Pretending to be fond of her. Jemima smiled helplessly. (Like she could trick her mind by the motion of it, and feign that she would rather laugh at that statement than cry.) She nodded; she supposed that made sense. She had tried to make it all sound more intentional with her friends, too. But wasn’t her life more miserable and pathetic than ever, if that was what the future looked like?
It had been bad enough to ask it even briefly, the way she had of Mr. Carmichael – one small gesture to smooth things over, a little harmless pretence. But she hadn’t actually been poised to marry Mr. Carmichael and make that pretence the rest of her life. She had always thought marriage was better than spinsterhood, being poor and neglected and alone forever – but she had only ever pictured a marriage of mutual affection, if it could not be love.
It had never crossed her mind that she would be marrying someone who didn’t actually want her. But she had already told Jack no, she had made her bed here; and really the Greengrasses didn’t sound so bad at all. And Mr. Greengrass seemed – nice enough, didn’t he? He had bothered to come here, after all. Perhaps she should count that as trying.
She swallowed and tucked her arms around herself, although the room was already warm. “I am sorry,” she said finally, with a rueful twist of her mouth. “I know this isn’t...” Ideal was an understatement. What either of us wanted. And she might have a reason to be angry with him, but really Jemima wasn’t any good at that sort of competitive grudge-holding – at least not when she was already more worried that he would resent her for the rest of their lives. That he might well hate her already. “But I – hope – we can?” she said, earnestly. “Make the best of it.”
It had been bad enough to ask it even briefly, the way she had of Mr. Carmichael – one small gesture to smooth things over, a little harmless pretence. But she hadn’t actually been poised to marry Mr. Carmichael and make that pretence the rest of her life. She had always thought marriage was better than spinsterhood, being poor and neglected and alone forever – but she had only ever pictured a marriage of mutual affection, if it could not be love.
It had never crossed her mind that she would be marrying someone who didn’t actually want her. But she had already told Jack no, she had made her bed here; and really the Greengrasses didn’t sound so bad at all. And Mr. Greengrass seemed – nice enough, didn’t he? He had bothered to come here, after all. Perhaps she should count that as trying.
She swallowed and tucked her arms around herself, although the room was already warm. “I am sorry,” she said finally, with a rueful twist of her mouth. “I know this isn’t...” Ideal was an understatement. What either of us wanted. And she might have a reason to be angry with him, but really Jemima wasn’t any good at that sort of competitive grudge-holding – at least not when she was already more worried that he would resent her for the rest of their lives. That he might well hate her already. “But I – hope – we can?” she said, earnestly. “Make the best of it.”
