Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway
Chapter Nine
Dressed in the same jacket he’d worn to the cricket match, Mr. Steele stood near the gate leading from the churchyard—the gate Marianne and her family walked straight toward.
“Who is he?” Mother repeated in a whisper.
Beatrice remained silent. Marianne couldn’t say a word even if she tried. Her head spun in circles.
This did not bode well. She may have bribed the man to keep their knowledge of each other silent, but how was he to do so when he would inevitably speak with them that morning? If Mama knew, she would be inclined to tell Father. Marianne was done for.
But then, she had no reason to believe Mr. Steele would not keep her secret. Was that not so?
They reached the gate, her family pausing as they took in the sight of the large puddle that had grown to cover more than half of the pathway. Marianne glanced back to Mr. Steele, who stood beside it, his eyes still fixed on her. Is that why he stood there, to help them cross it? Perhaps he wouldn’t say a word to them.
“Might you allow me to help you cross, ladies?” he offered, removing his hat with a bow.
So much for not saying a word.
Mother stepped forward first. “That would be very kind of you, Mr….”
“Mr. Edward Steele, ma’am. Your husband hired me to carve within the library at Daffley Park.”
Mama’s look of intrigue changed to understanding. “Oh, yes, of course. My husband has been searching quite some time for someone of your caliber.”
Mr. Steele’s eyes flicked to Marianne.
Marianne glanced at Beatrice.
Beatrice watched Mr. Steele.
Did she recognize him from the cricket match? Heavens, this was turning into a disaster.
“I certainly hope I can live up to his expectations,” Mr. Steele said.
“I’m certain you will.” Mother turned with a motion of her hand. “Won’t you allow me to introduce my daughters? Miss Beatrice Coventry and Miss Marianne Coventry.”
Marianne curtsied alongside her sister, keeping her eyes averted. Would Mr. Steele now tell Mother that he knew Marianne? Or worse, how he knew her?
“It’s a pleasure,” he said with another bow of his own.
Her heart thumped. His eyes caught hers. Then he stood off to the side. “Well, I shouldn’t like to take up more of your time. If you will allow me.”
He offered his hand first to Mother, who accepted it graciously.
Relief rushed through Marianne’s limbs, causing them to feel as weak as the sculpted jelly they’d eaten last night for dessert. How could she have ever doubted Mr. Steele would keep his word?
As he helped Mother around the large puddle, Beatrice nudged Marianne. “What was that about?” she whispered.
Marianne gave her an innocent expression. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, all those stares between you and the woodcarver. Do you know him?”
Beatrice didn’t remember him?
The tension in Marianne’s shoulders disappeared entirely. “Of course not.” She didn’t really know him either, apart from the fact that he had to be the most honorable gentleman who was not, in fact, a gentleman.
She focused straight ahead, ignoring Beatrice’s questioning gaze and trying very hard not to run her eyes across the framing of Mr. Steele’s broad shoulders or smell the musky cologne that softly pervaded the area around him.
He returned soon for Beatrice, and after she was safely delivered to Mother’s side—she and Mother walking toward the carriages—Mr. Steele reached out his hand for Marianne.
Gently, she placed her fingers in his, and their eyes met as his thumb pressed lightly on her knuckles. She directed her eyes forward and stepped around the puddle.
“Thank you,” she murmured, releasing her hand and walking beside him toward her awaiting mother and sister.
She ought to say something more, but her tongue felt too thick in her mouth. What was this foreign feeling of shyness weighing down on her like a heavy, woolen blanket?
“Did I manage to keep to our agreement?” he whispered.
She glanced up at him, her words finally coming. “I believe so.”
“Excellent. I’d hate for you to think those cherry tarts went to waste.”
He gave her a knowing look, then after delivering her to her family, he bowed and walked away.
Mother stared after him. “What a charming man. How unfortunate he’s of a lower class. He might’ve made a fine match for you, Beatrice.”
Marianne paused. She’d once thought the very same, but now, her stomach clenched at the image of her sister and the woodcarver together.
She shook her head. What was she thinking? If Beatrice considered Mr. Steele a match, Marianne would be free.
“Yes, well, we all know Father would never allow it,” her sister said. “Neither would I.”
She entered the carriage, and Mother nodded, following after her.
Marianne stared after them then returned her gaze to Mr. Steele, who had stopped to speak to Mrs. Hill. The baker had her hands on his, a delighted grin on her wrinkled face as Mr. Steele smiled down at her. That smile of his was so elusive. And attractive—very attractive.
She knew Mother didn’t really mind what class a person was, but Father and Beatrice both had inflated opinions simply because of Father’s income. Marianne couldn’t understand it. What did it matter if a man was a gentleman or a member of the working class? Before Father had elevated his status, he had still been just as wonderful a man. Just like Mr. Steele.
She shook her head and entered the carriage. No, Beatrice would never fall for a working-class man. With amiable, eligible gentlemen becoming scarcer in Ashwick, it was very unlikely that Beatrice would marry at all.
So where did that leave Marianne?