Page 31 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

M arianne stood before her dressing table mirror, carefully arranging the small spray of late roses that Lord Pembroke had brought that morning. They were beautiful flowers—perfectly formed, elegantly fragrant, chosen with obvious care and presented with his characteristic thoughtfulness.

She should feel pleased. She did feel pleased, she told herself firmly. James was everything a sensible woman could want in a husband, and she was fortunate to have attracted the attention of such a remarkable man.

James. She was making an effort to think of him by his given name, though it still felt awkward on her tongue. But if they were to be married—when they were to be married—such intimacy would be expected. Natural, even.

"My lady?" Mrs. Smith appeared in the doorway with the morning post. "Lord Pembroke's man delivered this along with the flowers."

Marianne accepted the note, recognizing James's precise handwriting. Inside was an invitation to join him for a picnic that afternoon, weather permitting, along with a brief but warm message about looking forward to her company.

"How thoughtful," she murmured, though she felt an unexpected reluctance about the prospect of another private tête-à-tête.

Not because James wasn't excellent company—he was.

But because she'd noticed a growing intensity in his attention, a sense of building toward something momentous that made her feel oddly cornered.

"He's a very considerate gentleman," Mrs. Smith observed, though her tone was carefully neutral.

"Very considerate," Marianne agreed, settling the note on her writing desk. "I should send an acceptance immediately."

But instead of reaching for her pen, she found herself staring out the window toward the lane that separated her cottage from Lord Alton's estate.

His gardens were still visible despite the late season, the neat rows and careful planning that spoke of a mind that approached everything with systematic precision.

She caught herself remembering the morning he'd visited to see her garden work, how his face had lit up when he'd recognized the sophisticated planning behind what others might see as casual disorder.

The genuine respect in his voice when he'd called her abilities "exceptional" while she stood there covered in honest dirt. ..

Stop it, she commanded herself sharply. That's exactly the sort of thinking that leads nowhere productive.

Henry Alton had made his position clear. Whatever fleeting attraction might have existed between them, he'd chosen propriety over possibility, control over connection. She'd offered him her authentic self, and he'd responded with lectures about appropriate behavior and suggestions for improvement.

James, by contrast, appreciated her exactly as she was.

Though they’d begun with her carefully in check, she’d since ignored Lord Alton’s advice and continued on just as she’d wished.

James found her unconventional household charming, her charitable work admirable, her independence refreshing rather than concerning.

When she'd appeared in her garden covered in mud after her argument with Lord Alton, James had seen evidence of capable planning rather than problematic behavior.

This is what genuine acceptance looks like, she reminded herself. This is what I said I wanted.

And it was what she wanted. It had to be what she wanted, because the alternative was admitting that her heart had become foolishly attached to a man who would never be able to love her without reservation.

A knock at the cottage door interrupted her increasingly circular thoughts. Marianne hurried downstairs to find Charlotte Pemberton on her doorstep, practically vibrating with barely contained excitement.

"Lady Marianne! I hope you don't mind my calling so early, but I simply had to speak with you about the most wonderful development."

"Of course, please come in. Mrs. Smith has just prepared tea."

As they settled in the sitting room—carefully cleared of animal occupants for the occasion—Charlotte leaned forward with the conspiratorial air of someone bursting with delicious secrets.

"I probably shouldn't say anything," she began, which immediately suggested she was about to say quite a lot, "but James asked me such particular questions yesterday about local customs and appropriate settings for important conversations..."

Marianne felt her stomach flutter with something that might have been anticipation or quite possibly, anxiety. "Important conversations?"

"Oh, my dear, surely you must have some idea of his intentions? He's been so attentive, so obviously devoted to your company. And yesterday he mentioned wanting to ensure he observed all proper protocols for... well, for significant announcements."

Significant announcements. The euphemism hung in the air between them like a challenge Marianne wasn't sure she was ready to meet.

"We've become good friends," she said carefully.

"Friends!" Charlotte laughed with obvious delight.

"My dear Lady Marianne, no one spends that much time arranging the perfect romantic setting for a friendship conversation.

James has been scouting locations around the village, asking about the most scenic spots, inquiring about which venues would be most appropriate for memorable occasions.

.." She smiled a slow secretive smile. “I do think you have captured his heart.” She fanned her face.

“And it is a beautiful thing to see. So much of his interaction with women in the past was amiable enough, but I never saw him fully engaged, never attached, if you know what I mean to say…”

She responded with something non-committal.

She couldn’t help herself. Each detail felt like another step toward something inevitable.

Marianne found herself thinking of a horse being led toward a fence—the jump might be perfectly safe and entirely manageable, but that didn't make the approach any less nerve-wracking.

"He's very thorough in his planning," she managed.

"Thorough and romantic! He's also been consulting with Lady Margaret about local traditions, asking the sort of questions that suggest he wants everything to be absolutely perfect.

" Charlotte's eyes sparkled with vicarious excitement.

"I think he means to propose during the festival!

How wonderfully public and celebratory that would be—declaring your engagement during our charitable triumph, with the whole community there to witness your happiness. "

The image Charlotte painted should have filled Marianne with joy. Instead, she felt a strange sense of panic at the thought of such a public declaration, such a definitive moment with no possibility of retreat or reconsideration.

"That would certainly be... memorable," she said weakly.

"Memorable and perfectly appropriate! What better way to celebrate the success of your joint charitable work than by announcing your intention to make that partnership permanent?"

Joint charitable work. Permanent partnership. Charlotte was describing exactly the sort of marriage Marianne had convinced herself she wanted—based on shared values, mutual respect, and compatible goals rather than messy emotional complications.

So why did the prospect feel more like resignation than celebration?

"Charlotte," she said impulsively, "may I ask you something rather personal?"

"Of course!"

"When you married your late husband, did you feel... certain? Completely confident that you were making the right choice?"

Charlotte's expression grew thoughtful. "What an interesting question.

I felt... prepared, I suppose. Ready to embrace the responsibilities and opportunities that marriage would provide.

Robert was a good man who could offer me security and social position, and I was prepared to be the sort of wife he needed. "

"But did you feel... passionate... about the decision?"

"Passionate?" Charlotte considered this. "I felt content with my choice, confident in its practical wisdom. Passion, I've always thought, is rather overrated as a foundation for major life decisions. It's too unpredictable, too likely to fade when faced with the daily realities of married life."

"I see."

"Why do you ask? Surely you're not having doubts about James? He's absolutely devoted to you, and you seem so comfortable together."

Comfortable together. Another phrase that should have been reassuring but somehow felt lukewarm.

"No doubts," Marianne said quickly. "I simply wanted to understand... what to expect from such an important decision." She looked out across the fields of lavender. “This feels very different from my first marriage.”

"Expect contentment," Charlotte said with authority. "Expect companionship, shared purpose, the satisfaction of building something meaningful together. Romantic passion may capture the imagination, but practical compatibility sustains a marriage."

After Charlotte's departure, Marianne found herself restlessly rearranging her sitting room while trying to convince herself that contentment and practical compatibility were exactly what she should want from marriage.

James was offering her everything she'd claimed to value: respect for her independence, support for her charitable work, appreciation for her unconventional qualities. He was handsome, intelligent, financially secure, and genuinely kind. Any woman would be fortunate to receive his proposal.

Any woman except, perhaps, one whose heart had become inconveniently attached to someone else entirely.

Stop, she told herself again, but the traitorous thought had already formed: somewhere across the lane, Henry was probably reviewing agricultural reports with the same systematic attention he brought to everything in his carefully ordered life.

The same attention he'd brought to understanding her garden planning, the same focused interest he'd shown when discussing the foundling charity's long-term sustainability. ..

She caught herself remembering the way he'd looked at her that afternoon when they'd nearly kissed—as if she were something precious and surprising, something worth treasuring exactly as she was.

Perhaps that acceptance was there, inside him.

Before his fears had reasserted themselves and convinced him she needed improvement rather than acceptance.

That's exactly the sort of thinking that nearly destroyed your peace of mind, she reminded herself sharply. Henry made his choice when he decided to help you find someone else rather than risk loving you himself.

The afternoon picnic with James proceeded exactly as such occasions should.

He'd chosen a lovely spot overlooking the village common, arranged everything with thoughtful attention to her comfort, and provided conversation that was both engaging and considerate.

He listened attentively to her ideas about expanding the foundling charity, offered insightful suggestions about sustainable funding, and generally demonstrated exactly the sort of intellectual partnership she'd told herself she wanted.

Yet throughout their time together, Marianne found herself hyperaware of a certain tension in James's manner, a sense of building toward something significant that made her feel like an actress who'd forgotten her lines in a play everyone else seemed to understand perfectly.

"Marianne," he said as they prepared to return to the cottage, "I hope you know how much I've come to value our... friendship... these past weeks."

The slight pause before "friendship" suggested that word no longer adequately described his feelings.

"I value it as well," she replied honestly.

"I find myself hoping that... that is, I believe we could accomplish great things together. Our shared interests, our compatible approaches to life's challenges..." He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I believe we could build something quite remarkable together."

"I believe we could," Marianne agreed, though her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.

"Then perhaps we might discuss... future possibilities... in more detail soon? I have some particular ideas about how we might formalize our partnership."

Formalize our partnership. Even his near-proposal was phrased in terms of practical collaboration rather than romantic devotion.

"I'd be happy to discuss future possibilities," she heard herself say.

As James walked her back to Lavender Cottage, Marianne tried to summon enthusiasm for the conversation that was clearly coming soon.

He was going to propose—probably during the festival, probably with the sort of romantic flourish that would delight the entire community and provide the perfect public celebration of their charitable success.

She should be excited. She should be planning her acceptance speech, imagining their future together, anticipating the security and companionship he offered.

Instead, as she watched him take his leave with a warm smile and a promise to call again tomorrow, Marianne felt only a hollow certainty that she was about to make the most sensible decision of her life.

And wondered why sensible decisions felt so much like surrender.

That evening, as she sat in her garden watching the sunset paint the Somerset hills in shades of gold and amber, Marianne tried once more to convince herself that contentment was enough.

That practical compatibility was a better foundation for marriage than passionate attachment.

That choosing security over uncertainty was the mark of wisdom rather than cowardice.

From across the lane came the faint sound of Henry's evening routine—probably reading agricultural reports by lamplight, planning improvements to his tenant cottages, approaching life with the same methodical precision that had once irritated her and now seemed oddly comforting.

Stop thinking about him, she commanded herself one final time. James is going to propose, you're going to accept him, and you're going to build a perfectly acceptable life based on mutual respect and shared values.

And if part of you wishes you could have built something extraordinary instead of merely acceptable, that's simply the price of choosing wisdom over foolishness.

And there's absolutely nothing wrong with accepting which category you belong to.

Even if accepting it felt remarkably like giving up on something she'd never quite admitted she wanted.