Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Later that afternoon, with the rain still pouring from the skies, Marie retired to the sitting room and was happy to discover that Charles joined her.
She chose a book from the shelves near the hearth, then sat down in one of the chairs near the small fire. Her mind refused to focus on the words, however, her attention arrested by Charles.
From the corner of her eye, she watched his every move. He stared at her for a moment, peered at the rain against the window, then stalked to the shelves himself before finding a book and sitting directly across from her.
From there, he shifted in his seat over and over again, turned the pages far too swiftly to have read a word, then yawned more times than she could count.
She stifled a smile. He really was trying, but he very clearly could not sit still at the moment.
Soon, he gave up entirely, clapping his book shut with a sigh and slumping forward on the chair with a longing gaze out the window.
Marie kept her eyes on the pages of her book when Charles looked at her again, then back out the window, then around the room.
Poor man. Perhaps there was something she could do to help distract him from his obvious need to expel his energy.
Before she could think of anything, however, Charles twisted around in his seat to face her. “Do I recall you mentioning you play the pianoforte?”
Finally, Marie looked up from the same page she’d been on for the last quarter of an hour. “I do play, yes.”
He motioned over his shoulder to where the small pianoforte resided in the far corner of the room. “Care to display one of your many talents for me?”
Marie hesitated. “Oh, I don’t know. The instrument does not look as if it has received much playing of late. It would surely need tuning.”
He stood, dropping his book on his chair and crossing to the pianoforte. “Could not a talent like you make it sound better?”
“I doubt it.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Now it sounds like you’re making excuses. Perhaps you can’t even play at all.”
She knew he was challenging her, and she had every ability to withstand it. But she was drawn to that twinkle in his eye like a moth to the flame and longed to see it spark even brighter.
Setting her book down in a like manner, she joined him at the pianoforte. She swiped a finger across one of the keys and lifted the layer of dust for Charles to see.
“It will absolutely need tuning,” she said.
“Let us see what you can do with it anyway.”
He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at the dust, then motioned for her to take her place with a flourish. “Your seat, my lady.”
She gave him an exaggerated curtsy, then sat down before the pianoforte. She’d expected Charles to return to his seat, but instead, he remained close to the instrument’s side, his hand resting on top of the wood.
Trying to focus on the task at hand instead of Charles’s tall, imposing figure, she placed her fingers on the keys and plunked out a little tune, though she winced at every note.
She pulled back, shaking her head at once. “No. This is unplayable.”
“Go on. Give it another chance.”
She played another few notes. “You won’t even be able to recognize the tune.”
“Then it shall be a game.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
She wiggled her fingers, then dove into the song, wincing at each terribly untuned note. At first, she cringed, then the humor of the sound rushed over her, and she laughed.
“This is terrible!” she said.
“I disagree. I’ve never heard the song before, but it sounds wonderful.”
She laughed again. “It is ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ Charles. That goes to show how terrible it is if you can’t even recognize it.”
He chuckled, too, and her giggling picked up, though she continued playing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like this. She felt light, whole, even healed.
To have Charles’s laughter mingled with her own made her feel even better.
Charles knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. Marie was glowing. He’d never seen her laugh, let alone so heartily. Her smile was luminous, her whole persona so desirable, that the joy overcoming him made him feel...whole.
“I promise I can play better than this,” she said through mirthful tears, shaking her head.
Charles believed her. If she could make this pianoforte sound remotely fine, he could hardly wait to see what she could do with a real instrument back at Grendale Manor.
The image of Marie in his home, playing his family’s pianoforte, produced a warmth that blossomed in his chest and spread throughout his person.
He had assumed over the last few days that Mr. Page would provide a way for Charles and Marie to end their marriage swiftly. He’d pictured their bridal tour ending prematurely with Marie returning to Westburn and her parents while Charles returned to Grendale.
With Mr. Page’s continued silence, that was looking less and less likely—a thought that filled Charles with relief.
But that relief startled him from his thoughts. He wanted her to return home with him?
Marie finished the song with another laugh. “Well, there you have it. I told you it would be terrible.”
Charles blinked, stretching a smile across his lips. “No, it was wonderful.”
She eyed him, having heard the tension in his tone. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, though his movements were too frantic. He was spiraling. He’d been still for too long, and that had allowed his mind to wander and confuse itself.
He wanted to choose his future still. He wanted the annulment still. Marie wanted the annulment still. He just needed to remind himself.
“It appears the rain has settled somewhat,” he said, though drops still pelted the warped glass. “I think I’ll head to the village to see if Mr. Page has written.”
Marie’s smile faded, but he told himself that could only be a good thing. They both needed the reminder.
Still, he did not wish to lose all the progress they had made toward civility. “I would invite you to join me, but I know you only walk in pleasant weather.”
She nodded, standing from the instrument and returning to her book. “Yes, that is correct. At any rate, I’d like to continue reading for a time.”
Excellent. So they were both content. He lingered a moment longer, her eyes fixed on the pages of her novel before he finally left the room.
He should have felt instant relief, but all he could think of was how the devil he was going to manage the delicate balance between being there for his wife and not falling for his wife.
Please let there be a letter from Mr. Page.
No letter from Mr. Page came that rainy day. Nor the day after that, nor the day after that. On Saturday, a little over a week since arriving at Woewood, Marie sat in the sitting room again on her own, as had become her custom.
Charles walked in—just as he always did—with his hat and gloves in his hands and an easy smile on his lips.
“Occupied again?” he asked, motioning to her stitching.
“As always,” she said. “Heading to the post office?”
“As always.”
They shared a smile, though she kept their eye contact brief as she pulled her attention to the fabric in front of her.
The last few days had been comfortable enough.
Their conversation had remained civil, if not a little stinted, but she would not murmur.
Keeping each other at an arm’s length was wise.
He motioned to the window. “The sun is shining this afternoon.”
“Mmm. It has been quite some time. It should be very nice for you to not return sodden, I’m sure.”
“Indeed.” He hesitated. “Would you...would you care to join me?”
Marie poked her finger with her needle but managed to maintain decorum. He was asking her to accompany him? That wouldn’t do either of them any good. They spent enough time together as it was. Better to say no. At any rate, he would no doubt enjoy his time walking far better without her.
“That is very kind of you, but I’m afraid I must finish embroidering this handkerchief. I’ve put it off for far too long.”
Charles instantly accepted her pathetic excuse and left with only a silent nod.
Over the next hour, Marie wallowed away in self-pity, frittering from stitching to drawing to letter-writing to reading—before ultimately staring out the window in sullen silence.
She was tormented with thoughts of regret, loneliness, and ruminations about how much better her time would have been had she accompanied him.
So despondent she was with her decision to remain at home, as she stared at the roses’ shadows on the grass, she determined to never again say no to a request from Charles to join him.
Growing used to his company now would make her life more miserable if their annulment occurred, but at the moment, that was Future Marie’s problem. Present Day Marie wanted to relish in the fact that Charles had wished her to come at all.
Finally, when Charles did return, she attempted to remain indifferent.
“Any news from Mr. Page?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not. But you’ve received a correspondence yourself.”
His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he extended the sealed letter to Marie.
She recognized her father’s handwriting at once and tore open the seal to read it as Charles made to stand by the window, hands clasped behind his back.
He was no doubt longing to get back out of doors already.
Dearest Marie,
I hesitate writing to you at all when your bridal tour ought to remain the focus of your attention, but I find myself compelled to speak with you on a delicate matter. As such, I trust you will forgive my intrusion.
The night of the ball, I was made aware that you and Mr. Charles Shepherd departed early without a single word of excuse or appreciation to the host and hostess of the party.
I need not tell you how ungrateful and improper the slight was, not to mention inconsiderate, as the burden lay upon your mother and myself to make excuses for your poor behavior.