Page 7

Chapter Seven

“ L et things be all right,” Marianne muttered as she gave herself one last look in the mirror.

It had been the longest day of her life. It began with enduring the whispers and sharp words of the ton’s young ladies, followed by an unexpected chase through the woods, saving a deer, and changing into fresh clothes to avoid suspicion.

And now, it was far from over.

Her father had a dinner planned for his guests—guests who would never know how little he cared for her.

Once, he hadn’t been a terrible man—at least in her memories from childhood.

But that was before her mother’s death. Before the bitterness grew with the birth of her brother Daniel.

The Marquess had blamed his son for his late wife’s passing, and over the years, that blame had morphed into something worse.

Now, as she sat at Grisham Manor’s glittering dining table, surrounded by expensive crystal and polished silver, Marianne felt more out of place than ever. The ladies in their gleaming silk gowns, the soft flicker of candlelight—it all seemed like an elaborate facade.

Her stomach turned when her gaze fell on the centerpiece: the stag, now roasted and seasoned to perfection by her father’s chef. It seemed like a mockery of everything the day had meant.

“Are you all right?” Elizabeth whispered from beside her.

“I am,” Marianne lied.

She watched as the guests admired the stag, their eyes gleaming with hunger. Servants moved swiftly between them, pouring wine and setting down slices of meat garnished with sauces and wild mushrooms, all with a precision that made it seem like part of a well-rehearsed dance.

Marianne sat with her back straight, her pale green gown and carefully arranged hair giving her the air of the host’s perfect daughter. She kept her face impassive, though her thoughts were anything but composed. Her gaze flickered over the guests as they dug into the stag with evident pleasure.

But no matter what, she did not touch the venison on her plate.

At first, no one seemed to notice. The room was filled with the hum of polite conversation—talk of the weather, the hunt, the ton , and the latest gossip.

She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for those who weren’t in attendance, now the subject of idle chatter.

But as dinner progressed and the hare was served, more eyes began to settle on her untouched plate.

“Is there something wrong with your meat, Lady Marianne?” Lady Adelaide asked, looking amused.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it. I simply don’t eat venison,” Marianne replied firmly.

Giggles erupted from Lady Adelaide’s section of the table, and for some reason, Lord Bertram Cray felt compelled to join in.

“Is this decision not to partake a matter of principle or palate?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock concern.

“I suppose both,” Marianne answered without blinking.

Two other ladies exchanged a look upon hearing her answer. One of them raised her eyebrow and did not even bother lowering her voice when she commented, “How quaint.”

Another lord seemed to think it was appropriate to give his own opinion, saying, “Such delicate sensibilities. What would have happened if she were there when the stag fell?”

Others laughed politely, perhaps afraid not to be in fashion. It seemed that the order of the night was to make fun of Marianne’s decision not to eat venison.

Somehow, she’d expected this. Her belief that animals should not be hunted for sport was unpopular among the ton.

“It is, indeed, curious,” Lord Bertram said, making sure he sliced his venison extra slowly for Marianne. Then, he chewed on the meat with fervor, clearly to mock her further. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she refused the pheasant next.”

“Or the fish!” Lady Adelaide added with a smirk.

The laughter grew louder, sharper this time, tinged with malice.

Though the mockery was squarely aimed at her, Marianne maintained an outward calm.

She had long perfected the art of keeping her expression neutral.

Inside, however, she was as tense as ever, her fingers gripping the stem of her goblet.

But she didn’t dare let her composure slip.

Then, a clear, youthful voice cut through the noise from the children’s table at the far end of the room. Heads turned toward the sound, and Marianne immediately recognized Wilhelmina’s voice.

“Why should it matter what she chooses to eat? Some of us prefer to nourish ourselves thoughtfully rather than what’s served on a platter for the sake of status. But of course, I suppose not everyone has the luxury of considering such things.”

The room fell into a tense silence. Eyes turned toward Wilhelmina, curious to see how she would stand her ground. Surrounded by younger guests and still not fully presented to Society, her boldness was unexpected.

Marianne knew that their father would be furious at her.

“My dear, it is hardly fitting for one not yet out in Society to offer her opinions on adult matters,” Lady Honora remarked with a thin smile, her tone as sharp as it was measured.

“Pardon me, my lady. I was merely under the impression that everyone , regardless of age or sex, was expected to display proper manners.”

There were gasps. There were also coughs, presumably to hide laughter.

“Your mother has clearly failed to teach you those manners you speak of, young lady,” Lady Honora chided, her eyes narrowed. “Then again, she is not here to do so.”

Marianne winced as Wilhelmina’s face paled. She knew it was not due to the insult to her manners but from the implication about her mother. Lady Grisham—Marianne’s stepmother, and Wilhelmina’s, Victoria’s, and Daphne’s real mother—was a sensitive subject.

Fury sparked in her eyes, and her lips parted. Marianne, sensing the danger of letting her sister speak, cleared her throat deliberately, the sound cutting through the rising tension and halting the scandalized murmurs.

She met her half-sister’s eyes and gave her a silent warning. It’s not worth it .

Throughout it all, their father watched in silence. Marianne noted how his expression hardened when Wilhelmina spoke, but there was something more when Lady Honora mentioned his wife.

His face was now set in stone, save for the twitching muscle in his jaw. His eyes flicked from Wilhelmina to Marianne, and in that brief, piercing glance, she felt the unmistakable warning only his daughters could interpret.

Do not make a scene. Or else …

Marianne could almost hear the cane thudding on the floor once more, and she tried her best not to flinch. Again, none of the guests could elicit such a reaction from her. Nothing came close to Lord Grisham’s vitriol.

Wilhelmina bowed her head, her fists in her lap. However, Marianne knew her sister well enough to understand that it wasn’t a display of surrender. The girl looked angry, her shoulders stiff and tense.

Meanwhile, Lady Honora, believing she had silenced her, returned to her venison with an air of triumph, savoring each bite as if she had secured a great victory.

“My sister was right,” Marianne said in a deceptively soft voice.

She was quiet enough so her father could not hear.

“There is no obligation to partake in what one does not find agreeable. Such should be the rule in any civilized gathering. As should true manners—manners that extend beyond what the older generation may deem proper. Manners that are instead grounded in decency and genuine kindness.”

“Ah, well, of course, my lady,” Lord Bertram began awkwardly. “I did not mean anything by it.”

At least he apologized, which Marianne appreciated. The rest simply went back to their conversations.

The mood at dinner struggled to return to its former zest. Still, Marianne could detect a shift. Some began to avoid her gaze, while others peered at her curiously. She could even imagine that some of them had begun looking at her with some respect.

So, she ate her buttered vegetables slowly and delicately. Why not? She was accused of being too delicate. Even so, she would not give them everything they wanted.

Later, she found solace in the glazed fruit and sweet wine, their delicate flavors offering a quiet reprieve from the evening’s tension.

Wilhelmina and the twins excused themselves early, which was not much of a surprise given their younger age. They were, in fact, expected to retire early.

Soon, Marianne followed with her own polite excuses.

In the hallway outside the dining room, Wilhelmina stood fuming. Her shoulders were rigid, her hands clenched into fists by her sides.

“You should have just let me say everything I wanted to say,” she grumbled.

“I had to. You know why,” Marianne said placatingly.

“That woman—that hag—insulted us!”

“I know, Wilhelmina.”

“I could not even?—”

“I know, darling.”

Wilhelmina turned away, but not before Marianne saw her lower lip quiver.

Marianne touched her sister’s arm gently. “If you had continued, you would have given that woman the satisfaction to see you rattled. It was what she wanted, and it was apparent that she was trying to provoke you.”

“I didn’t even care about what she said about Mother. I wanted to defend you! I wanted to defend myself! Heavens, I feel utterly helpless, as though I could not even command my own limbs.”

“What do you think about the rest of us? Don’t you think we want to do the same thing? Put them in their place? We dream of it often. I know I do. However, we must pick our battles and keep our energy for what’s important.”

“It’s not fair, Marianne!”

“Who says it ever was?”

For a long moment, neither sister spoke. They could still hear the sounds of clinking silver and overjoyed laughter from within.

With a sigh, Wilhelmina straightened. “One day, I will be out of Grisham Manor. I will become a duchess, a countess, or something that will make them say yes to my every whim. Then, we will see who dares correct or insult me then,” she said with fervor.

“I believe you, dear sister,” Marianne said honestly.

If anyone could blaze a trail, it would be her sister.

“When that happens, nobody can speak ill of us ever again,” Wilhelmina vowed, her chin jutted defiantly.

“As it should be.”

Silence settled between them once more, but in that quiet, a thousand unspoken words passed between the sisters. Marianne felt there should be no pity shared—only strength and unspoken admiration.

One day.

They all enjoyed that game of ‘ one day ’ as if it were something they could hold onto.

“You were brave,” Wilhelmina said, looking at her sister with wide eyes.

“So were you, darling.”

“I made a scene,” she mumbled, in a way that was close enough to an apology.

“You made a point. It was a fair point, too. Some of them recognized it, but most were cowards who were afraid to go against the current.”

Wilhelmina thanked her sister, and after a gentle hug, she went upstairs to her chambers.

For now, Wilhelmina could leave these people behind. For a little while.

It was not an escape, Marianne told herself.

Both Marianne and Wilhelmina knew that, sadly, they belonged to this world, and they had to face their daily battles again.

At least, they had each other.