Chapter 2
MARIANNE
Juliet, how I miss you. How I miss Saint Catherine’s.
Tonight I must go to a ball. It is dreadful.
I have not even seen my sisters yet. I cannot believe that I left the convent six weeks ago, and I have only now arrived in London.
My aunt insisted on taking me to Edinburgh first so I could attend a few dinners amongst the society she knows there—to ease me gently into society, as she said.
After that, she took me to Brighton, which was not entirely unreasonable since we used to live there.
She had me outfitted with an entirely new wardrobe, which is far too gaudy for my taste.
I have come to miss our gray scratchy dresses.
I know we complained so much about them, but I miss them now.
I am sitting presently in a gown I know you would make fun of most severely.
It is a pastel green gown with puffy sleeves and a ribbon sash—a sweet contraption under my bust designed to attract gentlemen, I know it.
The silk slippers are already pinching my toes, and the earrings dangle from my ears in such a way that Sister Bernadette would call most indecent.
How do you fare, my friend? Your last letter sounded rather more subdued than usual.
I know Christmastide is approaching quickly.
I have gifts to send to you—and also one to Anna.
She sounds ever so miserable. I am not supposed to say ‘ever so.’ My aunt tells me that it is the speech of commoners.
But yet, at Saint Catherine’s, everybody said it.
A knock on the door sounded, and Marianne placed her quill down.
“Marianne, are you not ready yet?” her aunt said, opening the door without waiting for an answer. “You should not be writing letters right before we go to a ball. What if you spoil your gown?”
“I suppose then I would have to change into one of the other ten gowns hanging in my armoire.”
“Ungrateful, are you not? Gratitude is also a Christian virtue. Did they not teach you that at the convent?”
Marianne looked down. It was true. She had been so upset over having to leave the convent that she had not been on her best behavior.
Her aunt Eugenia was trying her best for her.
Her mother had died a long time ago, and her father, even when he was living, was more occupied with seemingly throwing the family’s entire fortune out of the window than focusing any attention on his daughters.
Aunt Eugenia had often rescued them when her father’s ventures had left them with expenses to scrape together.
Things had improved much under her care, and that of Marianne’s sisters’ husbands.
Her sister Evelyn had married her husband Nathaniel, a duke in his own right, four years ago now, and he had righted the ship.
Things had only improved after Rhys, Charlotte’s husband, had joined forces with Nathaniel and his set.
Together, they had achieved much—not just for the Langley estate and their own, but also for society.
They were good people, kind-hearted, and yet, in their presence, Marianne always felt like a gray mouse—insignificant.
“You are right,” she said. “I beg your pardon. I am simply nervous about attending the ball—I feel quite out of sorts,” she admitted. Her aunt placed a warm hand on her shoulder.
“Do not fret. It shall be wonderful indeed. And Evelyn and Charlotte will be there—and Nathaniel and Rhys.”
“They will?” said Marianne.
“Of course. I meant it as a surprise, but since you are quite so Friday-faced, I thought it might be best to tell you now. They are eagerly awaiting you. And then next week we are all going to Evelyn’s home for Christmas, where we will be for several days.
After that, we will look seriously into finding you a husband. ”
Marianne nodded, knowing that there was no point in arguing with her aunt.
Before she knew it, the carriage had stopped outside the home of one of society’s fine ladies.
Her aunt escorted her inside, but Marianne was immediately overwhelmed by the pomp and circumstance—fine ladies walking up the steps, some of the older ones in their taffeta gowns which crinkled as they walked.
Once inside, the smell of perfume and beeswax was overpowering.
It was quite the crush. Champagne glasses clinked, and laughter drifted out from the ballroom as music filled the air.
Marianne took a deep breath, held it, and then pushed it out. But before she could really steady herself, a body collided with hers.
“Marianne! Marianne!” said her sister Evelyn, pulling her into a hug.
“Marianne!” Charlotte joined in. Her sisters surrounded her, and the three stood together while Aunt Eugenia clicked her tongue and mumbled something about decorum. However, when her sisters released her, Marianne saw that her aunt was smiling.
“I cannot believe you are back—finally! It has felt like forever. I severely chastised Aunt Eugenia for taking you off to Edinburgh and Brighton, removing you from our sight.”
“It was not frightful,” Marianne replied. “I loved it.”
Aunt Eugenia sighed. “Girls, I shall leave her in your care. Do try to talk her out of this notion that the convent is the best thing to ever happen to her, for it most certainly is not.”
The three sisters walked into the ballroom together, the two eldest on either side of Marianna. It was not quite so daunting for her this way.
“Did you truly think that the convent was a good place?” Charlotte asked, raising an eyebrow. “I cannot imagine it—to be locked away and have to pray so many times a day and work in silence...”
“I know you would not be able to work in silence,” Evelyn commented with a chuckle.
“I most certainly would not,” Charlotte agreed. “In any case, I never understood why you did that to yourself, Marianne?” she continued.
“I have never known such peace and tranquility as when I was at Saint Catherine’s,” Marianna said with a smile.
“And being here does not make me regret it. In fact, I wish I were back there. I would much rather weave baskets amongst unwed mothers and nuns than mingle here with this rabid society—not the two of you, of course,” she added hastily.
“Weaving baskets,” Evelyn said, “can be worthy work. We did that not long ago—the women’s society did, and we sold them at market to raise funds for the orphanage. But to do it for life? I cannot imagine.”
Marianne pressed her lips together. “I would like to go back. I have not told Aunt Eugenia, but the truth is I have thought about taking my vows.”
“Your vows?” Charlotte said, in a voice that was much louder than was necessary, and which instantly drew multiple pairs of eyes.
“But you are not even religious,” Evelyn replied, her tone scandalized.
“I do not know if I am religious. I find peace in it, that I know. I certainly believe in God. Do I wish to make it my life, though? That I do not know. I’ve thought of it since I left. I must tell you, I was happier there than I have been since my childhood. I had company...”
“You have us,” Charlotte argued, pouting.
“Do I?” Marianne replied. “You are both far too busy with your adventures. Evelyn, you are always working with the women’s society on one project or another, and Charlotte, I feel as though you are always opening a school or expanding a school or some such thing.”
Charlotte threw up her arms. “But that is no reason to become a nun!”
“Hush,” Evelyn said. “He is here!”
“Here? Who is here?” Marianne asked. Evelyn jerked her chin toward the door, where a tall, dark-haired gentleman in a pair of tight pantaloons and a burgundy waistcoat had just entered.
“The Earl of Wexford,” she said.
Marianne frowned. Wexford... the name sounded familiar, but she could not quite recall where she had heard it before.
Sensing her confusion, Charlotte leaned forward.
“His wife passed away a few years ago, leaving him with his little one. He has been rusticating in the country ever since, somewhat like you, but for much longer. I am surprised he is re-entering society. I wonder if that means he is looking for a wife.”
Around them, whispers erupted as the ton started talking about the young man who had just entered. Marianne caught snippets of conversation—he never got over his wife... his poor little boy... has rejoined society after so long.
The man was obviously aware of the chatter because he looked about in a most uncomfortable manner, as though he would rather be anywhere but here. That was certainly something she could empathize with.
He looked miserable indeed; perhaps more miserable than even she felt.
“You did not tell me he was rejoining society,” Evelyn said to Charlotte, drawing Marianne’s attention.
“Do you know him?” Marianne asked.
“I do. He and Rhys are particular friends. He has ventured out every now and again to call on us for dinner. His son is adorable. But I never thought I would see the day when he would actually rejoin society, which is why I have not mentioned him—even though Evelyn appears to think that I had a duty to do so. Now that he has, I am certain you will both be better acquainted with him in due course.”
Marianne looked once more in the direction of the young man, who had been drawn into conversation with Lady Penelope Heathcliff, mother to three unmarried daughters. Of course, she would waste no time in throwing out her lures at such an excellent catch.
For the briefest moment, their eyes met across the room, and a prickle rushed down her back, making her stand straighter.
He was indeed handsome. Before she could make any more of the matter, however, Lady Heathcliff had the man’s attention once more, and Marianne looked away.