“Marion, you’re finally getting married,” Mrs. Whitmore said with a smile, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “I’m so relieved young William proposed. These days, men are so flighty—always wanting to enjoy their freedom rather than settle down. But William is different, so do hold onto him, dear.”
Marion laughed lightly. “Mother, must you act as though I’m some pitiable spinster? I’m rather a catch myself—clever, presentable, and quite deserving of a proper gentleman.”
“Oh, come now, a proper gentleman is one thing, but let’s not aim for royalty,” her mother teased, though her tone sobered. “You mustn’t forget, darling—you’re five-and-thirty. This may well be your last opportunity.”
The words stung, though Marion didn’t argue. She understood her mother’s fears. Time had slipped by without a queue of suitors at her door, and Mrs. Whitmore dreaded the thought of her only daughter growing old alone, never knowing the joy of children.
The wedding was set for a fortnight’s time. Everything had been arranged—the banquet booked at London’s finest restaurant, the guest list finalised, the trousseau selected. Only Marion’s gown remained undecided, a matter she intended to settle at her next fitting.
Just then, the doorbell chimed. “That’ll be William!” Mrs. Whitmore exclaimed, bustling to welcome their esteemed guest.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Whitmore! And to you, Marion,” William greeted, stepping inside with a courteous bow. “I haven’t come empty-handed—a box of chocolates for you, madam, and flowers for the bride-to-be.”
“You needn’t have, truly,” Mrs. Whitmore beamed. “I still marvel at my daughter’s luck in catching the eye of such a fine man! Indeed, I’ve yet to find a single fault in you. Do go on through—Marion’s waiting in the parlour.”
They had only been courting six months, and Marion often wondered why a man of William’s standing—a council officer, no less—had chosen her, a simple music teacher. Yet from the start, he had been resolute in his intentions, seeking a suitable wife to complement his position.
William was steady, methodical, and, as her mother often remarked, “respectable in every regard.” Though only five years her senior, there was an air of formality about him that made Marion half-tempted to address him as “Mr. Harcourt” rather than by his Christian name.
“Marion, tulips for you,” he said, handing her the bouquet with a practiced smile. “See? I never forget you—always something to brighten your day. Now, have you settled the wedding arrangements?”
“Thank you. Yes, nearly everything’s in order. Just the dress and shoes left to choose.”
His expression turned stern. “Mind you, on the day, you must be impeccable. My family will expect nothing less. Spare no expense—if you need anything, purchase it.”
With that, he withdrew a stack of crisp banknotes from his wallet and placed them on the side table.
“These should cover any last costs. Oh, and next week, call on my mother. She’ll give you the recipes for my favourite dishes. I won’t have our marriage begin with quarrels over household matters, so kindly let her instruct you in proper management.”
Marion arched a brow. “William, surely you recall I’m five-and-thirty? Most women my age hardly need lessons in keeping house. Besides, oughtn’t we focus on the romance while we can?”
He shook his head. “No, Marion. My mother’s standards are exacting—spotless home, flawless meals. It would reflect poorly if she visited and found you wanting.”
Marion agreed, if only to end the conversation, and William soon excused himself, citing pressing affairs. A heaviness settled over her. She longed for lightness, for tenderness—but William was ever rigid, sparing with affection.
The next day, she went for her final dress fitting. Listless, she accepted the first gown suggested, though her heart wasn’t in it.
*This is right*, she told herself. *You’re marrying a good, established man—just as you wished. Many would envy you. Mother is overjoyed. What more could you want?*
Weary, she trudged toward the omnibus stop—though just yesterday she’d meant to browse the shops. Then, a voice called out:
“Marion? Good heavens, is that you? Do you remember me?”
Of course she did. It was George—her first love, the one who’d left her for another. Now he stood before her, smiling as if no heartache had ever passed between them.
“George,” she managed, steadying her voice. “Fancy seeing you here. How have you been?”
“Well enough. I’ve an office nearby—business is thriving, though my personal life’s taken a turn. Recently divorced, in fact. But enough of me—are you married?”
“Not yet,” she lied, cheeks warming. “Though there is someone. Whether it will last, I couldn’t say.”
“I see,” he mused. “Are you in a hurry? Let’s pop into that café—I was just off to lunch.”
She agreed, though she knew it was unseemly. Memories unfurled—hours spent talking, the effortless warmth between them. Now, studying his sharp features and lively brown eyes, she couldn’t help but contrast him with William’s stout, solemn demeanour.
An hour slipped by before George paid the bill and murmured at parting, “I’ll call you. Don’t read too much into it—only it was splendid seeing you. But let’s exchange numbers, shan’t we?”
Marion floated home, certain this was no mere coincidence. Meeting George on the very day of her final fitting—it had to be fate.
Mrs. Whitmore pounced the moment she entered. “Well? Did you choose the gown? And the shoes? Come, show me!”
Marion met her mother’s gaze, voice icy. “There shan’t be a wedding.” She swept past, leaving the older woman gaping.
The words struck like thunder. Mrs. Whitmore clutched the doorframe. “Marion! What’s happened? Did the dress displease you? Has William called it off? Good gracious, speak plainly!”
“I want no wedding. No gown. And I don’t wish to see William again.” Marion’s voice trembled. “Do you think he loves me? No—he wants a convenient wife, one step above a housemaid.”
“Have you lost your senses? Pre-wedding nerves, surely! Rest now, and stop this foolishness. It’s a blessing a man like William would have you. Don’t you see your good fortune? A comfortable life—what more could you want?”
Marion sank onto the settee, a quiet joy beneath her words. “Mother… today I saw George.”
“*That* George? The wretch who broke your heart? So that’s it! You’d throw away security for *him*? Marion, I beg you, don’t ruin your life!”
But Marion’s mind was made up. No force would make her marry William now.
Mrs. Whitmore, ever practical, telephoned the groom at once, hoping he might reason with her.
William’s response shocked her. “A fine daughter you’ve raised! My mother warned me against your lot. I shan’t grovel—consider our acquaintance ended.” He slammed the receiver down.
Mrs. Whitmore was crushed—her dreams of grandchildren, of Marion’s happiness, now dust. Yet Marion felt only relief. She’d avoided a terrible mistake. And soon, surely, George would call.
Days passed. No word came. Marion checked her telephone incessantly, but silence lingered.
Finally, she resolved to ring him herself. “George was always unreliable,” she muttered, dialling.
No answer. An hour later, his voice crackled down the line—distant, bemused.
“Marion? Apologies—work’s been mad. Did you need something?”
“I—I only wished to hear your voice,” she faltered, hating her own transparency.
“Ah. Well, I’m rather tied up. Perhaps we’ll speak later?”
“Could we meet tomorrow? At the same café?” The words tumbled out.
A pause. Then, gently: “Marion, it was grand seeing you. But why dredge up the past? There’s no future for us. You didn’t take our meeting to heart, I hope?”
“Of course not,” she whispered, tears spilling. “I only rang out of boredom. And—I’m to be married soon, anyway.”
She hung up, mortified. How could she have been so foolish? She’d tossed aside William for *this*—and now stood alone once more.
Yet Mrs. Whitmore, wiser than her daughter knew, offered unexpected solace. “Better a cancelled wedding than a loveless marriage. And George? He wasn’t worth you. You’ll find your true match yet, darling.”
Neither man re-enteredYears later, when Marion did at last find happiness in the quiet companionship of a bookseller who adored her for all she was, she often thought of those fevered days—the near-disastrous wedding, the fleeting return of George—and smiled to herself, for every misstep had led her here.
