced, turning to Father. “How can you do this to us—to both of us? Can you not see we wish to be with the men we love?”
Father raised his chin. “Beatrice has chosen for herself not to marry Charlie Macrae.”
Marianne looked to Beatrice. “Surely that cannot be true.”
Beatrice sniffed away the moisture trailing down her nose. “I do not wish to be the wife of a stable hand.” She shivered, hugging herself closer. “And you would not wish to be the wife of a woodcarver.”
Marianne pulled back. How could Beatrice claim such a thing if she did not know how deeply Marianne’s love for Mr. Steele ran through her very soul?
Before she could protest, Beatrice turned on her heel and made for the house in silence.
“I think we had better follow her and return indoors,” Mother said softly, compassion filling her eyes. “Come, Marianne.”
Marianne frowned. This was not how it was supposed to end. Her parents were supposed to have listened to her, to understand her love for Mr. Steele was true. They were supposed to accept him and their future together, not ignore the very desires of her heart.
She looked to Mr. Steele in a panic. His jaw was set, though his eyes reflected the dismay they both shared.
“Marianne,” Father prompted next in a firm but softened tone.
How could she have allowed this to occur? Mr. Steele would lose his property, his only way to work. How would he and his mother survive? With fleeting hope, she turned toward Father. “Please. Do not punish Mr. Steele for my own actions. He is not at fault.”
Father looked away, his jaw twitching. “That may be so. But I will not allow that man to work under my roof any longer.” With his gaze still averted, he spoke to Mr. Steele. “I will pay you for the work you’ve completed. Not a penny more. Now leave, and do not return.”
Marianne’s relief was short-lived as she faced Mr. Steele again. How could this be happening? Surely he wouldn’t leave. Surely they would work this out.
The sorrow in his eyes spoke measures. Nothing could be done. Marianne could not leave her family with nowhere to go, burdening Mr. Steele and his mother with another mouth to feed, and Mr. Steele could not stay in Ashwick without work.
“Mr. Steele,” she whispered, unable to finish another word.
“Marianne,” Father pressed again.
Mr. Steele stared down at her, taking a step away so her hand around his arm dropped to her side. The cold air swirling around her paled in comparison to the ice forming at the center of her heart.
Was this truly goodbye? Would she never see him again?
“I love you,” he whispered for only her ears to hear, then with a reassuring nod, he retrieved the tools from Mr. Morley and walked away from Daffley Park.
Marianne watched him depart, his head hanging as low as her heart.
“Marianne…” Father began.
She whirled around to him, frustration encompassing her. “How could you?” she cried out, then she fled past his flinching eyes and made for the house.
She would never be whole again.