Chapter Eighteen
“You do not have to tell me what happened,” said Flora. “I shall understand if you prefer to keep it a secret. Disappointedly, of course; but understanding nevertheless.”
She spoke these words playfully, but with depth of feeling as she squeezed her sister’s arm.
“I do not know what I am to tell,” Marianne answered. “It is only–Mr. Nimbley made me an offer. He was kind to me, and very gentlemanly, but I did not wish to say yes.” She blushed after this statement, despite a valiant effort to control it.
“Did you care for him?” Flora’s voice was soft.
“In what way?” Marianne attempted to seem careless, but failed once again. She was aware of her sister’s keen gaze, the pair of thoughtful gray eyes studying her for signs of the emotions hidden beneath the surface.
“In a way that would make you wish you had accepted,” said Flora. At this, Marianne shook her head.
“I don’t wish to marry anyone,” she said. “Not even Adam Nimbley. For while he might prefer to speak of science and philosophy with me now, he would not be so pleased to talk of those subjects when I am the mistress of a proper house.” Whether this was true, remained to be seen. For was there not a part of her that once imagined that a life of companionship with someone so bright and likeminded–might be pleasant?
“I do not think you can judge someone so harshly,” Flora objected. “If he would speak of one thing with a young lady for whom he cared deeply, then he would speak of the same after she was his wife. Why would any man converse with a woman on subjects which he does not think interest her?”
“Perhaps because the young lady was encouraged by a little book of advice to choose subjects which were of interest to a gentleman,” replied Marianne, pertly.
Flora’s cheeks reddened to a shade resembling her elegantly-pinned tresses. “The little book of advice also reminds young ladies to guard against unseemly behavior,” she said, “which would include being too bold in conversation.”
Marianne bit her lip. “I am sorry, Flora,” she answered. “It was not right of me to bring up the little book. It is only that I do not want you to think I–I somehow encouraged Mr. Nimbley.”
Flora turned her attention to the little piece of embroidery in her hands, although Marianne could not help but notice the tangle of threads and poor knots along the current unfinished portion. “Then is there someone else?” she asked.
“No,” Marianne answered. “That is–I do not think so.” The return of her blush did not escape Flora’s glance when she looked up.
“I see,” said Flora. “Then I suppose we should not talk of it anymore.” She tugged a thread caught in the outline of a petal blossom. Marianne fell silent as she gazed into her cup of tea.
“I wish I had the good fortune of being acquainted with your Mr. Nimbley,” remarked Flora, breaking this agreement after a long silence. “Perhaps I should then be better assured that there was no possibility of answering differently.”
“Then my word is not enough for you?” Marianne laughed, but the tremor in her voice made this statement ineffectual. “You know I would never refuse someone because of title or fortune.”
“But for other reasons,” supplied Flora. “If he were not of good or honest character, for instance...”
“If he were not steadfast in principle,” Marianne answered, slowly, “in his passions, for instance. Then I might have reason to doubt any happiness proposed by such a person.” Heat rose in her cheeks with these words, each one carefully measured out in succession as if to be certain it was not wanting in the expression of her feelings.
“I shall be very sorry if it is true,” said Flora. “Perhaps had I known the young man, I would agree with you–that such constancy of character is lacking...and not merely a moment of haste or weakness to be regretted, let us say.” She glanced up from her needlework at her sister, in whose eye a glint of unhappiness might be detected.
“There is someone else, also,” Marianne said, after a moment, “that I would have wished you to meet. To know your opinion of him, it if were possible.”
“Might we meet encounter him this Season?” asked Flora. “When I am your chaperone in society–and quite eager to meet any and all of your friends.” This part was spoken with emphasis as she looked into her sister’s face.
Marianne’s smile reappeared. “I think the chance is but very little you shall know either of them. But I am grateful that you would say so.”
Flora reached to squeeze her sister’s hand once again, then the subject dropped between them in favor of more familiar topics open to all who might appear.
*****
“I am only sorry that Myrah is not here to escort her,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam lamented. “Little Edward seems quite out of sorts with his cold and I know you would not wish to leave him.”
Flora smiled. “Edward is quite well, Ma’am,” she answered. “Lord Easton would decline his mother’s invitation if the illness were at all serious; but I consented to go since he is feeling much better today.”
“Then you will keep a sharp eye upon Marianne?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said, anxiously. “I dread the thought of any more unwanted suitors–although there are far worse possibilities than the youngest son of a baronet, to be sure, if he is of good character.”
“I’m sure you are quite correct,” said Flora, hiding a smile.
The party held by Lady Honoria Easton was a large and grand affair, although not on the lively scale of her daughter Lady Sanford’s ball. A simple supper, a smaller assembly of dancers, and a quartet whose choice of music favored the graceful steps of the minuet over the bold waltz.
Here, in the company of her sister Flora, it was possible for Marianne to dance if she wished, but she did not. There was something flustered about her nature these days, a despondency that dampened her spirits and conversation. It was lessened tonight, however, by the agitation of being in public again, where a chance meeting with young Mr. Nimbley might occur–although what did she care of Mr. Nimbley? Unless, of course, it was to relieve herself that he no longer felt the disappointment from last time. And if he did?
“I believe Mrs. Fitzwilliam has high hopes of you dancing with Lord Hepperly,” whispered Flora.
Marianne stirred from her thoughts, a silent retrospect into which she had fallen while standing by and watching the figures dancing within their ring of admirers. Her mouth twisted with distaste
“I hope he does not,” she answered in a low voice, “for I never liked him at all. He was such a mincing nabob at all of Colonel Miles’s engagements.”
“Our good uncle extended invitations to all willing to visit his estate,” said Flora, “whether they were friends from his regiment or acquaintances of his father’s title and wealth, I suppose.” But she did not speak of Lord Hepperly again, the young man’s insipid laugh echoing from a conversational exchange nearby.
Marianne toyed with her fan as she and Flora stood by in silence again. Her gaze wandered the room, taking note of the bright feathers and ornamental jewels, the figure of her aunt bustling through the crowd of guests. The scarlet coat of a Regimental officer caught her eye, a brown countenance in the midst of the pale complexions of London.
Her heart caught in her throat momentarily; the face was familiar–but it could not be. Not here in London, so far away from the scenes of Norland Park. But he was coming towards her now, the same smile of merriment she remembered from before.
“Miss Stuart,” he said, with a cordial bow.
“Captain Lindley,” she answered, with surprise. “Please–how come you to be in London? Your regiment is not removed from its encampment?”
“No, indeed,” he answered. “I have been charged by the Colonel’s wife with a few offices on her behalf in London, since she cannot come herself for the Season. Only for a week– but a week in London I cheerfully accepted. For a reason more personal than pleasing my commanding officer.”
He glanced at Flora. “I h
ave not the honor of an acquaintance with your friend,” he said.
“Lady Easton,” said Marianne, “may I present Captain Lindley, of Colonel Hendricks’s regiment. Captain Lindley–Lady Flora Easton, my sister.”
He bowed in acknowledgement of Flora’s polite curtsy. “Your sister,” he repeated, this time with a note of genuine surprise in his own voice. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Easton.”
“And I yours, Captain Lindley,” Flora answered. She glanced significantly at her sister, whose cheeks were wreathed with blush roses at this moment.
After a moment, Captain Lindley drew his gaze from Flora to her sister. “Might I request the honor of this next dance, Miss Stuart,” he began, “if you are not otherwise engaged?”
“Indeed I am not, sir,” she answered. “I would be happy to oblige.” The words emerged in a less-than-proper tone which would have horrified her aunt, perhaps; but sounded to Marianne’s ears like a jumble of confusion. She glanced at Flora, seeking permission.
“Go,” said Flora. “Sir Alden has claimed my hand for this dance.” She smiled as Marianne accepted Lindley’s hand, allowing him to lead her onto the floor.
Her heart was beating more quickly than usual as she stood across from the young soldier, her sister but a few feet away in the company of her partner. Captain Lindley’s smile, she felt, she must avoid gazing upon too keenly, for it seemed to have a strange effect upon her thoughts.
“Have you been long in London?” she ventured, faintly, after the dance had begun.
“Not long,” he answered. “Not above two days. I would have called upon you, but I remember your companion’s rather fastidious belief in proper connections.” This, with a knowing little smile.
She blushed. “My aunt is rather strict,” she answered. “As are my cousins–whom you met at Norland Park. I fear they expect rather the same from me.”
“They are not closely acquainted with your character,” he laughed. “You were not ruled by propriety, Miss Marianne, as I recall.”
“You must call me Miss Stuart,” she reminded him. “If we are to be properly acquainted.”
His look in reply was studious, intently fixed upon her face. “What I admired most about you was your preference to dispense with these rules of society as quickly as possible, Miss Stuart.”
She trembled slightly as the dance’s steps drew them closer. His voice grew warmer as he spoke again. “It was the ease of manner with which you received me that made me intent upon knowing you better–to continue with such ease with society’s approval.”
They were parted for a moment, giving Marianne a chance to hold these words in her thoughts. She was not sure of her reply–she was sure of nothing except the effect which his presence had upon her. As if the sense of adventure connected with his life was a perfume drawing her thither, the winds of a foreign land sweeping across a London street.
When she was faced with him again, she felt his fingers upon her own as he guided her through the steps again. “I have enjoyed our acquaintanceship,” she said. “I cannot tell you how much, for I can scarce find words to describe my pleasure over our woodland walk. And the assistance of the bird’s nest, of course.” Her smile was one of friendliness.
For a moment, he was quiet. “I have hope of prospects, Miss Stuart,” he said. “Dreams of glories in my career if you will. I have the good fortune of possessing a connection to General Phelps, as you know, and have the respect of my commanding officer. In the future,” he continued, “it might be possible that as someone with connections–an influence in society–that I might rise in the ranks to find fortune.”
His dark eyes were fixed upon her again as he took both of her hands in his own for the dance’s turn. His smile had altered somewhat, into something more serious than of old.
“A fortune,” she repeated. “And this is your wish in your career?”
“My wish,” he answered, “is that I might make myself happy by pleasing another whom I admire more than words can express.”
In his eyes, she glimpsed the first stirrings of mischief–and of something deeper than his usual merriment. The glimpse startled her, as if her emotions were like a wild rabbit concealed in the hedges instead of the boldness of a young girl who bounded through fields without hesitation.
“I believe that the next remark lies with you,” he said. Her lips moved, but she did not speak–for the close of the dance, the sudden silence from the music was enough to silence her answer.
He drew her aside from the other dancers, towards an occupied corner near the velvet drapes. Beneath the touch of his hand, Marianne felt the urgency of this move, the boldness of speaking to her in this brief moment.
“I am making an offer to you, Marianne,” he said. “If you will have me. If you will consider my heart your own, then we shall share a life together. Think of it and answer me when you wish.”
“Captain Lindley,” she whispered “William–” Her gaze flickered from his own to the crush of guests around them, realizing that others might be privy to this moment. As if realizing the same, Captain Lindley took her arm without another word.
“Take all the time you wish to answer,” he said. “I will not press you. You have the freedom of time. Of that I give you without hesitation.”
His fingers touched her cheek, turning her eyes towards his own. Caught in his gaze, she trembled, aware that his face was drawing closer to her own, until their lips were almost touching. Someone might see–but that was not what concerned her. The memory of Adam Nimbley's pained expression, the unhappiness in those grey-green eyes, was what forced her to turn away suddenly.
"I thank you," she endeavored to whisper.
He gazed at her a moment longer, then drew back gently. "Come," he said, taking her hand. He escorted her to the ring of observers again, where the bubble of conversation and general interest made their presence unnoticed. Marianne’s blush had vanished, leaving her cheeks pale with aftermath of the emotions.
“I remember that I must not ask you for a second dance,” said Lindley. Beneath the gaze of those dark eyes, she felt she could not trust herself to reply. With a second bow, he moved away again.
In a moment, he had disappeared in the crowd, leaving her alone. She followed the movement of his red coat as it disappeared in the crowd, feeling both disappointment and confusion. That he had confessed feelings for her beyond those of their pleasant companionship was a surprise–and yet it was not, given her own thoughts. Was she relieved that he did not press her to answer? Or disappointed that she had no words? The explanation for her swiftly-beating heart was not to be had at this moment.
She felt Flora’s hand upon her arm, her sister having approached after her partner escorted her from the floor. “I must apologize,” she said, in a low voice. “For pressing you upon the subject of your feelings when we spoke before. But I am pleased that I made the acquaintance of your friend.”
“I did not wish to speak of him,” answered Marianne, with a blush. “That is, there is nothing to speak of.” With effort, she kept her emotions from creeping into her voice.
Flora suppressed a smile. “He is very gentlemanly,” she said. “He seems a proper companion to whom our father would not object.”
“Captain Lindley is like–is like any other gentleman in society. To me, he is merely a kind friend whose politeness is valued indeed. There is no one who has any claim upon me except friendship.” She met Flora’s eye, but only for a brief second before turning towards the floor again.
“Indeed,” said Flora. Who took her sister’s hand and pressed it firmly with this reply.
*****
Had Marianne kept a journal, what might she have written therein upon this evening? Would she have gazed up from its pages and thought of the dashing young captain in his regimentals? Or would she have thought of her hesitation in the face of yet another proposal?
She could easily explain her hesitation upon Nimbley's words, but why Captain Lindley's? Ha
d he ever failed her, ever shown himself less than consistent in his passions? He had not; so there must be some other explanation.
Since she did not keep a journal, she sat in her bed as the candle burned low, her dark hair like a curtain hiding her face. Captain Lindley’s charms were great; his admiration of her spirit and ease of manner still greater. A pleasant shiver traveled through her at the memory of his handsome countenance, his lack of formalities or stammering when it came to the subject of her place among the gentry.
But was there something she still desired? Something that would persuade her more readily to yield her heart? The life of an officer at war might seem adventurous, but was not the life of an officer at home the example the Hendricks had offered? The tedium of card parties and entertaining one’s neighbors, the stagnant life of a village no different than London’s oppressive atmosphere.
She leaned over to blow out the candle, her fingers brushing against the little box from Adam Nimbley. She shivered, the recollection of her first offer assailing her with vivid clarity. Adam Nimbley’s thin, pleading face, the slightly smudged spectacles and neatly-tied cravat which marked his appearance that afternoon. There had been pain in that moment, mortification, and something else. It was a moment she could not bear to revisit, although her mind had replayed it so many times that it had not faded.
Her fingers gently lifted the lid, gazing at the butterfly within by candlelight. The brilliant blue of its wings had not faded despite the years of preservation. A delicate relic so fragile it might break apart at the touch of her hand–as fragile, perhaps, as the affection of the young man who offered it to her.
Now she had another offer, another chance–from someone who, too, had encountered her outside of proper society. From a gentleman who had never hesitated because of the absence of introduction, nor had worried about their difference in station or fortune.
Love Among the Spices Page 14