Page 27 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Twenty

M arianne spent the remainder of that dreadful afternoon in her garden, attacking the winter preparation tasks with a violence that left the herb beds looking like a battlefield.

She divided perennials with unnecessary force, pruned roses with ruthless precision, and transplanted bulbs as if their very lives depended on her ability to control something—anything—in a world that suddenly felt entirely beyond her influence.

The physical labor should have been soothing. Instead, every thrust of her spade into the earth seemed to echo Henry's words: Your tendency to act without considering consequences. Your tendency to dismiss practical concerns as unworthy of consideration.

By evening, she had reorganized half the garden and accomplished nothing whatsoever in terms of settling her agitated thoughts.

Mrs. Smith appeared with a tea tray as the sun began to set, taking one look at Marianne's mud-covered appearance and the chaos of uprooted plants surrounding her.

"Bad day for the begonias, I see," she observed mildly, settling the tray on the garden bench. "Though I suspect they're not the real target of your frustrations."

"The begonias needed dividing," Marianne said without looking up from the dahlia tubers she was excavating with perhaps more enthusiasm than the task required.

"Certainly. And the roses needed such severe pruning in November?"

Marianne finally looked up, noting Mrs. Smith's expression of gentle concern. "I may have been... thorough... in my approach today."

"Thorough," Mrs. Smith repeated. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I stand, it looks like you've declared war on the entire perennial border."

Despite her misery, Marianne felt her mouth twitch slightly. "The perennials will recover. They're remarkably resilient."

"Unlike their gardener?"

The gentle question broke something loose in Marianne's chest, and she found herself sinking onto the garden bench with her muddy hands covering her face.

"I've made such a mess of everything, Mrs. Smith. Such a complete, irreparable mess."

Mrs. Smith settled beside her with the comfortable ease of someone who had weathered many domestic crises. "Messes can usually be cleaned up, my lady. Would you like to tell me what's happened?"

For the next twenty minutes, Marianne found herself pouring out the entire sorry story—Henry's guidance about proper courtship, Lord Pembroke's perfection, her own confused feelings, and the devastating argument that had ended with Henry essentially dismissing her from his life.

"So you see," she concluded miserably, "he was absolutely right about my tendency to act without considering consequences. I've managed to alienate the one person whose opinion I actually valued while simultaneously encouraging a suitor I have no intention of marrying."

Mrs. Smith was quiet for a long moment, watching Wellington investigate the pile of displaced plants with obvious disapproval.

"My lady," she said finally, "may I speak plainly?"

"Please do. I suspect I need to hear some uncomfortable truths."

"Lord Alton is a fool."

Marianne blinked in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"A well-meaning, intelligent, thoroughly decent fool, but a fool nonetheless.

" Mrs. Smith's tone was matter-of-fact. "He's spent weeks watching you coordinate a county-wide charity festival, manage this household with remarkable efficiency, and demonstrate more practical wisdom than half the gentlemen in Somerset.

Yet he somehow believes you need his guidance to navigate social situations? "

"He's concerned about my reputation?—"

"He's concerned about his own feelings," Mrs. Smith interrupted gently. "A man doesn't spend that much energy trying to find a woman a suitable husband unless he's desperately hoping she won't find one."

Marianne felt her heart skip uncomfortably. "You think he... but he said..."

"Men say all sorts of foolish things when they're frightened, my lady. Especially men who've built their entire adult lives around avoiding emotional risk."

"Even if that's true, it doesn't change anything. He made his position quite clear today."

"Did he? Or did he make his fears quite clear?"

Before Marianne could respond to this uncomfortable question, Wellington began barking with the sort of enthusiasm that announced an approaching visitor. Moments later, Mrs. Smith's predictions proved accurate as a familiar figure appeared at the garden gate.

"Lady Marianne," Lord Pembroke called with his customary warmth. "I hope I'm not intruding, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I might inquire about tomorrow's committee meeting."

Marianne looked down at her mud-stained dress and dirt-covered hands, then at the chaos of displaced plants surrounding them. "I'm hardly fit for receiving visitors, Lord Pembroke."

"Nonsense," he said cheerfully, letting himself through the gate. "You look like someone who's been accomplishing important work. Though I confess I'm curious about what prompted such... extensive... garden reorganization."

"Nervous energy," Marianne said weakly.

"Ah." Lord Pembroke's eyes took in the scene with obvious amusement. "The sort of nervous energy that requires attacking innocent perennials? I've had days like that myself."

Mrs. Smith rose smoothly. "I'll bring additional tea, my lady. Lord Pembroke, please make yourself comfortable."

As Mrs. Smith departed with obvious tact, Lord Pembroke settled onto the garden bench beside Marianne with the easy familiarity of someone who didn't find muddy gardens or disheveled hostesses problematic.

"Difficult day?" he asked gently.

"Rather," Marianne admitted.

"Would it help to discuss it? I'm told I'm an excellent listener, and I promise not to offer unsolicited advice about garden management."

Despite her emotional turmoil, Marianne found herself smiling at his gentle humor.

This was exactly what made Lord Pembroke so appealing—his complete lack of judgment about her unconventional moments, his willingness to meet her wherever she happened to be, not matter that she had attempted to impress him with her facade of pristine behavior.

"I had a disagreement with Lord Alton about... proper conduct," she said carefully.

"Ah," Lord Pembroke said with understanding. "The eternal conflict between what one should do and what one wants to do."

"Something like that."

"And Lord Alton, I assume, was advocating for the 'should' side of the equation?"

"He believes I need to be more... careful... about my behavior. More concerned with how my actions might be interpreted by society."

Lord Pembroke was quiet for a moment, watching Clarence strut past with his usual magnificent disdain for human concerns.

"May I share an observation?" he said finally.

"Please."

"I've traveled extensively, met people from dozens of different cultures, observed countless approaches to social organization. And I've noticed that the societies most concerned with rigid adherence to behavioral rules are usually the ones most afraid of genuine human nature."

Marianne looked at him with surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that excessive focus on propriety often masks a deep distrust of people's ability to make good choices when left to their own moral instincts.

" Lord Pembroke gestured toward her chaotic garden.

"Take this, for example. Anyone looking at this scene could focus on the disorder, the apparent lack of planning, the unconventional approach to garden management. "

"And?"

"And they'd miss the obvious care and expertise behind every choice you've made.

The way you've positioned plants for optimal growth, the attention to seasonal needs, the practical wisdom that created this beautiful space.

" He smiled warmly. "Sometimes apparent chaos is actually sophisticated organization that doesn't conform to expected patterns. "

The words hit Marianne with unexpected force. Here was someone who could look at her muddy, disorganized afternoon and see evidence of competence rather than concern about propriety.

"You don't think I should be more... careful... about social expectations?"

"I think you should be exactly as careful as your own judgment tells you to be," Lord Pembroke said simply. "Not more, not less. Good people making honest choices rarely create the sort of problems that excessive social rules are designed to prevent."

They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, watching the sunset paint Marianne's disheveled garden in golden light. Despite the afternoon's emotional devastation, she found herself feeling unexpectedly peaceful in Lord Pembroke's presence.

"Lord Pembroke," she said finally, "may I ask you something rather personal?"

"Of course."

"Why haven't you married? You're intelligent, accomplished, financially secure, genuinely kind—any woman would be fortunate to receive your attention. Yet you're still unmarried at..." She paused, realizing she was being presumptuous.

"Thirty-two," he supplied with amusement. "And the answer is simple: I haven't found anyone I wanted to spend my life with badly enough to risk disappointing them."

"Disappointing them?"

"Marriage is complicated, Lady Marianne.

Two people trying to build a life together while maintaining their individual identities, pursuing shared goals while respecting different approaches, loving each other while allowing room for growth and change.

" Lord Pembroke's expression grew thoughtful.

"I've always believed that attempting such a complex partnership without genuine enthusiasm for your partner's actual character would be unfair to both parties. "

"Genuine enthusiasm for your partner's actual character," Marianne repeated slowly.

"Not the character you hope they'll develop, or the character they present in formal social situations, but the character they demonstrate when they think no one important is watching.

" He gestured toward her mud-covered appearance.

"The character that emerges when they're passionate about something that matters to them. "

Marianne felt something tighten in her chest. "And if someone you cared about suggested that your actual character needed... improvement... before it would be suitable for marriage?"

Lord Pembroke's expression grew serious. "Then I would question whether that person was prepared for the reality of loving another human being."

"The reality?"

"That loving someone means accepting that they're going to continue growing and changing in ways you can't predict or control. That genuine partnership requires appreciating your spouse's essential nature, not attempting to edit it into a more convenient form."

The words seemed to echo Henry's voice from earlier: I'm trying to protect you from making choices you'll regret.

"But surely some degree of... compromise... is necessary in any marriage?" Marianne asked.

"Compromise about external circumstances, certainly. Where to live, how to manage finances, which social obligations to accept." Lord Pembroke paused meaningfully. "But compromising your fundamental character to suit someone else's comfort? That's not compromise—that's self-erasure."

As Mrs. Smith returned with fresh tea and the evening light faded toward darkness, Marianne found herself viewing her afternoon's crisis from an entirely different perspective.

Perhaps Henry's concern about her behavior wasn't evidence of his caring, but evidence of his inability to accept who she actually was.

Perhaps his advice about attracting suitable suitors wasn't wisdom, but fear of his own unsuitable feelings.

And perhaps Lord Pembroke's easy acceptance of her muddy, chaotic, imperfect self was exactly what she'd been hoping to find in someone.

"Lord Pembroke," she said as he prepared to take his leave, "thank you for this conversation. It's been... illuminating."

"The pleasure was entirely mine," he replied with obvious sincerity. "Though I hope you'll consider being gentler with your perennials tomorrow. They've done nothing to deserve such aggressive reorganization."

After his departure, Marianne remained in the garden as full darkness settled over Somerset. The events of the day had left her emotionally exhausted but oddly clear-headed about her situation.

She could continue hoping that Henry would somehow overcome his need to manage and improve her, or she could accept that his feelings—whatever they might be—weren't strong enough to override his commitment to propriety and control.

She could keep fighting for a love that required her to constantly prove her worthiness, or she could embrace a partnership offered by someone who already found her worthy exactly as she was.

The choice, when viewed from this perspective, seemed almost absurdly obvious.

As she gathered her gardening tools and prepared to go inside, Marianne made a decision that would have shocked her twenty-four hours earlier: if Lord Pembroke proposed—when he proposed, because his intentions were becoming increasingly clear—she would accept him.

Not because he was perfect, and not because she felt passionate devotion to him, but because he offered her something she'd begun to think didn't exist: a genuine partnership with someone who appreciated her actual character rather than her potential for improvement.

It might not be the grand romantic love she'd once dreamed of, but it would be honest, respectful, and built on a foundation of mutual acceptance rather than mutual correction.

Which was, she was beginning to suspect, more than most people ever found.

And certainly more than she was likely to find with a man who believed her natural impulses required constant supervision and her authentic self needed careful editing before it would be suitable for public consumption.

As she climbed the cottage stairs to wash away the day's garden work, Marianne felt a strange sense of relief settling over her.

Tomorrow, she would face Henry at the committee meeting with polite professionalism. She would continue their festival work with appropriate distance and careful courtesy. And she would stop hoping for something he was clearly unable or unwilling to give her.

It was time to choose happiness over heartbreak, acceptance over anxiety, partnership over passion.

Even if the choice felt less like victory than like the most sensible form of surrender.