Her fan paused, despite the blush which passed briefly over her cheeks. “No,” she answered. “I do not care very much for dancing, Mr. Nimbley. So many of the steps seem quite tedious, as does the conversation, you know.”
He smiled, faintly. “I am not surprised you feel so,” he said. “I have thought the same myself at times, although I always believed the poor conversation was my fault. The result of being dull in society.”
“But you are not dull,” Marianne answered. “You talk of such interesting things. When we were in the woods in Kent, you had no trouble at all upon the subject of the bark-colored moth, nor the interesting creatures which lived in the dead wood.”
“Subjects interesting to no one in society except another naturalist or a man of science or great study,” answered Adam. “Except perhaps for yourself, Miss Stuart.”
“Thank you for your compliment, sir,” she answered. “You are all kindness.”
For a moment, he merely gazed at her as if he was unaware that the conversation between them had lapsed. “Will you be at home, Miss Stuart,” he said, at length, “tomorrow afternoon?”
“I am at home every afternoon,” Marianne answered. “I fear that my cousins do not even drink tea with the neighborhood at large, but sit at home. Except for tomorrow, when they are all gone to Mr. Humley’s estate for the day–but I am to remain with my youngest cousin and her governess.”
He nodded. “Then you will be at home,” he repeated, as if much relieved.
“What is it, Mr. Nimbley?” she asked with concern, for the color seemed to be vanishing from his face quite rapidly as he spoke to her; she observed a tremor in his hands as he moved to clasp them behind him. “Are you quite well?”
“Quite,” he answered, although a tremor was evident also in his voice. “Quite well; only there is something I wish to speak to you about. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why not now?” she asked. “For we have nothing else to do but converse, unless you are eager to dance. If so, then my cousin Julia is a pleasant partner, for she is light and graceful.”
With a faint laugh, he shook his head. “I would have no interest in any partner except yourself, Miss Stuart,” he said. “If you will oblige me, then I should be happy to be dancing.”
“But I have already told you that I do not like to dance,” she protested good-naturedly. “But Julia does. Would you not rather a partner who preferred it than one who doesn’t?”
Before he could answer this question, there was a third member added to their party. Charlotte had caught sight of her cousin’s tete a tete and had excused herself from the discussion of her betrothed’s spacious walkways and scenic avenues. She caught snatches of their conversation, enough to fear that Marianne was too free in her remarks, forcing her cousin to do her duty by her mother.
“Mr. Nimbley,” she said, somewhat coldly as they exchanged polite bows of greeting. “So pleasant to see you again. I was not aware that you were an acquaintance of Colonel Hendricks.”
The young man’s spectacles shifted with the hasty turn of his head, forcing him to correct them awkwardly. “Not of the Colonel’s, Miss Sotherby; but of Sir Allen and his family. The Colonel kindly included me in their invitation.”
Charlotte had heard something of rather low connections in the case of Sir Allen’s wife; surmising this gentleman to be one of those, she favored him only with a lukewarm smile.
“I fear that Miss Marianne cannot be engaged for a dance,” she said, “so I hope you shall not press her for a place upon her card, for I would not wish you to be disappointed.”
“I would not attempt it, Miss Sotherby,” he answered. “I do not care for dancing, you see, much like Miss Stuart.” His gaze flickered briefly from Charlotte's stiff manner to Marianne with a look of warmth, causing Marianne to bite her lip in embarrassment over the current subject.
“We were merely talking of the beauties of Kent,” said Marianne. “There is a pretty wood there and Mr. Nimbley has visited it often.” Her smile was vague and polite, in order to assuage her cousin’s fears that she entertained anything more from Mr. Nimbley than remarks upon the weather.
“I must confess myself never to understand the point of discussing such scenery,” said Charlotte. “It does not call it to mind for anyone but the speaker. And there is so little which can be said of the wilderness of nature, for it has never been properly tamed or sculpted by those who understand the form of beauty.”
Mr. Nimbley was silent, a slightly pained expression passing over his countenance with these words; Marianne refrained from replying, for she could think of no answer which would convince her cousin of the existence of loveliness beyond the well-tended gardens and grounds of Goldenrod.
In the moment of awkward silence which followed, Mr. Nimbley bowed to the two young ladies.
“Good evening, Miss Stuart. Miss Sotherby.” With a final smile directed at Marianne, he moved away from them and into the general crowd.
“Thank heavens,” said Miss Sotherby. “I thought that awful young man would never leave you alone. Now, we must find you a proper partner for the dance before Mama notices you are yet standing.” Charlotte did not notice the pale face of indignation her cousin bore as she beckoned for their host to approach and help remedy this matter.
Chapter Fifteen
In the early hours of the morning, Mrs. Sotherby’s carriage rumbled forth from the entrance of Norland Park, carrying the good lady and her two eldest daughters to Blackheath and the glories of Goldenrod which required further inspection by its future mistress and her mother. The housekeeper was informed to lay out a late supper for the party, for they would be much occupied with inspecting the newly-remodeled parlors and bedchambers of the house and would eat a luncheon prepared by Mr. Humley’s capable servant.
Miss Snood was occupied with the youngest Miss Sotherby’s embroidery, a complicated pattern of flowers and birds worked upon a muslin square and designed to occupy the young lady with the dullest labor possible in her cousin Marianne’s estimation. There had been some disappointment on the part of Dorothea to remain at home, but her mother had promised a carriage seat to another relation–and as there was not room enough for a party of all the family and governess, she needed a means of leaving Marianne in the care of Miss Snood for the afternoon.
The embroidery occupied the greater portion of the governess and pupil’s morning in the drawing room as a cool rain beat upon the panes of glass. Marianne betook herself to the library with a volume of Shakespeare and remained there all morning. When the rain cleared and garden walks were swept by the gardener, Miss Snood and her charge set forth on a stroll determined to be healthful for the roses in Dorothea’s cheeks, an opportunity which Marianne declined rather than submit to the slow pace of the governess.
Twenty minutes after their departure, the front bell rang. A moment later, a manservant entered the library.
“Mr. Nimbley,” he announced. Marianne closed her volume as the young man entered, a smile of pleasurable greeting upon her face. On this dismal afternoon, she would now have a companion who might reminisce upon their pleasant friendship in the woods of Kent, as opposed to tedious discussions of embroidery with Miss Snood.
“You came,” she said, as he seated himself across from her. “I am surprised, for the weather is too foul for most people to endure. But you are too early for tea; for the rest have all gone out for a time and will not be back for perhaps a quarter of an hour.”
“That does not matter,” he answered. “For I am here to see you, Miss Stuart.”
His nervous manner from the night previous was stealing over him again with these words, prompting her smile to show signs of puzzlement. “I am grateful,” she answered. “For no one ever comes to see me, nor wishes to speak to me on any interesting subjects, now that I am away from Evering House.”
As she spoke, he rose from his chair and paced the room with a slow tread. “Then you miss London?” he ventured to ask. “Being among your frien
ds and your family, I mean. You have been some weeks away; and it is the Season, so there are not many companions in the countryside.”
“You are right,” she answered. “I confess myself to miss being in town, although it is for the first time in my life that I may say so.”
“Do you miss anyone in particular?” he asked.
“My father,” she answered. “And my sister. My aunt, of course, who is good–but very trying.” Her smile grew more puzzled as his silence lingered. “Do you mean someone else?” she asked, after a moment. A vague suspicion was taking form in her mind; that perhaps Mr. Nimbley's thoughts were far from the pleasant scenes of Kent.
He rested his hands upon the back of the sofa as he stood still. “No, I do not, Miss Stuart,” he answered, as if apologizing. “That is to say, I merely ... I wonder at your longing, since you seemed happier in the country.”
“I am not happy confined as Mrs. Sotherby’s guest,” she answered. “My manners do not please her. My father has an amiable temper which makes him less distressed about my ways.”
“You would be happy to be close to him,” said the young man. “Perhaps it makes London as pleasant for you as the country, if the country was not always at hand? For there is the Park and the gardens among its scenes.”
“I suppose so,” she answered, slowly. Her speech was marked by hesitation; but the young man’s response was one of agitation as he moved away from the sofa again. Seating himself in the armchair, he fixed his gaze intently upon Marianne, a look so intense that she found herself uncomfortable.
“I have resolved as of late to take up the law as my father has wished,” he said. “It is not what I would have for myself if I could choose–but even a term at Oxford would not give me a place among the great botanists or naturalists of our day.”
“You would give up your nature study?” said Marianne, with shock. “But you have such a passion for it–and you were so pleased by the work! What a grievance it would be to you after all the study you have devoted to it and the talk of Oxford–”
“Even with earnest devotion it is but a small chance that I would be another Joseph Hooke to the world of scientific theory," he stammered. "I cannot scarce even hope to dream of being renowned as is the botanist William Hooker in Glasgow.”
“But does that signify–if you love it?” asked Marianne.
For a moment, he seemed taken aback by her reply. Recovering himself, he resumed speaking.
“It would be better for me to relegate my hobby to the sparest of spare time,” he answered, ignoring her question. “If I do so, I may turn my attentions to something more profitable. Something that would support a wife. If I were so fortunate as to gain the consent of a young lady.”
His eyes met Marianne’s. Stirring within those grey-green depths, she read deeper emotions, a passion far different from the one for butterflies and chrysalis.
“I have esteemed you–” he began, “I have wanted to–” He stopped speaking, his fingers fumbling with his pocket as he withdrew the little box which he placed in her hands.
“Open it,” he said. “Go on.”
Her fingers pulled on the cord, untying the knot. She lifted the lid and gazed at the object inside. A brilliant blue butterfly carefully preserved and pinned to a piece of cambric. Its brilliant shades glowing in stark contrast to the white fabric background and cotton padding surrounding it.
“I was given this once by my uncle,” he said. “It was an object of curiosity from one of his sailors’ travels; and as he had so many relics of his own, he sought to charge me with its care. I believe it was the beginning of my love for nature. And I would have it be the beginning–” He could say no more, the words dying away as he lowered his gaze.
Marianne did not seem to breathe as she stared fixedly at the butterfly in her hand. She seemed frozen in place, a statue which scarcely stirred with life.
“Miss Stuart,” he whispered. “Will you consent–will you be my wife?”
She startled to life again with these words, her eyes wide with fear and surprise. He bit his lip, his face turning away in frustration when he caught sight of her reaction.
“My prospects are poor,” he continued, his voice choking. “It is foolish of me to ask, I realize. To press you to marry a younger son with no fortune–I have been very foolish in my feelings indeed.”
“Lower myself?” Marianne repeated, having found her voice. “I am not lowering myself to anything–it is you who are lowering yourself. Studying the law when you despise it–pleasing your father because you are afraid he will be unhappy by your choice of career.”
She placed the box upon the table as she rose from her chair. Adam Nimbley’s face had grown very pale.
“The choice of a profitable livelihood is for the sake of having a wife,” he answered. “If you will not accept me–”
“How can you think I would?” she asked. “With such unhappiness as you have planned for your own lot, such a sense of degradation perceived for myself! Whatever could make you believe that I would please you as a choice of wife if this is what it demands?”
“Your character,” he answered, vehemently. “Your charms, your temper, your mind–they have drawn me from first we met. We are very much alike, I believe; and I believe we could make each other happy.”
His voice was lacking in conviction with these last words, now that the realization was sinking into his breast that Marianne would not accept his proposal. The first waves of disappointment rendering him helpless even as he strove in vain to resist them, something Marianne's stronger presence of mind perceived.
“Our tempers are very little alike, sir, for I would not bend my passions to fit the indulgence of anyone out of fear or disappointment,” she answered. “To say that you would marry me for my constancy of mind when you yourself have none–that is the same as choosing me for the foothold in society which I scarce possess!”
“Miss Stuart,” he begged, “Please, do not speak of it in this way–” He struggled to maintain his composure beneath her gaze. “If there is another claim on your heart, then I would beg you to say so.”
“I have no interest in marrying any young gentleman of fortune or no, if such reason be the price,” she answered, her tone firm despite the tremor threatening its composure. “Any who would accuse me of having designs of fortune in matrimony has greatly mistaken my character, I assure you.” The tremor was gaining possession at the last, choking off these final words as she averted her gaze.
“Then it is merely your perception of me which forms your reply,” he said, at last.
Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “I cannot accept anyone,” she repeated. “You must believe me, Mr. Nimbley. It would take something extraordinary to change my mind upon this subject. My tastes, my wishes forbid it–you shall find another’s heart more willing than mine.”
“I do not wish to make an offer to anyone else,” he said, his smile tinged with sadness. "Since you will not oblige me, then I should prefer none at all.”
He rose from his chair and offered her a short bow. “Good day, Miss Stuart.” Turning abruptly, he left the drawing room. She did not move from her place, the heat of the last few minutes' conversation lingering in her cheeks and veins, her upright form trembling in such a manner that collapse might be moments away.
A moment later, she heard the door close. The footsteps of the manservant died away in the hall as she listened to silence overtake the sound. There was no movement except the ceaseless pendulum of the clock on the mantel and the first droplets of rain pattering against the window, no doubt ushering the governess and her charge homewards. Her eyes closed as waves of unhappiness washed over her, until she buried them beneath a forced calm by willpower. As if trapping a butterfly beneath a jar to prevent the threat of its imminent escape.
Carefully, Marianne lifted the top of the box from where it had fallen to the rug. She placed it over the blue butterfly inside, whose colors were rendered a brilliant hue as the first tears f
looded her vision.
Chapter Sixteen
Mother,
I don‘t believe in shirking from unpleasant news when the tale must be told, so I am writing to you in haste, lest word reach you by another source. Yesterday, when we returned from visiting Mr. Humley’s estate–where I assure you all things are in order for Charlotte to enter her place as its mistress–we found that a Mr. Nimbley had called for Marianne earlier in the evening. I recalled the name distinctly from your previous letter as the name of the shopkeeper you so desired her to avoid and made haste to question her about it...
Here, Mrs. Sotherby's pen ran low on ink, obliging her to dip it before giving an account of what happened after her return.
...Miss Marianne as it’s come about, was in tears upstairs and only after much questioning relented to tell me that this gentleman had come lately (and, deceitfully, during my absence, if I may be permitted to say so) to make her an offer of marriage! More extraordinarily, for I am sure you would believe such a thing as the first, Miss Marianne has refused him it seems.
I was most shocked; for while I had known the young man might possibly be in town, I did not know that he had persuaded Marianne to admit him to the house, nor to entertain such proposals from him. I owe it to be a failing on my part, Ma’am, and do not think I make light of its pain, knowing the duty charged to me.
All things in perspective, however, I believe it is a positive sign that Miss Marianne refused the young man without any advice on the subject from her elders. If he is such as you say, even the young regimental is better than a bold young tradesman in London!
Miss Marianne feels the shock keenly and cannot be persuaded to stay here any longer. Judging by the young man’s boldness and the possibility that the aforementioned captain might be inspired by such doings, I think it best to oblige her. As I am unable to come to town until after I have helped our poor niece Annalise engage a new housekeeper, I must send her by servant; but I will readily engage to chaperone her in London once I am there. So you may depend upon me to fulfill my duty and I only hope you are not too hard upon me for this unfortunate event.
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