He smiled, though, and bowed over Eliza’s hand. “I am delighted to hear it—delighted. Permit me to wish you joy.”
He took his leave, then, striding back to rejoin his wife and Marianne. Marianne has very nearly as much reason to dislike Willoughby and Sophia both as does Eliza—certainly as much reason to feel awkward about meeting with the two of them. And yet as I watched from across the lawn, she shook both their hands and bid them polite goodbyes.
I hesitated, then moved to stand by Eliza—who was watching the Willoughbys’ departure, as well, her pose ramrod-stiff and her whole body shaking. She did not turn as I joined her, but said, her eyes on Willoughby’s retreating back, “You are thinking that I must have loved him very much to have behaved with him as I did.” Her voice was flat, and her mouth twisted as she turned to glance at me. “I did love him—I was madly, deeply, passionately in love with John Willoughby. Once.”
I cleared my throat. I like M. de Courtenay—but despite Marianne’s insinuations and hopes, I am not the slightest bit in love with him, nor likely ever to be so. I was not in the least jealous of Eliza—but I was surprised. I said, “I did not realise that you and M. de Courtenay were betrothed. I had not even realised that the two of you were acquainted.”
What little colour Eliza had regained fled from her face all over again at that. She seemed to sag as she shook her head. “We are not—I have never met him. Until this moment, I did not even know his name.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, heavens, I do not know what possessed me. Except that I did love him so much at one time. And to have him come here—with that odious wife of his—and look at me with pity in his eyes. Offering me money—plainly feeling himself obligated to pay for his past mistakes. Because that is what Joanna and I are to him—inconvenient mistakes from his past—”
Eliza’s hands clenched. She was struggling to retain her usual control, but I could feel how raw and how much nearer to the surface than usual her emotions were.
And yet, somehow, I could not help but smile, too. Her actions were so very unlike the calm, composed Eliza Williams I know. Or rather, I could see in her vivid, delicate face an echo of how she ought to look—how she must have looked before she grew up and assumed her armour of impenetrable reserve.
“And so you fabricated an engagement with a man you have never even met?”
An unwilling smile tugged at the edges of Eliza’s mouth, too. The situation was rather humorous, looked at in a certain light. “I suppose you think I must have taken leave of my senses. Perhaps I may have done. I just wanted”—her smile faded as her hands clenched again—“to show him that Joanna and I are more than just his cast-off leavings. That if he did not want me or love me enough to offer marriage, there are still other men who do.”
“I do not blame you,” I said quietly.
Eliza’s mouth turned upwards—but this time there was not the least trace of humour in the smile. Her eyes were at once bleak and sad. “Yes, well—if only it were actually true.” But then she shook her head, as though trying to physically dislodge the implied wish, and said, in a harried tone, “But what on earth am I going to tell M. … de Courtenay, did you say his name was?” She turned to look helplessly at M. de Courtenay and Joanna—who seemed to have finished their hunt and were now triumphantly counting the number of worms in the bucket. To judge by the sounds that filtered back to us, M. de Courtenay was teaching Joanna to count in French.
“How can I possibly explain what I have done?”
“You may not have to,” I offered. “Since you have refused to cede Joanna into their custody, the Willoughbys can scarcely have any reason to stay in this neighbourhood any longer. It is quite likely they will depart before ever meeting with you or M. de Courtenay again. But if it comes to it, I will help you speak to M. de Courtenay and explain. He is actually very nice, underneath the scar and the piratical frown.”
Eliza gave me a half-grateful, half-dubious look. But she had not time to reply. Joanna came racing towards us across the lawn, calling out, “Mama, mama—you must see! M. de Courtenay has dug up the most amazingly enormous worm! Only look—is he not the largest you have ever seen?”
“An amazingly enormous worm—happy thought, indeed,” Eliza murmured. She was smiling at her daughter, though, as she said it, and it occurred to me that however much life—and John Willoughby—have mistreated Eliza, she has still the courage to embrace the blessings that have come her way.
I presented M. de Courtenay to her, and he bowed and said, “I must congratulate you on your daughter, Miss Williams. She possesses to a remarkable degree what we would call in French joie de vivre—the joy of living.”
Eliza was rather stiff and formal with M. de Courtenay when I introduced them. For which I could scarcely blame her, considering she must have been conscious of having just betrothed herself to him without his knowledge. But at that she smiled and said, “Yes, Joanna certainly has that.”
And she gave way to Joanna’s entreaties that Eliza join her and M. de Courtenay for an expedition to the rose bushes—where it was possible that beetles or even a grass snake might be found.
I have been waiting, all the time I have been writing this, for Marianne’s light to go off. She sleeps in the room across the hall from mine, and I have left my own door open a little so that I might see when she had blown out her candle. I thought she would never go to bed—but the light has just vanished from the crack beneath her door, so she must have done.
It is quite late—nine o’clock by the clock on my mantel, and fully dark. But if I take a lantern from the stables, I can still find my way out to Jamie’s camp, I think.
Friday 18 June 1802
It is morning; long past dawn, with bright sunlight streaming in through my windows, and the day already promising to be even hotter than yesterday. From my perch on the window-seat, I can see a squirrel rather comically sprawled in a patch of shade on the terrace below me—trying to cool off by plastering his belly against the comparatively cooler stones.
I have bathed my face and changed my crumpled and filthy gown—in order that I may present a convincing picture at the breakfast table of not having been out of the house all night. But there seems small point in going to bed when the entire household will be up and about in less than an hour’s time.
I arrived at Jamie’s camp to find him still delirious with fever, tossing and turning on his bedroll—but still alive, at least. That was my fear all throughout yesterday, that he would die out in the woods, all alone.
I used the lantern I had brought to start a small fire, and then set over it one of Jamie’s pots, with water I had carried from the mansion house. When the water boiled, I emptied into it the entire packet of yarrow-root that I bought two days ago at the village apothecary’s shop. Jamie might object if he knew—but yarrow is said to be effective for causing a fever to break, and I told myself a bit grimly that he could object all he liked, once he no longer hovered at death’s door.
He was very bad. His breathing was harsh and laboured, with frequent pauses that made my heart stumble. But even more than that, he seemed troubled; watching his sleeping face, tracing the deep furrow between his brows—thrown into harsh relief by the dancing firelight—I had the feeling that he was plagued by something—some worry—that chased him even into feverish nightmares.
When the yarrow had steeped and cooled enough to be drunk, I ladled out a cupful and slipped an arm under Jamie’s head so that I might hold the cup to his lips. “Jamie. You need to drink this. It will help you get well.”
Jamie only muttered irritably and tried to turn his head away, so that I poured half the cupful down his front. I gritted my teeth. The campfire cast wild, leaping shadows, making the surrounding darkness seem somehow sinister and threatening. Even Pilot had deserted me. He had greeted me with pleasure, snuffling into my hand, but then bounded off into the forest—presumably to hunt for his evening meal. He must be hungry, keeping watch on Jamie all day, with no one to pr
ovide him any food.
Intellectually, I knew that there was nothing worse in the woods than badgers and moles and the occasional owl hunting for its supper. But my nerves were stretched tight enough to fill the darkness with imaginary menacing eyes.
At least I told myself firmly that it was only imagination. Steadfastly ignoring the small voice in my head that kept pointing out that the man—or men—who had shot Jamie were presumably out there somewhere.
I got up, ladled out another cupful of the yarrow brew, and propped Jamie up again—squelching both fear and my own doubt that I, in my inexperience, could actually manage to stop his life slipping away. “You are going to drink this,” I informed him, “if I have to pinch your nose and pour it down your throat.”
Whether or not he heard or understood any of what I said, I have no idea. His eyes remained closed and his head lolled against my arm. But labourious sip by labourious sip, I got him to swallow first one cupful, then another. He fell into an exhausted stupor after that. But then—
Then I thought that I truly had killed him. For suddenly Jamie began to shiver—so hard that his whole body shook with wracking spasms. If I had been less panicked, I would have realised that it was in fact a good sign. That the fever had finally broken, and he was beginning to sweat and cool down. But alone with him in the dark and more than frightened already, I thought at first that he must really be dying.
I covered him with a blanket—but he continued to shiver and shake so violently that the blanket kept sliding from his chest. His body curled inwards, plainly unable to get warm, and I felt my heart twist that I had done this to him. In desperation, I finally crawled into the bedroll and lay down beside him, sliding under the blanket with him and wrapping my arms about him. For what seemed like an eternity, he continued to shiver. But then, finally, the tremors eased, and he relaxed against me with a heavy sigh.
I lay with my arms around him, not daring to move for fear of disturbing him. Strictly speaking, it was utterly improper for me to be with him—to be with any young man—like this. Beyond improper, really. Weak and fevered—not to mention fully clothed—as Jamie was, I would be ruined just as thoroughly as Eliza if anyone were to see me.
And yet—
I had never been so close to any man before—not even Aubrey. And somehow, lying there warm beneath the blankets, with Jamie’s strong, tall form fitted against mine and the sky overhead spangled by a net of stars, I did not want to move.
I had hoped that Jamie would pass from fevered delirium into natural sleep. But instead he started to twitch and to move restlessly, turning his head and muttering again. And once, he struggled to raise himself a little—then sank back with an agonised, “No!”
Just one word, and a half-whispered groan rather than a cry—but there was so much bleak despair in the single syllable that I felt my heart twist all over again. “Jamie.” I rested my palm against his forehead—noticing that it was perceptibly cooler, and damp with sweat. “Jamie, what is it? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Jamie’s eyes were still closed, but his head moved restlessly again, brow contorted as though in pain, and he said, in the same despairing tone, “Sam.”
“Sam?” I whispered in surprise. “Your brother?”
Perhaps communicating even that small amount had somehow eased him. Or perhaps it was only that complete exhaustion had overtaken him at last. But Jamie did not answer. He only sighed again, and a few moments later I felt the rhythm of his breathing change as he dropped into deep slumber.
A root on the ground beneath the bedroll was digging into my side—and my arm, pinned beneath Jamie, went numb. But I lay there beside him until the eastern sky began to lighten with rosy gold, counting his breaths and the slow, steady beat of his heart.
Finally Pilot—with what looked suspiciously like chicken feathers clinging to his muzzle—ambled into the camp and collapsed with a contented sigh directly on top of Jamie’s feet. Only then did I ease my way from the bed and get up—fortunately managing not to wake Jamie. I ruffled Pilot’s ears and told him to keep watch until I could come back—to which he replied with a wet snuffle and an open-mouthed grin—and then I walked back to the mansion house.
I had not accounted for how I was to get back inside Delaford House, but luck was with me, because the latch on the French windows in the drawing room proved easy to force with my pen-knife.
And now I am back in my room—with no more idea than I had before of whatever trouble Jamie is in, or how it might involve his brother Sam. But at this moment, I almost do not care; I feel as though for the first time in days, I can draw a full breath, knowing that Jamie is past the worst and is going to live.
Saturday 19 June 1802
I have no idea how to even begin to write a full account of today. I have so many thoughts and feelings tangled up inside me that they ought to be practically leaking from my fingertips. Anger and terror and a wish that Mrs. Jennings were not so basically well-intentioned so that I could murder her with a clear conscience, to name just three.
But somehow, when I try to set them down on paper, I cannot find the words, and end by sitting here and starting at a completely blank page.
So perhaps I had better confine myself to facts.
Marianne retired to rest not long after breakfast—she said she was feeling slightly ill and had slept badly last night—so I went to my own room, as well. I slept for a few hours—after not sleeping at all last night, I was too tired not to—but then, sometime in the early afternoon, I woke, splashed cold water on my face in an effort to drive the remnants of sleep away, and went out—intending to visit first Star and then Jamie, to make sure that last night’s improvement really had meant he was out of danger.
I meant, too, to try the chestnut powder that Jamie had given me. But Star would not let me come near enough even for that. Just at the sight of me approaching the pasture fence, she squealed, kicked her heels, and then—as fast as she could, with the bulk of the foal giving her a rolling, swaying gait—raced to the far end of the pasture where she stood, her ears flat back and her sides twitching.
None of that was so very unusual. And yet watching her, I was sure—almost sure—that there was more than just her normal skittishness and fear of humans to her behaviour today. Some vague sense that she was more than ordinarily distressed.
I was leaning against the fence post, squinting against the afternoon sun as I studied her and tried to judge what might be wrong—or whether I was only imagining things—when a man’s familiar voice spoke behind me.
“Margaret!”
For a moment after I swung around to face him, I wondered whether I was asleep … or hallucinating … or losing my mind. Actually, I rather hoped that I was asleep or hallucinating or losing my mind—any of those possibilities seemed in that moment preferable to accepting the reality that Aubrey Neville was standing there before me.
He was, though.
There is no description of Aubrey in this book, I know. Intentionally so. My old journal—the one I burned—was all too full of him without his creeping into this book, too. But since I am recounting facts, I will try to characterise his appearance here: Aubrey has slightly curling blond hair, blue eyes, and is of medium height and build.
Though I am afraid my present temper is creeping in and colouring my description, because that does not in the least give an adequate idea of his looks. To (attempt, at least) to do him justice, Aubrey is extremely handsome. When I first met him, I thought him one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. It was only today, seeing him stand before me in a green riding coat, buckskin breeches, and immaculately knotted snowy-white cravat, that it occurred to me that there is something slightly too-perfect about his appearance, too smooth and glossy. Like an advertisement for gentlemen’s fashions in the window of a haberdasher’s shop.
I was so much astonished by his sudden appearance that for a moment I could only gape at him, open-mouthed. Then I managed to say, “What are you doing here?”
Aubrey was smiling—his old, charming, utterly self-confident smile. Which abruptly reminded me of John Willoughby’s. Even if Aubrey has not fathered any illegitimate children or ruined any girls—that I know of—perhaps his character and Willoughby’s are not actually so unalike after all.
He said, “I came to see you, of course. I asked at Delaford House, and the servant I spoke to said you would most likely be up here. Your friend Mrs. Jennings wrote to me, to tell me where you had disappeared to after leaving Barton. So I came directly to tell you that I am perfectly willing to forgive all the things you said, and to consider us once more engaged.”
He flashed me another complacent smile; plainly, he was filled with satisfaction at his own generosity of spirit.
I have read the expression ‘at a loss for words’, of course. But I do not think that I have ever been so utterly lost for words myself as I was at that moment. Astonishment warred with outrage—and both warred with an urgent wish to throttle Mrs. Jennings for her incessant interference.
When at last I managed to speak, I was distantly surprised to find that my voice sounded quite calm. “You … forgive me,” I repeated.
“Of course I do, darling.” Aubrey had hooked his thumbs casually into the waistband of his breeches and thrown back his shoulders, still with the same ready smile. “You were upset—not yourself—”
I felt as though I were an empty cup, and something black and hissing were being poured into me, filling my whole body from the soles of my feet all the way to the roots of my hair. “You forgive me.” I bit off each word. “But did it ever occur to you that I might not forgive you?”
Aubrey blinked at me, plainly nonplussed. He had not been expecting that, at all. “Margaret—”
“I told you when we parted that I never wished to see you again,” I interrupted. Despite the fury that tingled in my every nerve, I strove to speak politely. After all, if Aubrey was a self-important liar, the present situation was at least partially my fault, in that I had once been blinded enough by his good looks and charm to have accepted his proposal. “That wish has not altered in the least. I am sorry that you travelled into Dorsetshire for nothing. But please leave. At once.”
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 12