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“And what has he been doing all this time? Where has he been?”
“Living on the streets of London as a vagabond!” the Viscount exclaimed. “His Grace says that his poor son was so ashamed of the life which he’d fallen into that he simply could not bear the thought of returning home, but now, he has.”
“And I am to marry a man who has been missing for ten years?” Marcella asked. “He will be a stranger to me, to all of us! Surely, we cannot simply continue with the engagement as if none of this happened! That is absurd!”
“And why should we not? You’ve seen how the years have worn the Duke so much, and you’ve seen him wasted away by the grief for his poor wife and his worry for his lost son. Why would you deprive him of this? He needs this.”
“But what about me?” Marcella asked. “Does my happiness not also matter, my father? What of my dreams? I do not wish to marry a man who I scarcely know! I’ve not seen my intended since I was a girl of ten years.”
“You ought to like him all the more now,” Marcella’s stepmother said. “Although you may not believe it now, men are like fine wine. They grow better with age.”
“And women age more quickly when they are married to men who they despise,” Marcella countered. “I do not understand why I might not, at least, try to have my dream. Didn’t my governess teach me well? Haven’t I learned every lesson better than most girls? Adeline can tell you how brilliant I was at finishing school.”
Ever loyal, Adeline nodded. “So brilliant that none of us could hope to shine beside her.”
“If you’ve raised me well, which you have,” Marcella said, “surely you can trust me to make my own way in the world. Other women have. Why could I not be like them? Why could I not find happiness with my pen, rather than with a husband?”
“Why must the two be exclusive?” the Viscount asked. “I do not see why you could not marry His Grace’s son and not write still.”
“Because I would be forever busy with managing the household!” Marcella exclaimed. “I’ve noticed how hard my dear mother and my stepmother worked to manage the household. It would be difficult to find the time to do both effectively. I want to pursue writing with my whole heart, with all of myself! Why must I compromise what I love in favor of a man I do not know? In favor of a man who none of us know? Do you not care for my happiness, Father? Stepmother?”
“Of course, we do,” her father answered. “You know that, just as you know that you’ve a duty to marry well.”
Marcella’s face warmed. “You have no faith in me.”
“You live in a world which will be considerably less indulgent and less kind than I have been,” he replied. “This is for your own good. You ought to think of someone’s happiness besides your own.”
But how can you expect two people who don’t know one another to marry and have it end in anything but disaster?
Acting impulsively, Marcella grasped Adeline’s wrist. Her friend jumped but obediently let herself be pulled along. “Come on,” Marcella said. “Let’s find somewhere else to enjoy ourselves. You came all the way to the countryside to have my company, and I’ll not have you stand here and watch us quarrel a moment longer.”
Her father’s face remained as impassive as ever and left Marcella longing for the warmth she remembered from her mother, who’d been all warm smiles and light hazel eyes that sparkled when she was amused. Although she’d died when Marcella was but a girl, that wound had never healed, and perhaps, it never would. “Nevertheless,” the Viscount said, “you will be married, Marcella. Fleeing to the gardens will stop neither time nor your engagement.”
“Maybe I’ll turn into a tree,” Marcella countered, “like Daphne trying to ward away the advances of lecherous Apollo. I should imagine that no man would wish to marry a tree!”
In a flurry of lavender skirts, Marcella hurried from the library. She felt as though she’d become consumed by a sort of frantic, angry fire, and the flames of it curled inside her belly and chest. She was down the corridor like a Fury and only realized once she’d reached the stairs that she still held Adeline’s wrist in her hand.
With an apologetic smile, Marcella dropped her friend’s hand. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t mean to storm away like that. I lost my temper and acted impulsively.”
Adeline grinned. “I’ll allow you to make it up to me.”
The women descended the stairs and once they reached the ground floor, stepped through the doors which led to the gardens. They were beautiful, green and wild even in autumn when so many trees and plants were dying. Marcella felt an ache in her chest. The gardens had been her mother, Eliza’s, love. They were her pride and joy, and Marcella’s few scattered memories of her mother were those of her in the garden.
“And how shall I make it up to you?” Marcella asked.
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Adeline replied, cheerfully linking their arms together. “You must let me think it over. Perhaps you can introduce me to someone during the next Season.”
If only I could be so happy with my lot in life!
Sometimes, Marcella didn’t understand Adeline and her desire to wed. But then, it wasn’t just Adeline who desired to wed. Most of the ladies in thetondidn’t seem to dread the prospect of marriage. Possibly the problem was with Marcella herself.
But it’s not as if I chose to feel what I do.
“You must remind me,” Marcella said. “But you—you don’t think I’m being selfish, do you?”
Marcella truly, deeply felt as though she was in the right, but there lingered just the smallest phantom of uncertainty. Surely, she had a right to her own happiness, didn’t she? Men always had the right to theirs, it seemed.
“I do support you, as always,” Adeline replied. “I think your feelings are entirely justified. Besides, it isn’t as if you’ve been anticipating marriage for Seasons now andknew. Your betrothed has been missing for years, and who is to say that the years have even been kind to him? For all we know, he’s become a scoundrel or a libertine! You can scarcely be expected to wed such a man.”
