Page 24 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)
Miss Whiskers, our self-appointed duchess of a cat, has graciously accepted the cottage as suitable to her standards, though she continues to maintain that the furniture arrangements could be improved to better accommodate her various resting preferences.
She has developed a friendship with Prudence the hedgehog that involves elaborate negotiations over prime napping locations.
Hamlet, our philosophical pig, has settled into rural life with great contentment.
He has established a comfortable routine that involves morning contemplation by the garden gate, afternoon exploration of the grounds, and evening discussions with anyone willing to listen to his observations about the day's events.
He has proven remarkably insightful about human nature and frequently provides commentary on our visitors that is more perceptive than comfortable.
All of our animals seem to have developed strong opinions about my various suitors, which I confess I find more reliable than most of the social guidance I've received from human sources.
They approve heartily of Lord Alton, tolerate Lord Pembroke with polite reserve, and seem to find Mr. Thornfield amusing but inconsequential.
I'm beginning to think I should simply follow their collective judgment rather than attempting to navigate the complexities of proper courtship.
Mrs. Fairweather, I find myself longing for your practical wisdom about these matters.
You always had such clear insight into people's true characters, and you never hesitated to share your opinions when you felt I was making poor decisions.
I could use such clarity now, when I seem to be surrounded by perfectly reasonable choices that nonetheless feel somehow. .. wrong.
Do write soon and tell me what you think I should do—both about the dinner party logistics and about the more complicated question of suitors. I trust your judgment far more than my own in such matters.
Please give my regards to the staff at Willowbrook and assure them that their former mistress is managing tolerably well in her rural exile, despite persistent attempts by local society to provide her with more excitement than she requested.
Your affectionate and slightly bewildered former employer,
Marianne
P.S. – Mrs. Smith sends her compliments and asks whether you might share your recipe for apple tart with dried lavender. She has attempted to recreate it several times but cannot achieve your perfect balance of flavors.
P.P.S. – Clarence insists I mention that he has composed what he considers to be a magnificent courting display specifically designed to impress visiting gentlemen.
I have attempted to explain that peacocks displaying for human suitors is not traditional courtship protocol, but he remains convinced of his artistic contribution to my romantic prospects.
As Marianne returned from her afternoon walk she encountered Henry on the lane between their properties. He appeared to be inspecting something in the hedgerow with typical thoroughness, but looked up with obvious pleasure when he spotted her approach.
"Lady Marianne," he said, straightening from his examination of what appeared to be some sort of botanical specimen. "Perfect timing. I was hoping to catch you before the committee meeting tomorrow."
"Oh?" She moved closer, noting that he held a small branch in his hands. "What have you found?"
"Wild damson plums," he said, offering her the branch to examine. "I thought you might be interested—they're excellent for preserves, and this particular variety seems remarkably hardy."
Marianne accepted the branch, their fingers brushing briefly in the transfer.
The flutter through her chest at their contact was not unexpected, but Henry's slight intake of breath at the touch revealed he was perhaps not immune to her. A small smile filled her mind. She didn’t let it show, but the suspicion filled her with hope.
"They're lovely," she said, examining the small purple fruits while acutely aware of his proximity. "Though I confess I'm not very experienced with damson preserves."
"My cook makes exceptional damson jam," Henry said, stepping closer to point out specific features of the fruit. "The key is balancing the tartness with just enough honey to?—"
He stopped mid-sentence as a gust of autumn wind caught Marianne's bonnet, loosening the ribbons and sending it tumbling toward the hedgerow.
Without thinking, Henry reached to catch it, his movement bringing him directly into her space close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough that the scent of his shaving soap made her feel slightly dizzy.
"Your bonnet," Henry said softly, though he made no move to step away.
"Thank you," Marianne whispered, lifting her chin, though she made no move to take it from him.
The afternoon light caught the threads of silver in Henry's dark hair, and Marianne found herself wondering what it would feel like to touch.
His gaze dropped to her lips for just a moment before returning to her eyes, and she saw something there that made her breath catch—want, confusion, and what looked remarkably like longing.
"Marianne," he said, her name barely audible, and she realized it was the first time he'd used her given name without her title.
She swayed slightly toward him, drawn by something stronger than conscious thought. Henry's free hand rose as if to touch her face, his eyes dark with an emotion she'd never seen there before.
"I—" he began, his voice rough.
The sharp crack of a breaking branch in the hedgerow made them both startle apart. Henry immediately stepped back, his expression shifting from open vulnerability to careful control so quickly that Marianne wondered if she'd imagined the entire moment.
"Your bonnet," he said again, this time with formal politeness, offering it to her with the sort of precise distance that suggested he was measuring the space between them.
"Thank you," she replied, accepting it while trying to ignore the way her hands trembled slightly.
They stood there for several heartbeats, both clearly shaken by whatever had just passed between them. The air felt charged with possibility and uncertainty in equal measure.
"I should..." Henry began.
"Yes," Marianne agreed quickly. "The afternoon is growing late."
"Indeed. I'll see you at tomorrow's meeting?"
"Of course."
But neither of them moved to leave. Henry was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—regret, perhaps, or frustration with himself for the moment of weakness.
"Lady Marianne," he said finally, his voice carefully controlled again, "I hope you know that I... that is, I hold you in the highest regard."
"Do you?" Her response was soft, softer than even the wind through the trees, but he nodded.
“I do.”
“What—What kind of regard?” Astounded at her boldness, she held her ground, stubbornly keeping her chin in the air even as she braced for his response.
His eyebrows rose and his cheeks colored. Was Lord Alton blushing? Hope soared again within her.
“The good kind…of regard.” His lips curled in a soft smile.
"Good. That's... good."
Another gust of wind reminded them both of where they were and how long they'd been standing in the lane together. Henry stepped back with obvious reluctance.
"Until tomorrow, then."
"Until tomorrow."
As Marianne walked the remaining distance to Lavender Cottage, she could feel Henry's gaze following her. When she reached her gate and glanced back, he was still standing where she'd left him, holding the damson branch and watching her with an expression that made her heart race.