“So, I shan’t have the chance to meet him here in London?” Mr. Fetich confirmed, his whole face drooping.
“I’m afraid not,” Maryann said, only slightly stung by the dejected look on his face. “But should you wish to correspond with him, I am sure he would welcome it. Shall I ask him?”
Mr. Fetich brightened substantially, and he did not even try to hide the fact that she’d uncovered his true interest. Maryann promised to write to her father on his behalf before the end of the week. Mr. Fetich thanked her before turning and heading straight to Miss Callifour, who was in the process of leaving with her mother and younger sister. He helped Miss Callifour into her cloak before they all left the house together. Interesting.
Maryann returned from showing the Bensons to the door a few minutes later to find Timothy studying the artwork on the wall. Every time she had encountered him in this room he was looking at some piece of art or workmanship—why was that?
Her feet took her in his direction until she was standing just behind his left shoulder. He was wearing his blue, superfine coat tonight, with tails that almost reached the top edge of his boots. The only thing that would have improved his appearance would have been black trousers instead of light gray. Then he could wear his black-and-pink-patterned waistcoat and present a very sharp picture. He did not have a valet to make such arrangements for him, and sometimes it showed.
He looked over his shoulder, and then stepped aside so as to invite her to join in his admiration of the painting. “This is a lovely seascape,” he said.
She glanced sidelong, wondering if he were making some sort of jest. He did not break his concentration on the piece, which led her to believe his sincerity. “It is a Joseph Turner, I believe.” She was sure she’d heard her father say as much once before.
“Yes.” He waved toward the signature, a squiggly thing that resembled the letter W. “I’ve not seen one in someone’s home before.”
“You know art as well as that?” she asked.
He shrugged without looking at her. “I enjoy art,” he said simply and continued to look over the painting for a few more seconds, leaving Maryann at odds with herself. Should she leave him to his study? He had listed “watercoloring” as one of the traits he wanted in his “perfect woman.” Was that because he enjoyed painting himself? If so, it took that attribute beyond a mere item on a list and changed it to a hobby he could enjoy with a woman who also appreciated the art form. The pettiness of that one item on his list was now in question.
“Do you paint, Timothy?” She caught the slip of his Christian name as soon as she said it and felt herself flush. It was what Deborah always called him, and how Maryann always thought of him, but calling him by his name was a liberty she had not been granted.
He looked at her with a lifted eyebrow and a half-smile that made her traitorous heart flutter in her chest. “I do not, Maryann. Do you?”
She smiled back and ducked her head in hopes of hiding the blush on her too-prominent cheeks. Well, then, this would be something new for their odd relationship. Well enough.
She looked back at the painting. “Not well, I’m afraid. My mother hired a painting teacher for me once, but he gave up after four lessons. I believe his exact words were ‘There are many who would benefit from my tutelage, but your daughter does not seem to be one of them.’”
Maryann had not cared that he’d insulted her, she’d only been glad to no longer have to try her hand at something she had no interest in. She preferred such things as household management, schedules, and account books—all of which she had taken over during the years of her mother’s illness. Artistic endeavors had never held much appeal. Timothy, on the other hand, seemed to flourish in the creative aspects of life—theater, art appreciation. They were so different.
“I think I would have enjoyed lessons,” Timothy said. “But we never had the option of such things when I was young, and painting is not something they teach once a boy starts school. It is a girl’s talent, everyone says.” He knocked her shoulder slightly with his own and gave her a grin. “But apparently not every girl’s.”
“Apparently,” she said, smiling fully so he would know she was not offended. Friends could tease one another, and she truly wanted to be friends. “And in Joseph Turner’s case, I suppose talent is not restricted to only my sex.”
“True,” Timothy said with a nod. “I would like to try my hand at it one day.”
“I hope that you will,” Maryann encouraged. They lapsed into silence, which made her panic slightly, not wanting to lose this accord. “I like to think I was awarded an extra dose of wit and wisdom in place of the artistic portion of talent I do not possess.”
Timothy laughed. “I would put money on it. Do you enjoy looking at art, Miss Morrington?”
“Mostly I think I appreciate how a piece accentuates a room rather than the individual aspects of one piece over another. I do like seascapes, however. They remind me of home.” She missed the sea more and more with every passing week.
“I have never seen the sea,” he said.
She looked at him. “Truly?” If he had not seen it, then he had not smelled the brine or watched the waves crash against the shore in hypnotic rhythm.
Timothy shook his head. “Raised in western Norfolk, schooled in Cambridge, lived in London ever since. Funny that I haven’t realized until this moment that I’ve never been.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I am lucky. One cannot miss what one does not know.”
It would be a small thing to invite him to visit them in Dunster after the season had ended so that he might witness the majestic sea she’d grown up with. Lucas would likely come if Timothy did. But Timothy had his perfect woman to find, and Maryann had a match to make as well. They fell into an awkward silence for several seconds.
“It was a very nice dinner party,” Timothy finally said.
“It was,” she said, relieved that he’d continued the conversation. “You enjoyed yourself?”
“Certainly.” There was something too polite in his tone.
“Hmm,” she said. “I sense a certain tightness around your ears.”
She braced herself, fearing he would retreat from her attempt to recapture their earlier teasing. Instead, he smiled widely, showing his fine teeth, and looked at her in that particular way of his that made her feel as though she were the only thing he were seeing. It made her shoulders tingle.
“Ah, I can’t fool you, can I, Maryann?” He sighed. “I must admit that I am especially tired tonight.” He looked toward the door. “I have been waiting for Lucas to return so that I might make my official goodbyes.”
“Your color does look rather gray,” she said, looking at him more closely. When he was smiling, the smudged rings below his eyes hadn’t been so noticeable. “Are you all right?”
“Just tired,” he said.
“Of what?”
He laughed, then shook his head. “Of people less diverting than you, to be sure.”
She did not know how to respond to the compliment, but suddenly felt his hand at her elbow.
“Would you mind if we sit while I wait for Lucas?”
“Not at all.”
He moved his hand to the small of her back and guided her toward the chairs grouped around a low table. She had to swallow at the physical sensation of his touch. No, no, no, she chastised herself. You will not respond to him this way. Not him. She’d been waiting weeks to feel some sense of this energy from the other men she’d met—and she hadn’t. But Timothy was the man who didn’t want her. Didn’t need her.
Thankfully, they both sat in chairs, so she did not need to feel the warmth of him beside her on a settee. “You look very well tonight, Maryann,” he commented.
She told herself he would say as much to any woman, but she still liked that he’d said it to her. “Thank you.” This was her first time wearing her new pink silk overdress
with daisies embroidered around the hem, and she’d received many compliments. His compliment, however, somehow meant the very most. Which was aggravating.
They went quiet again, and in the space between them, she felt as if there were an invisible line keeping them from being fully comfortable with one another. The moment whispered in her ear that this could be her chance to build upon the friendship he had offered with his flowers and his note of apology. She had sent him a note of forgiveness and thanks weeks ago. Wouldn’t she like the assurance that their friendship was intact? Then, perhaps their next encounter would not be as uncomfortable as this one.
She cleared her throat. “At the risk of making this conversation even more awkward, how is your perfect-wife-campaign going?”
He eyed her, clearly suspicious.
She waved her hand through the air between them. “I ask as a friend, and I promise not to harass you. I am genuinely interested. The last time we met you were so excited about your change of circumstances, as I’ve come to realize anyone would be.”
“Well, as a friend, I suppose I can tell you that it is not going as well as I had hoped. In fact, your words about the impossibility of my ‘list’ have been haunting me.”
She was tempted to make a flippant comment about having been right, but his mood was too serious.
Timothy continued. “I have met dozens of women who matched the aspects I desire, yet none of them are . . . right.”
What misery it was not to tell him that they weren’t right because they were mere women, not the goddess Diana. She restrained herself, however, and settled for stating the obvious. “This is very upsetting for you.”
He nodded, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees so that he was looking at the rug. After a few seconds, he looked up. “I have this one chance, and I am so frightened I will get it wrong.” He sighed, loudly but not dramatically, as he sat back in his chair. “I suppose you shall now tell me that you knew this would happen.”
His expectation of her superiority erased any residue she had been feeling of it and unlocked her own honesty. “No, I will not say such a thing. Everyone is looking for something. Perhaps you were more honest than I was prepared for, but I do not think I am much different. I have tried to get to know any number of men, for example, and not found one of them who meets my expectations, which I was certain were far more reasonable.” She shrugged, wishing she was exaggerating more than she was. All she really wanted was a man not solely in want of her fortune and who made her feel the way Timothy did. She may as well have had a list of a thousand qualifications.
He let out another heavy sigh. “It is a very difficult prospect—looking for the person who will be your perfect match. I suppose that is why so many people settle for less than what they want.”
“And yet many of them end up happy together.”
He did not smile as she thought he might. “Do they?” he said quietly. “I have been watching married couples as well, and I wonder if many of them do not simply accept their lot and make the best of it. I do not want that for myself, or for my children.”
“Your children?”
“My parents were . . . not well matched. My father died a few months before I was born so I only knew my mother, but she spoke poorly of him and pulled away from everyone, even us—my brother, sister, and myself.” He looked up, the pain in his eyes showing through. “If you do not love the person you marry, does that affect the love you can feel for your children, do you think? I want so much more than what my parents had, yet sometimes I wonder if I have been chasing fantasy all along. I was so sure that this . . . change would solve what was missing, but now I wonder if it’s only made things worse.”
Maryann swallowed, taken off guard by his confession. Timothy was always so cheerful and full of energy that she’d never guessed he had a painful history.
“My parents married after having met only three times,” she said. “They came to love one another very much and loved their children equally well. Hearing how deeply you have thought about this topic makes me feel that perhaps I have taken for granted the security that came from knowing my parents were so mindful of each other.” A tenderness rose up within her as it always did when she thought of her mother. “When my mother became ill, my father would not leave our home, even though his business suffered and it was painful to watch her decline. He read to her every day for almost five years, even when we doubted she knew any of us.”
“That,” Timothy pronounced with a soft smile that said he knew she was sharing something sacred with him. “That is what I want. It is what my brother found in his wife, Sybil—they were excellent partners and parents.”
“Were?” Maryann asked.
“Sybil died four years ago, but the bond she and Peter shared has continued to bless their daughters. Sybil was Peter’s perfect match, and he knew it early on. I want to find the same.”
“I admire that a great deal,” Maryann said, treading softly.
“So you see why I cannot leave the smallest aspect to chance. It feels too much of a risk. I must know from the start that the woman I take as my wife is the woman who can create that future with me.”
“You want to fall in love before you marry, then?”
He shook his head. “Love without commitment can be fickle. I am not such a romantic to believe that love will conquer all things. Rather, I believe there is a woman out there who can be the perfect match of my own attributes. I believe I will recognize her, and then love will come after.”
“Recognize her?” Maryann repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Yes, recognize her.” He leaned forward, his energy increasing. “It cannot be an accident that I am drawn to art.” He waved toward the walls. “That must mean that the woman who shall make me happy will love art just as I do. Perhaps she may even help me to unlock a talent within myself I have not yet discovered.”
Ah, he was looking for a soul mate: one person in existence who was his other half. She had to resist debating him about the realistic nature of such a belief. “And blonde?”
He picked at something unseen on the knee of his trousers, avoiding her eye. “I have always found blondes to be particularly attractive and imagined a houseful of blonde children.”
“You are also blond. Perhaps you are looking for a female version of yourself, then.”
“Precisely.” He flashed that adorable smile, and she bit back a laugh. His earnestness felt misguided, and yet he was so sincere. Had he not said a moment ago that he was not such a romantic as to expect love to strike him like lightning? The irony was that he expected more than lightning. He expected a soul’s recognition.
“I would not say my parents were the same person of each sex,” Maryann said, trying to disagree diplomatically. “Rather, they were good people evenly situated and committed to each other and their family. That commitment encouraged both of them to do their part toward building a happy marriage. They worked toward what they wanted and challenged one another through their differences.”
“Hmm,” Timothy said. “I cannot see how differences can be helpful in forging a trustworthy future.”
She did laugh then, which startled him. She sobered quickly so as not to shut down the conversation. “I just told you that it worked for my parents.”
“And I just told you that it did not work for mine.” He shook his head. “It feels to be the wiser choice to keep looking for that woman who is perfectly suited for me. I am certain she is out there, and I am certain I will know her when I see her.”
“And yet we began this conversation because you were feeling discouraged in your pursuit so far.”
He frowned as he considered that, but then shrugged. “I think mostly I am simply tired. I go from one event to another, day in and day out—often not getting home until early morning only to be making morning calls a handful of hours later.”
Though her feelings were still complicated when it came to Timothy, it made her sad to think that his uncle’s boon was becoming a burden. They had already established that she was not in the running for the role of his “perfect woman” so, maybe, if he met every woman who seemed to fit the list he would realize he should be looking for different things.
“Have you met Natalia Rushford?”
He pulled his eyebrows together, then shook his head.
“She is from Wales and new to England, though her mother is connected to the Connellys. I met her at Lady Dominique’s tea a few days ago. Lovely girl. Granted, she has brown eyes, not green, but she is blonde and an exceptional flautist. She probably likes babies, though I did not ask directly.”
He eyed her with suspicion. “I have not met her, no.”
“Well, I will be seeing her tomorrow, I think. Deborah and I were going to make a visit, and I shall find out the next few events she might attend. If you are both there, I shall help make an introduction.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I am your friend,” she said as though that were her only motivation. “And because I meant what I said when I told you that I wished for your happiness.”
She saw a flash of pity in his eyes, a reminder of when she had pointed out how she had not measured up to his list. “I have come to realize many ways in which you and I would never suit, Timothy.” She laughed—lightly—though it stung. “But we are still friends, are we not? And thanks to Lady Dominique, I am in a position to meet any number of women when they come to England. Deborah and I have become a part of her committee, so to speak.”
Timothy laughed, though dryly as though he did not entirely trust her offer. “Yes, Lady Dominique likes to be the first to vet newcomers.”
“Precisely. If you have, in fact, made the rounds and come up empty-handed, perhaps I could help you be among the first to meet those who join the season later. Deborah assures me that girls continue to arrive through the end of May.”
Daisies and Devotion Page 7
