Page 34 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)
Chapter Twenty-Six
T he morning of the Somerset Festival for Foundling Care dawned gray and misty, with the sort of damp chill that made Henry question every outdoor event decision he'd ever made.
But by seven o'clock, as vendors began arriving and volunteers gathered on the village common, the sun broke through the clouds with the dramatic timing of a theatrical performance.
Henry stood at his coordination post—a table positioned to oversee the entire festival grounds—watching the controlled chaos of final preparations while trying not to think about what this day would bring beyond its charitable purpose.
Somewhere in the organized bustle, Marianne was making her own final arrangements.
Somewhere in the growing crowd, Lord Pembroke was preparing for what would become the most public engagement announcement Somerset had seen in years.
And Henry was managing logistics with the sort of grim efficiency he'd once brought to military campaigns where the stakes were considerably lower than his own romantic destruction.
"Lord Alton!" Lady Margaret appeared at his table, clipboard in hand and the expression of someone who'd been managing crises since before sunrise.
"We have a problem with the children's entertainment area.
Mr. Salsbury's Punch and Judy show has been delayed by carriage trouble, and we have sixty children arriving in two hours with nothing to occupy them. "
Henry forced his attention to the immediate problem, grateful for anything that required his professional focus rather than his personal devastation. "What alternatives do we have?"
"Lady Marianne suggested using the Morris dancers for earlier entertainment, but that leaves a gap in the afternoon program when families expect traditional performances."
Of course Marianne had already identified the problem and proposed a solution. Even on the day she would announce her engagement to another man, she was proving herself to be exactly the sort of partner Henry had been too frightened to appreciate properly.
"Where is Lady Marianne now?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
"Coordinating with Lord Pembroke about the charitable display booth. They make such an efficient team—he's handling the financial presentation while she manages the emotional appeal to donors."
Such an efficient team. Henry had spent weeks hoping to achieve exactly that sort of natural collaboration with Marianne, only to discover that Pembroke could offer it effortlessly.
"I'll speak with the Morris dancers about adjusting their schedule," Henry said, forcing himself to focus on problems he could actually solve.
The morning progressed in a blur of minor crises and successful resolutions.
The flower arrangements that Lady Margaret and Lord Alton’s gardens had provided were spectacular, transforming the common into something approaching fairyland.
The food vendors had arrived with provisions that filled the air with enticing aromas.
Early visitors were already exploring the craft demonstrations and agricultural displays with obvious enthusiasm.
Everything was proceeding exactly as planned, which somehow made Henry feel worse rather than better.
Around midmorning, he caught sight of Marianne and Pembroke working together at the foundling charity display.
They had created an impressive presentation that combined practical information about the proposed orphanage with emotional appeals for support.
Pembroke handled inquiries about funding and construction with professional competence, while Marianne spoke to potential donors about the children's needs with the sort of passionate advocacy that made grown men reach for their checkbooks.
Watching them work together was like witnessing a preview of their future marriage—two intelligent people pursuing shared goals with mutual respect and compatible skills.
It should have been inspiring. Instead, Henry found it almost unbearably painful to see how naturally they complemented each other.
"They're remarkable together, aren't they?" Charlotte appeared beside him, following his gaze toward the charity booth. "I've never seen two people so perfectly matched in both temperament and purpose."
"Remarkable," Henry agreed, though the word felt like gravel in his throat.
"James is positively glowing with happiness. And Lady Marianne seems so... settled. So content with the partnership they're building."
Henry made some appropriate noise of agreement while observing that Marianne looked many things—competent, gracious, professionally engaged—but "content" wasn't the word he would have chosen.
There was something in her posture, a tension around her eyes, that suggested she was working rather hard to maintain her composed demeanor.
"Of course," Charlotte continued with obvious satisfaction, "tonight's announcement will make everything official.
James has planned such a romantic gesture—he's going to propose again publicly, during the closing ceremonies, so the entire community can witness their commitment to each other and to the charitable cause. "
The image of Pembroke dropping to one knee in front of hundreds of festival-goers while Marianne accepted him with gracious joy made Henry feel physically ill.
"How... thoughtful," he managed.
"Thoughtful and appropriate. What better way to celebrate the festival's success than with a declaration of the partnership that made it possible?"
Henry spent the next hour throwing himself into festival management with desperate intensity, checking and rechecking arrangements that were already perfect, solving problems that didn't exist, generally making himself useful in ways that kept him too busy to think about evening announcements.
But around noon, a genuine crisis finally emerged that required his full attention.
"Lord Alton!" Tom Smith came running toward the coordination table with the sort of urgency that meant actual trouble.
"We've got a problem with the main stage.
The supports are showing stress fractures, and Mr. Davidson thinks the whole platform might collapse if we put the full Morris dancing troupe up there. "
Henry felt his stomach drop. The main stage was central to the afternoon's entertainment schedule, the evening's speeches, and most importantly, Pembroke's planned public proposal. Without it, they'd have no focal point for the festival's most important moments.
"How bad is the damage?"
"Bad enough that Davidson won't guarantee safety for more than one person at a time. We need either major structural repairs or a complete rebuild."
Henry's mind immediately began calculating logistics—available materials, skilled workers, time constraints. Major repairs would require most of the afternoon and might not be completed in time for the evening program. A complete rebuild was impossible with current resources.
"Have you told Lady Marianne about this?"
"That's where I'm heading next. But Lord Alton..." Tom's expression grew troubled. "This isn't just about entertainment scheduling. Lord Pembroke was planning to use that stage tonight for... well, for an important announcement. If we can't guarantee its safety..."
Henry felt an unexpected surge of something that might have been opportunity disguised as crisis management. "Let me assess the damage before we make any decisions about this evening's program."
The main stage was indeed a disaster waiting to happen.
The morning's setup had revealed stress fractures in the support beams that made the entire structure unsafe for any significant weight or activity.
Henry examined the damage with the sort of systematic attention he'd once brought to battlefield engineering, trying to identify solutions that would salvage the day's schedule.
"Lord Alton?" Marianne's voice made him look up from his inspection of the compromised supports. She approached with Pembroke at her side, both looking concerned about the implications of a collapsed stage.
"Lady Marianne, Lord Pembroke." Henry straightened, acutely aware of his sawdust-covered clothes and dirt-stained hands compared to their immaculate appearance. "I'm afraid we have a significant problem."
"Tom explained the situation," Pembroke said, studying the damaged structure with obvious worry. "Is there any possibility of repairs that would make it safe for this evening's program?"
This evening's program. The carefully planned sequence of events that would culminate in Pembroke's public proposal and Marianne's acceptance.
"Possible, but not probable," Henry replied honestly. "The sort of repairs needed would require dismantling most of the structure and rebuilding with proper reinforcement. We're looking at six to eight hours of work minimum."
"Six to eight hours," Marianne repeated, and Henry caught something in her voice that might have been relief disguised as disappointment. "That would mean canceling the evening ceremonies entirely."
"Not necessarily," Henry said, an idea beginning to form. "But it would require significant changes to our planned programming and a completely different approach to the closing events."
"What sort of different approach?" Pembroke asked.
Henry looked at the two of them—the woman he loved and the man she'd chosen to marry—and realized he was about to propose a solution that would either save the festival or create the most awkward evening in Somerset's social history.
"We could move everything to a ground-level format," he said carefully. "Intimate gatherings instead of grand presentations, small group activities instead of large audience events. More personal, more focused on individual connections with donors and supporters."
"That could work," Marianne said thoughtfully. "Actually, it might be more effective for fundraising—people tend to give more generously in smaller, more personal settings."
"Exactly," Henry agreed, warming to the theme. "And it would allow for multiple simultaneous activities, so guests could choose their own level of engagement rather than being confined to a single program."
He was offering Pembroke an alternative that would actually be more romantic and personal than a stage production.
He was also, he realized, creating circumstances that would require him to work closely with Marianne for the rest of the day while they completely reorganized the festival's final hours.
The irony wasn't lost on him: in trying to save the event that would celebrate Marianne's engagement to another man, he was ensuring that he'd spend their last day together as partners in the sort of collaborative effort that had first made him fall in love with her competence and passion.
"It could work," Marianne said, already beginning to plan the logistics. "We'd need to restructure the vendor arrangements, create multiple focal points, adjust the timing for food service..."
"And coordinate with all the entertainment groups about the new format," Henry added. "Some acts won't work in intimate settings, others will be perfect."
"Complete replanning in approximately six hours," Marianne said with the sort of cheerful determination that had first made Henry realize she could accomplish anything she set her mind to.
"Can it be done?" Pembroke asked.
Henry and Marianne looked at each other across the damaged stage, both calculating the logistical challenges and both recognizing that success would require exactly the sort of intensive collaboration they'd developed during their best festival planning sessions.
"It can be done," Marianne said firmly. "But it will require all hands working together."
"All hands," Henry agreed, though he was already dreading the emotional cost of spending his last day with Marianne proving how well they could work as a team just before she committed herself to someone else permanently.
But the festival's success mattered more than his personal comfort. The foundling charity depended on this event's fundraising success. And if working closely with Marianne for one final day was the price of ensuring that success, he would pay it gladly.
Even if it felt like the most exquisite form of torture ever devised.
"Where do we start?" Pembroke asked, and Henry realized that the next few hours would test every assumption he'd made about partnership, collaboration, and what it really meant to put someone else's happiness ahead of your own desires.