But through all this activity, Elizabeth's mind was occupied by the one pervading question: what answer was she to give to William Mainwaring on the night of the anniversary? For the first few days, her inclination had been all for refusing him. She did not love him. And she did love Robert. She was married to Robert. Even if she could extricate herself from that marriage, she did not feel that she had enough to offer Mr. Mainwaring. She liked him well enough and enjoyed his company, but how could she give herself to him when her heart belonged to another man? It would not be fair to accept him, especially as he did love her.
As the days passed, however, she found her feelings changing. It was true that love had never done her much good. It had brought her very little happiness. A few weeks of courtship and two days of marriage did not provide enough happiness for a lifetime. There had been years of pain and emptiness. Perhaps a marriage based on affection and respect would prove more durable. Perhaps there would not be the peak of delirious joy that she had known with Robert. But there would not be the depths of despair, either.
Elizabeth tried, coolly and rationally, to imagine what marriage to William Mainwaring would be like. He would always treat her with kindness and respect, she was sure. She would always feel at ease and cheerful in his company. They would live at Ferndale most of the year, probably. That would certainly suit her, as she felt a deep affection for the people of the neighborhood. They might also spend some time at his estates in the north. She had often thought that she would like to see Scotland.
She pictured life as it would be if she declined the proposal. She would stay with the Rowes until Cecily married, she supposed. That might be for one or two years longer, certainly not more. And then she would seek a position elsewhere as governess or companion. It was the life she had planned for herself and quietly accepted until a few weeks previously. Now the prospect filled her with a nameless terror. Marriage would take away something of the loneliness and uncertainty of the years ahead. She would have a husband's companionship and, probably, children.
It was that final thought around which the whole decision finally hinged. Elizabeth passionately wanted children of her own, and she was six and twenty already. She could have those children if she married William Mainwaring. But it was for Robert Denning's children that her body ached.
Elizabeth prepared carefully for the ball. Whatever her decision was to be, she wanted to feel confident of her attractions on that night. She had Miss Phillips make her a dress of cream silk with an overdress of matching lace. Gold ribbons encircled the high waist, and gold embroidery made the hemline glitter. Most drastic of all, she had her hair cut short around the crown of her head and longer at the neck. Hair that had been wavy when long and thick now clustered in soft curls around her face and down her neck.
"Anyone looking at you and Cecily now," Mr. Rowe remarked at dinner the evening after she had had it done, "would be hard-pressed to decide which is the young girl and which the lady companion."
"Upon my soul," his wife agreed, "it is a vastly becoming hairdo, my dear Miss Rossiter."
"You will cast me quite in the shade, Beth," Cecily added cheerfully, "now that you have got rid of that dreadful old-maidish hair knot. You are so beautiful, I am mortally jealous."
The Rowes were among the last to arrive at the anniversary ball. Cecily was immediately borne away by an excited Anne Claridge. Elizabeth soon saw the reason why. There were two strange young men present, both passably good-looking, as well as three strange young ladies and a few older adults. She assumed that they were the relatives that Lucy had talked about the week before. It did not take long for Lucy to introduce all the young people to her two friends, or for each of them to be led triumphant into the dance by the male cousins.
But Elizabeth did not devote all her attention to these young people. She had immediately looked around for William Mainwaring. He was dancing with Lady Worthing, who had already left the receiving line when the Rowes arrived. He was looking extraordinarily handsome in the black evening clothes that became him so well. He saw her and smiled in her direction, but good manners kept his attention on the conversation of his partner.
Elizabeth watched him covertly. He was indeed a matrimonial prize: handsome, rich, well-mannered. He could not, generally speaking, be called charming. His manner with everyone but her was still somewhat stiff and remote. But she felt that the people of the neighborhood liked him and accepted him as master of Ferndale. She waited cheerfully until he should ask her to dance.
He did not ask her until a half-hour later. But he clearly had not forgotten his purpose. He suggested that, instead of dancing, they step out into the garden. They went out through the French windows and down the steps of the terrace to the flower-bordered lawn below.
"I shall not keep you long," he said to her halfhearted protest. "No harm will come to Miss Rowe in the meanwhile, not with that young sprig of the squire's glowering at her every partner."
"Ferdie?" she said, laughing. "He spends his time quarreling with her when they are together, and giving off sparks of jealousy when she talks to someone else."
"Well, I am not really interested in the course of their love," he said, grinning down at her. "I am interested in you, Miss Elizabeth Rossiter. I always noticed that you were beautiful, but tonight you are dazzling. You cast all the other ladies into the shade. Do I dare to hope that you have made this special effort for my sake?"
"I hate to dash your spirits, sir," she said archly, "but in reality I had to bolster my courage to come here tonight, knowing that I must have been the subject of much gossip in the last few weeks. Hence the new gown and the new hairdo."
"Well, they are most becoming, Elizabeth," he said, "whatever the reason for the change."
They strolled across the lawn in companionable silence until they arrived at a rustic bench beneath an ancient oak tree. By unspoken assent, they both sat down. Mr. Mainwaring took the hand that she had removed from his arm.
"Well, Elizabeth," he began, "have you decided what my fate is to be? Will you marry me?"
"I have told myself repeatedly that I should not," she replied slowly. "I like you very much, William, and believe with all my heart that you would be a good husband. But would I be a good wife? That is the question. I cannot bring you a whole heart, sir, and I fear that the future will always be clouded by the experiences of the past."
"Life is always like that," he said gently. "We are what we are because of what has happened to us in the past. We cannot change that and we should not wish to. I love you as you are, Elizabeth. Perhaps I would not love you as well if you had not met and loved and lost Hetherington. Perhaps the experience has given you the air of maturity and serenity that I so admire in you. Give me your future, my dear. I do not ask for the past.".
"Oh," she said, "I so much want to say yes, William. But I fear that I am not being fair to you."
"Let me worry about that," he said fiercely, and he rose to his feet, bringing her with him. Immediately she was in his arms, her body pulled against his. He sought and found her mouth in the darkness and kissed her with growing passion. Elizabeth deliberately arched her body against his, twined her arms around his neck, and returned the kiss. She deliberately noticed the sensations created by his hard thighs pressed against hers, her breasts crushed against his coat, his hands splayed across her back and finally pressing downward on her hips, his mouth moving, closed, over her own, his breath on her cheek.