Sense and Sensibility (The Wild and Wanton Edition)

by Lauren Lane

  “Yes,” he replied gravely, “once I have. One meeting was unavoidable.”

  Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying —

  “What? have you met him to — ”

  “I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad.”

  Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.

  “Such,” said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, “has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!”

  “Is she still in town?”

  “No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains.”

  Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  Elinor hurried to Marianne’s room at once and jostled her sister awake.

  “What is it, Elinor?” Marianne complained, rubbing her red, swollen eyes.

  “Forgive me, sister,” Elinor whispered, “but I must be frank with you. Is there any chance you may be with child?”

  Marianne jolted upright in bed, shocked at the directness of her sister’s speech. “What on earth has gotten into you, Elinor? Why would you ask me such a question?”

  “You will understand every thing shortly, but please answer me first,” Elinor pleaded, her fear growing stronger in her bones by the second.

  “No, of course I am not with child,” Marianne answered, and Elinor relaxed slightly.

  “So you have never allowed him to … forgive me … ” She lowered her voice even farther. “ … reach completion within you?”

  Marianne coloured and looked down and her hands. “That is quite none of your business.”

  “I know, you are perfectly correct, but I still must know. It is of the utmost importance.”

  Marianne sighed. “If you must know, I did allow Mr. Willoughby to do the thing that you are inquiring so outrageously about. Every time, in fact. But I am not with child. Of that I am certain.”

  Elinor could not believe that her sister could be so injudicious and cavalier as to risk such a thing, knowing full well if she became full with child and Willoughby refused to marry her, both she and her entire family would be shamed to the highest degree. If such a thing had occurred, Elinor herself, through no fault of her own, would be without any future marriage prospects! Elinor burned with anger for her sister’s poor judgment — she would never put Marianne or Margaret in such danger and therefore she expected the same courtesy to be bestowed upon her.

  However, she could not remain cross for long. One look at her ailing, miserable sister told her that Marianne was already suffering a far greater punishment than her crimes of love deserved. Marianne had assured her there was no chance she was with child, and Elinor knew better than to be ungrateful for that lucky turn of events.

  Elinor squeezed her sister’s hand to let her know she was forgiven, and then recounted the knowledge Colonel Brandon had bestowed upon her not ten minutes earlier.

  When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby’s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the high likelihood that, had things turned out differently, she could very well have been in the same position, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.

  To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor’s letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne’s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor’s. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne’s affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge!

  Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.

  From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other’s way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

  She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

  Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother’s opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment’s rest.

  But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

  Her carefulness in guarding her sister f
rom ever hearing Willoughby’s name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.

  Sir John, could not have thought it possible. “A man of whom he had always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly’s puppies! and this was the end of it!”

  Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. “She was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was.”

  The rest of Mrs. Palmer’s sympathy was shown in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen.

  The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to Elinor’s spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister’s health.

  Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature.

  Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, “It is very shocking, indeed!” and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.

  Colonel Brandon’s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister’s disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. These assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of Mid-summer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

  • • •

  As he watched his new wife timidly undress on their wedding night, John Willoughby hardly knew what his life had become. It was true that he’d gotten that girl Eliza in trouble and that his aunt had sent him away once she’d learnt of it, claiming she was wrong to have allowed him take his girls to Allenham and that she did not wish to be responsible for his bestowing a similar fate upon that sweet, unassuming Marianne Dashwood. And it was also true that after being banished from Allenham he’d come to London with the goal of securing an advantageous marriage before the rumors of what he’d done spread too far. Those were the choices he’d made, and he could not take them back. However, it was an even greater truth that he loved Marianne, and had all things been equal he would much prefer to be sharing a marriage bed with her instead of Miss Grey — or, he supposed, Mrs. Willoughby. The thought turned his stomach.

  He was certain Marianne had spoiled him for all other women. The Willoughby of years past would be tearing the clothes off the beautiful young woman in front of him with reckless abandon. But Marianne had changed him. He had little interest in his new wife, and viewed the night before him as more a chore to be completed than anything else.

  But Willoughby was married now, he thought resignedly, and consummate his marriage he must.

  Mrs. Willoughby dropped her dress, the fabric pooling around her ankles, and stood beside the bed in her undergarments. “What do I do now?” she asked, her voice quivering with nerves.

  The question pulled Willoughby from his reticence, and he came back to himself. What was he thinking? He may not love this woman, but surely that did not mean he shouldn’t indulge in a bit of fun with her to ease his sorrows? She was clearly eager to learn.

  “Remove your undergarments,” he directed Mrs. Willoughby from his place on the bed where he lay fully clothed, his hands behind his head. “But leave your shoes on.” They were her wedding shoes, and had a bit of a heel, which made her long, slender legs appear even longer and slenderer. He enjoyed the effect.

  Mrs. Willoughby did as he asked, and stood before him, bare, except for her feet. “Turn around. Slowly.” He surveyed her carefully as she spun, and found he liked what he saw. Her breasts were large — even larger than Marianne’s — and her nipples were perfectly round and pink. “Massage your breasts,” he told her.

  She looked unsure, but obeyed, and soon her nipples were firm and erect.

  “Do you like how that feels?” he asked. She nodded, blushing, and he could not help himself any longer — he crawled across the bed and laid her down, taking her enticing mounds into his mouth. She moaned in response, and he smiled to himself, pleasantly surprised that he’d managed to acquire a bride who was not only wealthy, but unafraid to experience pleasure in the bedroom. Perhaps this arrangement would not be so terrible after all.

  As his mouth indulged her smooth, rounded peaks, his hands travelled farther below, and he threaded his fingers through the curls between her legs as he worked his way slowly to her centre. She gasped at his touch, and her body froze.

  “Relax, my darling,” he murmured against her breast. “I must make you ready for me. Have you never touched yourself down here before?”

  “Only to wash,” she whispered.

  Willoughby chuckled. “Just try to relax. You will be fine.” He teased her tiny bud with gentle flicks of his thumb, and she gradually began to spread her legs for him, allowing him further entry. As he continued to tease her, he tested her opening and found her growing wetter. He slid one finger inside — she was so narrow, so tight, so inviting, that he suddenly wanted her more than he’d ever thought he would.

  He quickly disrobed
and then settled himself between her thighs. “Are you ready for me, Mrs. Willoughby?” he growled with need.

  She nodded, though her eyes were squeezed shut, no doubt from nerves. Marianne had never been afraid of him, even during their first time. She had always been so willing, so ravenous for his touch.

  “Open your eyes,” Willoughby told his wife. She did as she was told, and again he acknowledged his good fortune. He enjoyed a woman who only wanted to please him. Marianne had been the best he’d ever had, as not only was she adventurous and eager, she enjoyed it all as greatly as he did. Mrs. Willoughby clearly wasn’t of that caliber, but then, who was, apart from his beloved Marianne? At least Mrs. Willoughby was willing. He supposed that alone was more than he could ask for. And, on the other hand, it should also be acknowledged that he was a man who preferred taking charge in situations such as these. For all the love he held for Marianne, he still hadn’t ever felt it necessary to give in to her requests and attempts at direction during their couplings. He was the man; he was the one who dictated what they would and would not do. And he was quite certain that Mrs. Willoughby would be just fine with that arrangement.

  Once her eyes were on him, Willoughby thrust himself inside her. She cried out in pain, but he’d been down this road enough to know the pain would pass. “I know, my dear, I know,” he gave her his usual line. “This happens the first time. Just try to relax. It will get better.”

  He pulled out and then pushed in once more. She felt so good that his mind was soon blank of anything except the pleasure coursing through his body. He rocked and thrust, and soon came to completion within her — and for the first time in his life, he did not have to feel guilty about having done it. She was his wife — he was finally allowed to claim her in this way.

  Though Willoughby had never given much attention to the rules of society and tended to do whatever he pleased, even he had to admit, this newfound freedom came with a righteous sense of power.