She entered the room, and Timothy rose to his feet, a drink in his hand and a smile on his face. She met his eyes briefly, then turned to look at Deborah, who had remained sitting. What had they been talking about? Her? Would Timothy have attempted to enlist Deborah’s support?
He said he loved me, Maryann told herself, but even with hours between that confession and this moment, she did not believe it.
“Good evening, Timothy. Deborah.” She kept her eyes on her sister as she crossed to her. She considered sitting on the settee across from Deborah, but feared Timothy would claim the place next to her, and she was not ready for that. She stood to the side of the settee, and Timothy stood opposite her. He would not sit unless she did. And she would not.
She looked pointedly at her sister. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Deborah said with a relieved smile. “I think I have finally recovered from the travel, thank heavens.” She looked from Maryann to Timothy. “And it is wonderful to have company.”
“Yes,” Maryann agreed, turning to the footman standing just inside the parlor door. “We are ready to move on to dinner.”
He nodded, and Maryann followed him, leaving Timothy to escort Deborah.
Deborah sat at the head of the table, which Maryann took comfort in because it meant that she and Timothy would not be seated next to one another. Then she looked up and caught Timothy’s eyes directly across from her. He smiled that teasing grin of his that made her insides soften. She looked away and wished she’d arranged for him to leave tonight instead of tomorrow. After a week, or maybe two, she could have written him a letter and asked him to clarify his confession of his muddled feelings. Perhaps they both needed time to understand what—if anything—was between them.
He does not love me.
He said that he does.
She imagined the petals of a daisy dropping to the ground one at a time as the phrases repeated one after another in her mind.
“I wish Lucas were here,” Deborah said as leek soup was placed before her. “It feels odd to be entertaining you without him, Timothy.”
“I am afraid I did not even stop to see him before I left London.”
“Had you waited a few more days, you could have come with him,” Deborah said. “He was hoping to finish his responsibilities by the first of next week, then close up the house.”
“I’m afraid my purposes could not wait.” He put his serviette in his lap.
Do not look up. Do not look up.
She looked up. Timothy’s eyes met hers immediately. She could feel Deborah looking between them.
“And what is the purpose of your visit, Timothy?”
Don’t say it, Maryann thought to herself. Don’t say it.
“I have been visiting my sister in Trowbridge. My uncle asked me to deliver a parcel to her.”
Maryann let out the breath she’d been holding and lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth. He would keep his feelings, or what he thought were feelings, between the two of them. That was a relief. She could make it through this meal after all. Then they would retire to the drawing room, Maryann would call it an early night for Deborah’s sake, and she would not even have to see him in the morning. The traitorous, fantasy-filled part of herself regretted that he would be gone so soon. But London had forced her to grow up and see reality, which was that men were fickle, untrustworthy, and easily dazzled by a pretty face.
“I do not believe I know anything of your sister,” Deborah asked. “Has she family in Trowbridge?”
“Yes, a daughter,” Timothy said.
Maryann waited to see if Timothy would expound upon his sister, whom Lucas had said had been embroiled in some kind of scandal. Would Timothy tell Maryann if she asked? She banked the sudden desire to pose the question.
“It was fortunate for me that Trowbridge is somewhat on the way to Dunster. My sister helped boost my confidence in continuing my journey.”
Maryann’s hand tightened on the spoon.
“Boost your confidence, whatever for?” Deborah asked.
“Confessing myself to Maryann.”
Maryann choked on her soup and quickly lifted her serviette to her mouth. Her eyes snapped up to meet his. His eyes were not laughing, rather they were serious and sincere.
Deborah froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “To . . .” She looked between them, then settled her eyes on her sister and lowered her spoon back to her bowl. “Maryann?”
Maryann placed her serviette in her lap, though she kept it clenched in her fist. “Miss Shaw will not have him, and so he has come to me because he thinks that I will.” She shrugged to emphasize how little this affected her.
“That is not true,” Timothy said, putting down his spoon. “I have come to Maryann because after all these months I have determined that I am in love with her.”
Maryann looked at him but continued to speak as though she were addressing her sister. “He does not know his own mind.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t,” she said sharply, embarrassment filling her cheeks with heat. “You are a silly man whose moods are as flighty as a sparrow!”
Timothy startled at her insult but didn’t look away. “I am silly at times, I agree, but I am also very determined when I am certain of a thing. And I am certain of my feelings for you.” He must have noticed that the sharpness in his tone was incongruent with his words because he took a breath and then spoke softer. “London lost its color once you left, and Miss Shaw’s . . . mildness was the exact contrast I needed to see how invigorating it was to be in your company. My being here is not silliness, Maryann. It is determined devotion to . . . have you, I suppose.”
Maryann’s cheeks grew even hotter.
“For my wife,” he quickly added. “For my partner and companion. To acknowledge it makes my heart soar like an eagle.” He smiled a perfect, soft smile that brought tears to Maryann’s eyes. It would be so easy to believe him. She looked at the tabletop between them.
Deborah cleared her throat. “I think this is excellent news. I have hoped for this from the very first introduction, and I am thrilled that Timothy has come to declare himself.” She turned to Maryann. “Why are you so put out of this?”
“It is a game,” Maryann said, her hands still in her lap. “He is desperate, and I am an easy choice.”
“I am not desperate,” Timothy corrected. “And coming to Somerset is not an easy choice.”
“But I am,” she said, looking up at him. “Because we have accord. Because we are friends. Because you know—” She barely held back the words “because you know that I am in love with you.” She took a breath. “He is here because of fear,” she said, glad that her voice was calm even though her emotions were not. “He is afraid he will not find a match.”
He laughed, which only increased her fortitude. A game, she repeated to herself.
“I am not afraid,” Timothy said. “I could quite likely have a match with Miss Shaw if I wanted it. I could also live the rest of my life without a wife. Nothing is forcing my hand save for the feelings that, now acknowledged, I cannot deny.”
“See,” Deborah said to Maryann, grinning so wide that the circles beneath her eyes were barely noticeable. “What have you to argue about that?”
The triumphant tone of Deborah’s voice was equal to the frustration churning within Maryann’s chest. She took another bite of soup, willing manners and decency to help her find her balance. After a few moments, Deborah and Timothy followed her example. The three of them made it through two more courses in silence, though Deborah only picked at her meal and occasionally put a hand on her stomach. Maryann hoped Deborah wasn’t feeling ill, but if she were, she might excuse herself, which would give Maryann the chance to tend her. And leave Timothy behind.
“London can be a chaotic and confusing place to build a relationship,”
Deborah said as the main course was removed. Maryann groaned at her sister’s forced attempt to resurrect this topic. “Why don’t we invite Timothy to stay a few days? He might like to take a break from the city and enjoy the sights of Somerset. He could stay until after Lucas arrives at least.” She smiled at Timothy. “Maryann told me once that you have never seen the sea. You must stay long enough to experience it after coming all this way.”
“Visiting the seashore would be the second-best reason for me to stay on,” Timothy said, clearly delighted by the invitation. “Maryann gave me a set of paints, and I can think of no better place to try to capture on paper than here. From what I have seen already, it is a painter’s dream.”
“No,” Maryann said, sitting back so the footman could take her plate. “Timothy will return to London in the morning.”
“Oh, Maryann, don’t be silly,” Deborah chided.
She stared at the pudding placed before her. She felt ganged up on. Surrounded and . . . scared. She also knew she had lost. Deborah was the eldest and within her right to invite Timothy to stay until Lucas arrived. And Timothy would stay because it worked to his advantage. But she could not be a pawn in the game he was playing. Neither of them understood how fragile she felt.
She pushed away from the table, placed her serviette on the chair, and turned away without a word for fear anything she said would reveal her. She heard another chair push out behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know it was him.
“This is not a game to me, Maryann.” His tone was serious, which only said that he believed what he was saying. His belief did not make it true, however.
She kept walking.
He followed her from the dining room.
“It is not a game,” he said again. She moved quickly down the hallway toward the stairs that would lead to her room. To safety. To solitude. She lifted her skirts when she reached the first step, wishing she could run. “Maryann, look at me.”
She did not look or slow her momentum, but her heart rate increased as she heard his footfalls behind her. She lifted her skirts higher and took the steps faster. She was reminded of the time she’d challenged Timothy and Lucas to attempt to navigate a ladder in skirts and petticoats.
He took hold of her arm and turned her around. She spun on the step and brought up her hand to slap him for not letting her leave a room with dignity, for coming to Somerset after she’d finally gained the strength to leave him, for being a man of too many smiles and too much flippancy.
He caught her hand and pulled it toward him, causing her to stumble down the two steps that separated them. She fell against his chest, and he wrapped his hand around her waist, holding her against him, which ignited all the same feelings the dance had built between them. Her breath caught in her throat.
For a moment, she thought he would kiss her, but he let her go and took a step down. He opened his mouth to speak, but then said nothing and took another step down from her. They stared at one another while she blinked at the tears that said more than her words ever could.
“Give me a chance,” he whispered.
Maryann turned and continued up the stairs, her skirts held high to keep her from tripping.
Her bedroom was empty. She paced, reviewing everything that was said during the meal all the way to his parting comment, which softened her heart too much to be trusted. She wished she had said this instead of that, pausing now and then to ask herself if she were being foolish, then pacing again with determination that she was being sensible.
She heard the door creak and turned in time to see Deborah step inside. Good, now she could convince her sister to send Timothy away. Couldn’t she? Maryann folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “He is playing a game, Deborah, and I am tired of losing to him.”
“You are the only one who seems determined to see a winner and a loser here,” Deborah said. She made her way to the bench at the foot of Maryann’s bed and sat, resting her hand on the small rise of her belly. “You are acting like a child.”
“I am acting like a woman who has been bruised before by this man and who is unwilling to be broken by him.”
“Again, why do you insist on seeing only those two options? I have never met a gentler soul than Timothy Mayfield, and I cannot believe for even an instant that he would ever hurt you.”
“He already has,” Maryann said. “I can’t bear it again, Deborah.”
“Yes, you can.”
Maryann frowned, and Deborah continued. “You are as strong as he is gentle, and if he were to hurt you again, you would lift your chin and continue on. But I think he is sincere in this, Maryann. I believe you have his heart and his devotion, and I do not understand why you are so set against his suit.”
Maryann shook her head.
“I invited him to stay until Lucas returns,” Deborah said, causing Maryann’s eyes to snap back to her.
“Even though you know I do not want him here.”
Deborah considered a moment, then shrugged. “Yes.”
Maryann’s fury built up equal to her fear, and she clenched her fists at her side as she tried to think of how to explain what was clanging in her chest. She’d hoped for her mother to get well, and she had died. She’d gone to London to make a match, only to find dozens of men willing to settle for her in exchange for her fortune. She’d thought she’d found reprieve in Colonel Berkins, and he’d seen her as a screen behind which to hide his true choice. She’d hoped to have Timothy’s affection, and he’d chosen to seek out a woman of fiction without fault or blemish. Two weeks ago, he’d been making cow-eyes at Miss Shaw and spending every minute he could in her company.
But now Maryann was expected to rejoice in the blessing of him having changed his mind? Forget the hurts? Forget how often she had expected something better than reality had turned out to be? She felt tears rising and blinked them quickly away as she focused on her sister once more.
“You do not care that this hurts me?” she asked, her voice tremulous.
“Oh, Maryann,” Deborah said, standing and walking toward her with her arms outstretched.
Maryann crossed her arms and backed up. She did not want her sister’s embrace where she might dissolve into sobs. She needed to feel strong.
Deborah stopped, and both her arms and her expression fell. “I do not want you to dismiss a chance at happiness because you are afraid.”
“You do not care that this hurts me,” Maryann said again, this time as a statement. She turned away from her sister. “You issued the invitation,” she said quietly. “You can serve as hostess for his visit.”
“Very well,” Deborah said, heading for the door, her voice sad rather than irritated. “Good night.”
Maryann avoided both Timothy and Deborah all day Tuesday, though she watched from the window as Deborah took him on a tour of the grounds. She felt betrayed by Deborah for being so nice to him, but also left out to see them enjoying each other’s company without her. She rolled her eyes at herself and returned to the ledgers which, thanks to her studious attention, were nearly caught up. At supper, she let Timothy and Deborah talk about visiting Dunster the next day.
“Would you like to join us?” Timothy said, drawing her into the conversation for the first time.
“No, thank you,” Maryann said, cutting her meat. “James is bringing his children in the afternoon, and I’ve work to do before they require my attention.”
“James is your brother?” Timothy said, looking between Maryann and Deborah. “The path you indicated led to his house, did it not, Deborah?”
“Yes,” Deborah said with a nod. “He is the eldest.”
“Right, and he lives in a house on the property with his wife and three children,” Timothy nodded as he remembered the details. “What time will the children arrive?” he asked Maryann. When she did not answer him, he turned toward Deborah. “We should make sure to re
turn in time to be of assistance.”
“You don’t need to assist,” Maryann said. “You are a guest.”
“As a guest, then, might I choose to assist with the children? I love children—spending time with my nieces is pure joy. We have such fun.”
Deborah laughed. “Of course, you can. I shall warn you, however, that they are very energetic children.”
“That is the best kind,” Timothy said.
The next day, Deborah and Timothy took the carriage to Dunster.
Maryann had run out of accounts to settle and lists to make but felt obligated to remain busy as that was her reason for not going with them. She was beginning to feel foolish for her stubbornness, but she didn’t trust herself to soften. Each time she was tempted to let Timothy’s words into her heart, she remembered how delighted he’d been when he met Miss Shaw. She’d remember the list and how it felt to not meet any of those expectations. Yet he’d said the list was folly, which it was. Could he truly feel what he believed he felt for Maryann? Could the time they’d spent together really have made a difference?
Determined to be productive, she made sure each book in Father’s library was in its proper place—a very important task, she told herself. Keeping her hands busy was not enough to occupy her thoughts, however, and she continually had to pull her mind away from wondering if Deborah would show Timothy the huge oak tree on the far side of town that was decorated with ribbons each spring. Or Mr. Greyson’s bookshop where the man ran a lending library to rival those in London.
What if they go to the sea without me? Her stomach tightened at the thought that she could be the one to take Timothy to the sea for his very first time . . . if she were not so set against his company. Deborah thought she was being ridiculous. Her own arguments were feeling more threadbare with each repetition to herself.
He said he loves me. Why must I have so much doubt?
Daisies and Devotion Page 23