“How can that be?” Timothy asked. “How could she want you to be happy in the arms of another woman?” It sounded very stark when he said it like that, and yet he wanted to understand these various facets of love and loving and marriage and loss. How did it all work between a man’s head and his heart? He’d once felt so clear regarding what he wanted in a wife, but things had felt muddled of late. Especially since his last dance with Maryann.
“I could make myself mad pondering on it too much, but I believe Sybil is happy for us and that God wants Julia and me to find happiness together. For nothing less would I take this risk, I assure you.”
“Risk?”
“Sybil died before my eyes, Timothy.” His eyes became dark. “Living without her has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My daughters needing me was as far as my desire to live went. Loving Julia means I am risking loss all over again. It terrifies me.” He paused, his pipe resting on the arm of the settee. “What if we lose a child? What if one of us falls ill? It is all well and good to expect life to be pudding and primroses forever, but that is not likely. It is a risk to love someone, and another risk to commit to them come what may. I am willing to risk the chance of hardship for the promise of joy and support and partnership that we are both committed to work toward. That is the true promise of marriage—to support and lift one another through all the circumstances of life.”
“I have never thought of marriage in such dire ways,” Timothy said. “You may have talked me out of it entirely.” Loss of children? Illness? Struggle? Those were the opposite of what Timothy expected for his future. He imagined lively parties and happy children and always having someone to talk to. But that was not realistic, was it?
How would he and Miss Shaw face such challenges? He could picture her in his mind smiling and standing beside him, but she seemed to lack the fire or drive that would be necessary to make difficult decisions. She felt like such a fragile soul. How would she cope with loss? How would she stand against struggles or even tragedy?
Peter’s words broke into his thoughts. “I can only guess that Uncle has extended his marriage campaign—and its weight—to you. Hence the reason for your questions.”
Timothy looked up with surprise. Peter knew? But of course he did. Uncle said he’d created a gift for each of his nieces and nephews. “Is that another reason you are marrying again, Peter?” he asked it quietly, as though someone might overhear him.
“Not in the slightest.” Peter spoke with crisp sincerity. “I have refused Uncle Elliott’s gift for me. I told him I felt that the whole campaign was foolish and that it would twist motivations. Is that what troubles you? Are you feeling pressured to marry now that he’s promised you material wealth when you do?”
“Not at all,” Timothy said with the same sincerity. “I have always known I would have to marry for fortune, and that has been a great weight on my shoulders these last years. Not needing a woman to bring security has led me to seek the kind of woman I have ever only dreamed of.”
“You have met someone, then?” Peter smiled and sat up.
“I have,” Timothy said, thinking of Miss Shaw, but he could hear the hesitation in his voice. “Were I to make a list of what I want in a wife, she would match nearly every one of them.” He was unwilling to admit that he had made a list and she fit every line. Peter would laugh.
On the journey to Norfolk, however, it had not been thoughts of Miss Shaw that filled him with warmth. It had been thinking of the dance with Maryann. He was not attracted to Maryann, was he? But if he wasn’t, then why had that dance left him so . . . unsettled? Was that the right word? Because there was also something fulfilling about it. Desirable. He had not experienced the energy of that dance with any other woman. Not even with Miss Shaw.
“Except?” Peter pressed.
Timothy didn’t understand. “Except?”
“You said she would match nearly every one of them. What aspects does she not fit that have put your decision in doubt?”
Timothy considered the question with all the gravity it deserved. “I don’t know.”
Peter lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t know what it is she does not possess that you wish for?”
“No.” Timothy realized that he sounded like an idiot and shook his head. “I have no quarrel with anything about her, and any man would be lucky to have her, but . . . there is another woman.”
Peter gave Timothy a half-grin. “Really?”
“She is nothing of the woman on my list.” It hurt to say it.
“How so?”
And so Timothy explained Miss Shaw—paragon of beauty and accomplishment—and Maryann—woman of grace and wit.
“Which is more interesting?”
“Maryann,” Timothy said immediately, and then felt badly for Miss Shaw.
“Which is more attractive?”
Timothy thought and thought and thought some more. After a full minute, he shook his head. “I don’t know. They both are, but in different ways. Miss Shaw is beautiful—striking and feminine and completely captivating. Maryann is . . . different. Her beauty comes from her confidence, and . . . I feel something with her that I do not feel with Miss Shaw. Or at least something I have not yet felt with Miss Shaw. There was this dance . . .”
He explained the dance, which led to explaining Maryann leaving London, and her fortune, and even Deborah and Lucas and how they fit into the whole of it.
“I hate to even think that I am choosing between them. It feels as though I am saying one is not as good at the other.”
“Or is it simply saying that one is better for you than the other?”
Timothy let out a breath, wishing he felt better for this conversation. Instead he felt more confused. “And what if I choose wrong? What if I choose one, and down the road, I regret that choice.”
“We are not our parents.”
The insight startled Timothy since it was something he had thought so much about. Peter held Timothy’s eyes, his expression firm. “I am marrying a woman who worked in my household. If anyone has considered the implications of repeating history, it is I. But Uncle Elliott has helped me understand that I am not our father. And Julia is not our mother. I understand your fear, but we are men of our own making, Timothy, and I do not see one thing in your character that makes me doubt your ability to be a good husband and father. If I could root that fear from your chest I would.”
Timothy swallowed the lump in his throat, not realizing until now how much he needed to hear that. “It is still frightening.”
“Yes, of course, it is. As I said, to love is risk. To commit is risk. But a worthwhile risk, I think. The question I think you need to ask yourself brings us back to the start. Which woman makes you better?”
Maryann. But as quick as he thought it, he reminded himself that he’d had months to get to know Maryann. He’d known Miss Shaw for only a few weeks.
When he said nothing out loud, Peter cleared his throat. “There is no such thing as a perfect woman, Timothy, nor a perfect man. But imperfections do not eclipse the whole.”
“Julia is not perfect, then?”
Peter laughed, but only once before glancing toward the door. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. Timothy considered reminding him that Julia had gone to the vicar’s, but then her mother was within these walls, so maybe the caution was warranted.
“Julia is better with some of the dogs than I am, which makes me crazy even as I admire her skill.” He paused and glanced at the door again. “She prefers simple meals to the more elaborate ones I enjoy, and she likes the girls to sit at the table with us for dinner. I’ve never had children at the table before.” He sat back, and his manner relaxed. “Her mother has been teaching her the responsibilities of the household, and things are improving, but Julia is uncomfortable taking charge with the staff.”
He paused a moment and took a puff
off his pipe while Timothy tried to keep himself in his chair and not take to pacing.
“But those imperfections go both ways. I like fancier meals than she, I prefer not to have children at the table, and I want her to manage the staff as a woman of the house is supposed to. Additionally, she feels I spend too much time with the dogs, and she wishes I would buy a new suit for the wedding, which I am opposed to because I already own a perfectly acceptable one.
“We have both made compromises to accommodate each other. It isn’t always easy, but the reward outweighs the difficulties. I would suggest that you look for a woman who both captivates your senses and can weather the storms that will inevitably come, rather than a wife who answers an advertisement.”
Timothy considered all of this information. “You have given me a great deal to think about, Peter.”
“I hope the excessive thinking will be to your benefit,” Peter said. He took another few puffs of his pipe, then stood and dumped the bowl in the fireplace. He turned to face Timothy. “I think you will make the right choice. You’re a steady sort, Timothy, and have proven yourself a good man. You’ll know the right course.”
“Thank you. Your confidence means a great deal to me.” Timothy wished he felt the same confidence in his ability to make the right choice.
Timothy stood, feeling stuffed to the brim with all that he’d learned, when he remembered something else—something Maryann had specifically encouraged him to do. “Uh, Peter?”
Peter looked up, his eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
“I have also come to realize how ignorant I am of what it takes to manage a home and family. Marriage will change so many things for me in day-to-day living that it makes my head spin. I wonder if I might stay an extra day or two and perhaps you could tutor me on what I am to do with myself once I am a man of home and family.”
Peter smiled widely. “I would consider it a great honor, little brother.”
Timothy scowled. “You need not say it like that.”
Peter laughed heartily, then began walking toward the doorway. Timothy caught up with him in a few strides. “The first thing you must do,” Peter said as they reached the stairs, “is get a dog. No man is complete without a dog.”
Timothy stayed in Norfolk two days following the engagement party. He enjoyed visiting with some of his cousins who had attended—Harry had not come, still put out with Uncle Elliott, it seemed—and playing with his nieces.
Peter made good on his promise to offer the foundations of Timothy’s education on matters of estate and home and family, and Timothy felt the relief of not being alone in this. Peter had had no more example than Timothy had, yet it was hard for Timothy to look at his brother now and imagine he’d once dug out the privy himself because there was no one else to do it. He’d come a long distance from their childhood, and Timothy took confidence in his own ability to do the same.
Amid the instructions of how to manage time and tasks of home and family, Timothy watched Peter and Julia. They tended to the dogs together each morning, spent time with the girls together, and often took evening walks together. She insisted the girls join them for dinner each night, raising her eyebrow when Peter protested. He tickled his children and chased Julia around a hedge during a game on the lawn. She made him better. Timothy could see it, and her whole face lit up when she looked at Peter.
Seeing their interaction caused an ache in Timothy’s chest—he wanted this. Belonging. Family. Comfort with someone else. Each time he thought of a similar future, it was Maryann not Miss Shaw in the images. By the time he said his farewells to Peter and his family, Timothy knew the choice he needed to make. He only hoped he could make it without causing pain for anyone.
Timothy returned to London on Thursday in time to wash off the travel and attend the Middletons’ dinner party. He arrived fashionably late, as usual, and was not seated near Miss Shaw for dinner. At one point, he smiled at her from across the table. She smiled back, then ducked her head as though his attention made her feel shy.
After the men returned to the dining room following their port, Timothy found his way into Miss Shaw’s company where she was talking with two other ladies and her mother. He had forgotten that Miss Shaw’s mother had arrived in London while he had been gone. One of the items on his list was that his perfect woman’s mother would adore him; ironically, he did not even have to try to earn her approval. She warmed up to him immediately. He listened to her talk of her family and her husband and the lovely home they kept in Nottinghamshire.
Miss Shaw engaged in the conversation as would be expected of a debutante. When talk moved to the theater and questions were directed to her, she spoke of a few plays she’d seen in her own county, though she could not pick a favorite. Eventually, Mrs. Shaw excused herself to speak with an old friend, and Timothy took the opportunity to ask that he and Miss Shaw look out on the gardens.
The veranda doors were open, and the night was quite temperate. She looked lovely in a pale green dress with gold stripes on the underskirt. Her hair was done up in large, looping golden curls, save for the smaller curls at the side of her face. Dozens of small green flowers had been artfully included in the arrangement of her hair. She wore a simple cross at her throat, reminding him that one of the items on his list had been limited jewelry.
Maryann wore limited jewelry most of the time but also looked lovely when she displayed her more elaborate pieces. The condition suddenly seemed a very silly stipulation to have in a life partner.
During their walk, she named a few of the flowers in the garden that Timothy did not know. When they had taken the path all the way back to the veranda, Timothy leaned against the stone railing and attempted a transition into more serious conversation. If he could help her see that they were not right for one another, it would be easier on them both. “Do you like London, Miss Shaw?”
“Yes. The people are lovely.”
“Well, some of them are,” he said with a grin.
She smiled, but politely. Not as though they were sharing a joke.
“Would you like to live in London?”
She met his eye and then ducked her chin. He had found that coy action engaging once. Now he found it irritating, and felt terrible about that. He did not want to stand in judgment of her, but then had he not been standing in judgment of every young woman he’d met this season? Gauging them? Wondering how they might make him happy? The realization embarrassed him.
Before his circumstances had changed, Timothy had looked for a woman he could love—who was also wealthy. Now he looked for a woman who would measure up to the aspects that pleased him. As though he were ordering a coat or a dog. The realization brought unexpected shame.
“I will live wherever my husband lives,” Miss Shaw said quietly, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yes, but do you like London? Would you be happy living in the city?”
“If my husband is happy here, I shall be happy here.”
Timothy laughed, but it was not genuine. Would Miss Shaw notice? “Come now, Miss Shaw, that is no kind of answer. What would you like?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she didn’t answer, instead she looked back over the city. He had not meant to be harsh, but obviously he had not been careful in his commentary. He cleared his throat. “Say that you married a man with a house in London and a house in the country—which would you prefer to keep as your primary residence?”
“Whichever he chose,” she said softly and with just a hint of a question in her tone.
They lapsed into silence, which weighed heavily on him, but he counted backward from ten to one and then from one to ten while he waited for her to ask him something—anything. After a full thirty seconds, Timothy felt he had no choice but to speak.
“I shall be leaving town next week,” he said.
She frowned, rather prettily, and looked at the floor.
I have made my c
hoice, he told himself. Why am I still here?
“I haven’t seen my sister for some time. My uncle created a parcel for her and asked that I deliver it.”
His visit to Donna would be the first he’d seen of her in a long while, and he was nervous about the reunion. Not because they did not share accord, but because so much had happened in his sister’s life these last two years.
Timothy wondered what Miss Shaw would think of his stories from his childhood, or what she might say about his exiled sister.
Maryann would likely share an honest and well-thought-out opinion with him, ask questions, and show sympathy. He did not even want to tell Miss Shaw as he suspected she would be put off by it. She was so young and naive. Yet she’d been threatened by Maryann. Had she seen what he himself hadn’t?
Miss Shaw nodded and finally lifted her eyes. “I shall look forward to your return, Mr. Mayfield.”
Timothy smiled a little sadly. She had not asked after his sister or opened the door in any way for him to confide in her.
They returned to the party, and Timothy allowed distance between him and Miss Shaw, suggesting to Mr. Hawthorne that he discuss the play with her again as she and her mother would be going that week. Mr. Hawthorne hurried to their circle, and once Timothy could see that Miss Shaw was engaged in conversation, he gave his regard to the Middletons and exited the party.
He ran home through the streets of London, the air moving in and out of his lungs, and he felt . . . free.
When he reached his rooms, there was a note under his door informing him that he had a parcel at the front desk. He woke up the clerk to get it; he received so few packages. The crate of goods Uncle Elliott had made up for Donna was already in the corner of his room.
The bleary-eyed man went into the locked storeroom and returned with a small wooden box that he set on the counter between them. Timothy stared at the box adorned with clasps and a handle, then gingerly undid the trappings. He lifted the top to reveal a dozen tiny jars of paint, fitted to the sides of the case, along with a box of brushes and a folded rag. On top of everything was a paper, folded in half.
Daisies and Devotion Page 21
