Page 25 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Nineteen

M arianne walked briskly across the lane separating Lavender Cottage from Lord Alton's estate, clutching the festival program draft that required his immediate attention.

The afternoon post had brought concerning news from the printer about delays in the promotional materials, and as co-coordinator of logistics, Henry needed to know about the potential complications before their committee meeting tomorrow.

The urgency of the situation had driven all other considerations from her mind until she found herself standing at his front door, suddenly aware that she was calling on a gentleman unannounced and unaccompanied.

But surely, she reasoned, their working partnership on the festival made such formality unnecessary.

They were colleagues in charitable work, not participants in some elaborate courtship ritual.

She knocked briskly and was admitted by Henry's butler, who showed her to the morning room where Lord Alton was reviewing what appeared to be agricultural reports.

"Lady Marianne," Henry said, rising from his desk with an expression of surprise that quickly shifted to something approaching alarm. "I wasn't expecting... that is, I had no appointment..."

"Of course not," Marianne said, settling into the chair across from his desk and spreading the festival materials before him.

"But this couldn't wait for formal visiting hours.

The printer has encountered delays with our promotional broadsheets, and we need to discuss alternative arrangements immediately. "

Henry remained standing, his posture rigid with what Marianne was beginning to recognize as his particular form of social discomfort.

"Lady Marianne, while I appreciate the urgency of festival business, I must point out that your calling here alone, without prior arrangement, is rather. .. irregular."

Marianne looked up from the papers with surprise. "Irregular? We're working together on the charity project. Surely that creates sufficient justification for discussing urgent business matters?"

"Perhaps," Henry said carefully, "but appearances matter, particularly for a woman in your position. Unmarried ladies don't typically call upon unmarried gentlemen unaccompanied, regardless of the stated purpose."

"My position?" Marianne felt a flicker of irritation. "What exactly is my position, Lord Alton?"

"You're a widow of good family with multiple suitors paying you attention. Your reputation requires careful management, particularly given your... unconventional... living arrangements."

"Unconventional living arrangements," Marianne repeated slowly. "You mean my animals."

"I mean your entire approach to propriety," Henry said, his tone growing more formal with each word. "The animals are merely one aspect of a larger pattern of behavior that concerns those who care about your welfare."

Marianne set down the festival papers and turned to face him fully. "Those who care about my welfare. Such as yourself?"

"Such as anyone who wishes to see you settled advantageously," Henry replied, though something in his expression suggested the words tasted bitter. "Lord Pembroke, for instance, has been most generous in overlooking certain... irregularities... in your conduct."

"Generous in overlooking them," Marianne said, her voice growing dangerously quiet. "How very gracious of him. And what specific irregularities require his generosity to overlook?"

Henry seemed to realize he was venturing into treacherous territory, but pressed forward with characteristic determination.

"Your tendency to act on impulse without considering social consequences.

Your refusal to maintain appropriate distance in your professional relationships.

Your habit of prioritizing your own preferences over accepted standards of behavior. "

"Such as calling on you today to discuss urgent festival business?"

"Such as calling on me today without proper chaperoning or prior arrangement, yes."

Marianne stood slowly, her hands clenched at her sides. "I see. And in your expert opinion, what would constitute proper behavior in this situation?"

"You should have sent a note requesting an appointment, or asked one of the other Widows to accompany you, or simply waited until our scheduled committee meeting to address these concerns."

"Waited," Marianne repeated. "While the promotional materials remained unprinted and our publicity schedule fell into chaos. Waited because social convention matters more than practical necessity."

"Social convention exists for good reasons," Henry said firmly. "It protects women like you from gossip and speculation that could damage your prospects for advantageous marriage."

"Prospects for advantageous marriage," Marianne said, her voice rising. "Is that all you think I should care about? Making myself sufficiently inoffensive to attract a husband who will generously overlook my irregularities?"

"I think you should care about your future security and social position," Henry replied. "Marriage to someone like Lord Pembroke would provide both, but only if you demonstrate sufficient regard for proper conduct."

"Sufficient regard for proper conduct," Marianne repeated, taking a step closer to his desk. "Tell me, Lord Alton, what exactly constitutes proper conduct for a woman in my position?"

Henry seemed to sense he was approaching dangerous ground, but his military training in facing difficult situations head-on prevented him from retreating.

"Discretion. Appropriate reserve in your interactions with gentlemen.

Consideration for how your actions reflect on your family name and your late husband's memory. "

"My late husband's memory," Marianne said, her voice now shaking with anger. "Charles, who encouraged me to be exactly as unconventional as I pleased? Who told me in his final letter that my happiness mattered more than anyone else's opinion of my choices?"

"Charles is dead," Henry said bluntly. "His opinions, however well-intentioned, cannot protect you from the consequences of defying social expectations."

The words hit Marianne like a physical blow. For a moment, she stood frozen, staring at Henry's resolute expression as the full implications of his statement settled over her.

"I see," she said finally. "So Charles's wishes for my happiness are irrelevant because he's not here to defend me. Therefore, I should reshape myself to meet the expectations of people who never knew him and don't particularly care about my welfare beyond its effect on their own comfort."

"I'm trying to protect you from making choices you'll regret," Henry said, though his voice had lost some of its certainty.

"Protect me," Marianne said with bitter laugh.

"By encouraging me to hide everything that makes me who I am.

By insisting I present an edited version of myself to attract men who would disapprove of my actual character.

By telling me that my spontaneous kindness, my love for my animals, my willingness to act on principle rather than convention—all the things that made Charles love me—are irregularities requiring correction. "

"That's not what I meant?—"

"Isn't it?" Marianne interrupted. "Because that's exactly what you've been telling me for weeks. That I need to be managed, edited, improved before any decent man would consider me suitable for marriage."

Henry's expression grew defensive. "I've tried to help you understand what society expects?—"

"Society expects women to be decorative and compliant," Marianne said hotly. "To prioritize others' comfort over their own convictions. To apologize for having opinions, interests, or preferences that don't align with masculine convenience."

"That's not?—"

"To pretend that calling on a colleague to discuss urgent business is somehow scandalous while men conduct such meetings as a matter of course. To accept that our reputations depend not on our character or accomplishments, but on how successfully we avoid giving anyone reason to gossip."

Henry's jaw tightened. "The world is unfair to women, but ignoring reality doesn't change it. You can rail against social expectations all you like, but they still determine your opportunities for security and happiness."

"My opportunities for security and happiness," Marianne repeated. "As defined by whom? By you? By Lord Pembroke? By Edmund and his endless parade of suitable suitors?"

"By the society you must live in," Henry said firmly. "Like it or not, your choices affect more than just yourself. They affect your family's reputation, your future children's prospects, the respect accorded to your charitable work."

"So I should sacrifice my authenticity for the sake of respectability?"

"I'm suggesting you consider the costs of absolute authenticity against the benefits of reasonable compromise."

Marianne stared at him, feeling something fundamental shift inside her chest. "Reasonable compromise. Is that what you think marriage should be? A reasonable compromise between who someone actually is and who society thinks they should be?"

"I think marriage should be based on mutual respect and compatible goals, yes."

"Compatible goals," Marianne said slowly. "Not compatible souls. Not genuine affection for each other's actual character. Just... compatible goals and mutual respect for the roles each person agrees to play."

"Affection can grow between people who respect each other and share common purposes," Henry said, though his voice sounded strained. "Romantic passion is less reliable than practical compatibility."

"Romantic passion," Marianne repeated. "Is that what you think I'm talking about? Silly romantic passion that fades when reality intrudes?"

"I think you're an intelligent woman who deserves a secure future with a man who appreciates your qualities," Henry said carefully. "But intelligence should include recognizing that some dreams are more practical than others."