Willoughby's Return

by Jane Odiwe

  The latter was mortified, and determining to change the subject, endeavoured to introduce any topic that came into her head. “Shall you all be going to London for the season, Lady Lawrence?”

  “Yes, indeed, we are travelling the week after Christmas as a matter of fact,” Sir Edgar butted in. “I hope we shall be seeing you there too, Miss Margaret.”

  “Colonel Brandon has promised to take me with Marianne,” Margaret pronounced, her joyful exuberance betraying her enthusiasm for the scheme.

  “Then we shall all meet by and bye,” chuckled Sir Edgar.

  “When is Brandon to return?” his sister enquired. “He is there on business did you say, Mrs Brandon? Has he been gone long?”

  Marianne felt everyone must be aware of her perturbation so she spoke quickly to cover her discomfort. “He is to return on the morrow,” she said, not really knowing whether this was true or not. She fiddled with the tassel on her fan, knowing that Mr Willoughby was staring at her countenance. Indeed, he had not taken his eyes off her since she had entered the room and this was only adding to her sense of unease.

  “Well now,” proclaimed Sir Edgar, “it must be time for dinner!”

  He rose, proffering an arm each to Mrs Dashwood and his wife respectively. Marianne could see Henry making a beeline for her sister, which meant there was only one person who could accompany her into dinner. Mr Willoughby was at her side in a moment. Though Marianne hesitated, she knew she had no option. Slipping her hand through his arm, she allowed herself to be escorted, though she felt the impropriety very much. It felt very strange to feel the expensive cloth of his coat underneath her fingers and impossible not to feel the strength of his arm however lightly she took it. Despite purposefully leaning as far away from him as she was able, she could not help but be aware of his nearness, and of his smell, emanating like an elixir from a bygone age, mingled into a potpourri of fragrant images from the past. Taking her seat at the dining table between him and Sir Edgar at the head, she knew that it would be impossible to completely ignore him. With her host completely engaged with her mother on the other side and with everyone else talking nineteen to the dozen, she could only turn her attention to Mr Willoughby when he spoke.

  “FORGIVE ME, MRS BRANDON,” he started in a quiet voice, “I know this situation must be one of great difficulty for you, but if I had known that you were to be invited today, I should never have come. Please believe me when I say I have no wish to distress you; Sir Edgar informed me that it was to be a quiet family dinner.”

  Marianne had to smile. “We were all misinformed, Mr Willoughby.”

  “But I must say that I am glad to have been given another opportunity to speak with you,” he began again, “though I assure you that the subject on which we last spoke is closed forever. I wonder if I might ask you about another matter altogether, though in its own way it is one of a most delicate nature.”

  Marianne looked up at him enquiringly, with a suspicion that she might have an idea at what he hinted.

  “What are you whispering in my aunt's ear, Willoughby?” shouted Henry from across the table. “Let us all have a share in the conversation. Do be careful, Aunt Brandon, Mr Willoughby can never resist telling tales if he thinks he has the attention of a beautiful woman.”

  The entire table stopped to stare until Marianne spoke with a levity she did not truly feel. “Mr Willoughby was telling me of the plans for Allenham Court, and I must say Mrs Willoughby's schemes for new decoration sound admirable. How delightful it must be to newly furnish a home.”

  “There is nothing finer to my mind,” joined Lady Lawrence. “It is a pity that dear Mrs Willoughby is away visiting friends at present. I should so much like to have heard all about it—a lady with such similar tastes as my own. I have enjoyed giving her the benefit of my own knowledge, which she was most thankful to accept. I was lucky, of course, to have had the advantage of being schooled by the French, who are unsurpassed decorators of elegance. Mrs Dashwood, you must come and see my new scenic wallpaper. You shall be transported to a tropical isle if you will just sit in my petit salon for five minutes!”

  Marianne and Margaret caught the other's eye and for a moment it was all they could do to stop from bursting out laughing. Henry did not help matters.

  “’Tis too true, ma’am,” he enthused, simultaneously mopping his brow with a kerchief and slapping his arms at imaginary insects, “I swear you’ll come over in a heat rash and find yourself swatting poisonous flies after a mere five minutes!”

  “Oh, Henry,” his mother laughed, “you are such a tease.”

  Marianne was pleased that her companion did not attempt to speak on any other subject for the rest of the dinner. The magnificent spread of white soup, roasted goose with prunes, salmon pie, and apple puffs was attacked with abandon by the rest but wasted on Mrs Brandon, who picked at her food. Her nerves had the better of her and she was unable to do her meal true justice.

  She was relieved when they retired to the “petit salon” to imagine themselves in foreign climes. A wallpaper frieze adorned with palm trees dripping with coconuts, and a landscape peopled with exotically robed figures, ran round the length and breadth of the room. Coupled with a hand painted ceiling of a blue sky, with scattered clouds edged in sunset pink, Marianne was inclined to think it all rather too fanciful for her taste, so she was pleased when her mother made all the right noises.

  “Lady Lawrence, I declare I have never seen anything quite like it,” Mrs Dashwood assured her hostess.

  Marianne was quite certain her mother never had and made a long perusal of a tropical plant as another fit of mirth threatened to overcome her.

  “No, indeed,” Hannah Lawrence prattled on, “I am happy to tell you that I am the very first, proud owner of such a device in all the West Country.”

  “As you may imagine,” Marianne heard Henry whisper to Margaret, “we are hated by our neighbours, who are consumed with envy.”

  Margaret stifled a giggle but it was too late. Not for the first time did Marianne see Lady Lawrence look at her sister disapprovingly.

  Sir Edgar, who was keen to have Margaret shown off to her best advantage, immediately diverted the conversation by inviting her to play for them. Everyone took their seats; Marianne was relieved to be at a distant and quite opposite seat from Mr Willoughby. A lover of any romantic song, Margaret sat at the pianoforte in the corner and with the help of Henry chose a song. They sang together, an Irish melody of sweet remembrances that was not only familiar to Marianne but had once been dear to her heart.

  “Other arms may press thee,

  Dearer friends caress thee,

  All the joys that bless thee,

  Sweeter far may be;

  But when friends are nearest,

  And when joys are dearest,

  Oh! Then remember me!”

  Glancing across at Willoughby, Marianne was unable to resist seeing if any recognition of a song they had sung so often together was detectable in his countenance.

  “When around thee dying,

  Autumn leaves are lying,

  Oh! Then remember me.”

  As their eyes met across the room, Marianne scolded herself for her stupidity. The last thing she wished was for Willoughby to think that she still had any attachment to either the libretto or the tune. She turned to stare into the fire, with the instant realisation that she had made yet another mistake.

  “And, at night, when gazing

  On the gay hearth blazing,

  Oh! Still remember me.”

  Turning her eyes from the fire, Marianne studied the performers with unvarying scrutiny. The fact that Mr Willoughby was still staring unnerved her more than she would admit, but she was determined not to show her feelings.

  Marianne led the applause as soon as the song was finished, clapping with great enthusiasm, but she could not resist saying above the general noise, “I am surprised you should sing such an old song whose sentiments are bordering on the ridiculous, Margare
t. Henry, help her to find something more modern, those old Irish airs are not only antiquated but rather pathetic.”

  “Oh, Marianne, how can you say so? That song has such romance. And I am sure I have heard you sing it often!” Margaret declared, shuffling the pile of music in search of something else. To sing with Henry was a delight and she could not wait to do so again.

  “It is a favourite song of mine, though I seldom hear it sung nowadays,” spoke up Mr Willoughby, whose eyes did not leave Marianne's.

  “I daresay it has resonances for most of us,” Sir Edgar added with a wistful expression, and though his wife insisted that it had been a special song for her also, Marianne could not help feeling that her spouse's fondness for the air was due to the memory of someone else from his youth. Willoughby's words would not leave her; and now Margaret and her mother were staring in her direction, surely with the remembrance of times past.

  Although Marianne was delighted to see how much Henry and Margaret were enjoying one another's company, the conclusion of the evening could not come soon enough. Listening to her sister and her beau, their voices twinned in song, brought forth more disturbing emotions than she was prepared to admit, and when finally Mrs Dashwood made their excuses, she was very relieved to say goodbye. Fortunately, Mr Willoughby made no further attempt to talk to her on any subject. It was only when they were safely settled in the carriage to make the journey home to Delaford that she recalled his entreaties to speak to her on a subject of a delicate nature. Although she could not be sure, she had a feeling that his appeal had something to do with someone else from his past, a lady that occupied a presence in each of their minds and concerns.

  Much to Marianne's surprise and great joy, Colonel Brandon did return on the following evening. He entered the house with the same bluster as he had left it, but his wife could immediately sense and observe the change in him. He looked older and weighed down by his worries; she was shocked to see the extra grey hair at his temples and his pale complexion. Marianne was sure he had lost weight, too; had Eliza not been feeding him properly? Unable to bring herself to ask too many questions, she felt duty bound to enquire after the child.

  “Lizzy was stable when I left,” sighed Brandon, removing his cloak and hat, “but I do not think we have seen the last of her illness, however reassuring the apothecary meant to be. Mr Oliver has my complete faith in his ability, he is the best man for the job, but Lizzy has succumbed to such putrid infections before and with each one she is left weaker than the last.”

  “The child is in good hands, William,” Marianne answered. “It was right that you should come home. I am sure Eliza was very grateful to you for your assistance but she is more than capable of nursing Lizzy back to health.”

  “Eliza is a wonderful nurse,” he agreed and paused as though conjuring a picture of her in his mind. “Her sweetness of temper and patient disposition are qualities rarely seen in human beings, I think. It is very touching to see the care she lavishes on her daughter with not a thought for herself. Many a time, trying to persuade her in the early hours that she should go to her bed was an impossible task. We kept vigil together, more often than not…”

  Brandon trailed off at this point; Marianne watching him closely became aware that he was lost in thought.

  “I am very tired, Marianne,” he said at last, raking his fingers through his dark, untidy mane. “If you do not mind, I will retire to catch up on my sleep.” He dropped a kiss absently on the top of her head, before turning wearily, his shoulders hunched and his gait ponderous.

  Marianne watched him slowly climb the stairs. “My fears are not allayed,” she said to herself. “The disappointment and frustration I feel threaten to spill out in a torrent of fury. I want to shout at him, demand that he show some interest in James or myself. He has not asked one word about how we have fared in his absence; his only conversation involved those others of whom I have little care!” Sitting up until the early hours made her feel no better. It was only when Thompkins disturbed her as she slumbered in a chair that she forced herself to bed. As she moved quietly about the bedchamber, being careful not to wake her husband, she was momentarily moved by the expression on his face, soft in the glow of candlelight. He looked like a small boy; the cares of the day seemed to have left his countenance as he smiled in his sleep. Marianne smiled too, until she began to question the subject of his dreams. Who was it that made him smile spontaneously in his sleep like that? Climbing into bed, she nestled down into the cold sheets until she found the warmth of her husband's body. Wrapping herself around him, she only felt comforted when he turned in his sleep, responding to her touch by taking her in his arms.

  MARGARET TOOK THE SHORTCUT through the park to the rectory. Deep in thought, she felt in raptures at all that she saw about her. Every tree, every leafless twig seemed to possess magical properties that she had not noticed before. The sun shone like spun gold in a heavenly sky, the air was never so sweet, and the entire world seemed an enchanted haven on this mellow December morning. Her thoughts were occupied not only with a young man who was becoming very dear to her heart but also with the fact that she would be leaving for London within a couple of weeks. Unable to settle to anything at Delaford, she had decided to visit her eldest sister and cousins to bid them a fond farewell. Elinor would, no doubt, have something to say on matters of the heart before she left, but today she felt she could endure anything.

  “I am in love with Henry,” she told herself and said it out loud to the horses in the fields as she walked. Her excitement at the trip to London was boundless; after all, she imagined that they would be able to meet frequently. On his marriage Colonel Brandon had swiftly left his bachelor lodgings in St James's Street and found him and his new wife a fine house in Manchester Square. As the Lawrences had their own establishment in Portman Square, Margaret was certain there would not only be frequent calls, parties, and the like but also every chance of bumping into Henry in the street and round the town. Lower Berkeley Street was all that would separate them. Margaret's heart leapt at the thought.

  Anna greeted Margaret with great excitement and hugs of affection. Elinor bade her sister sit by the fire whilst she poured fragrant tea and proffered a dish of buttered muffins.

  “How is everyone at Delaford?” she asked. “I expect you are all in a state of high expectation and nervous tension. Have you packed every last gown that you own?”

  “I have been packed for a week, Elinor, and I confess, I cannot wait to be gone to town. I am almost giddy at the thought of all the balls and dances. I only wish everyone were so keen. Perhaps I should not say so, but some people do not seem to share my enthusiasm. My sister, for one, is so bad tempered lately and as for my brother Brandon, I have never seen him so ill-disposed.”

  “Oh, Margaret, they will have a lot to organise. It is no mean feat removing an entire household to another part of the country,” urged Elinor. “Do not be too hard on them. Perhaps you should be helping out a little more.”

  Margaret hesitated. She didn’t like to tell tales but despite her happiness at the prospect of the London venture, she was more than a little disturbed by the present atmosphere at Delaford Park. “Well, Mama is doing all she can, of course,” she started, taking a moment to sip her hot tea and reflect on her concerns. When at last she spoke, her words rushed along like the brook at Barton, tumbling and gathering pace with every breath. “Elinor, I think Marianne and William have fallen out with one another. I do not want to tittle-tattle but they seem so at odds with one another just now. It is not right. Marianne is silent and grave; she hardly utters a word or even looks at her husband. William has been out on business every day since he came back from Lyme and spends all his time writing long letters when he is not spending it with little James.”

  Elinor looked thoughtful. She knew if anything were to discompose Marianne more and upset her temper, it was her husband's visits to Lyme. Marianne's irrational jealousy of Brandon's ward and child, which Elinor knew her siste
r found hard to curb, must be at the root of this present situation. However, she knew Marianne would be most upset to have it talked of and discussed, even if with another sister. Elinor chose her words carefully.

  “I am sure it is nothing which won’t blow over eventually, Margaret,” she assured her sister. “I daresay the trip to town with all its last-minute arrangements is taking its toll. You’ll see, everything will be fine when you get to London.”

  “But it is the one thing that is spoiling everything,” cried Margaret, putting her plate down with a petulant sigh. “We were to have such fun, but we won’t have any with such disagreeableness. Mama has noticed it, too. She said William is too occupied with other concerns and should look to his own home.” Margaret stole a glance at Elinor, who wore a most concerned expression.

  “I hope it was only to you that she voiced these fears,” she said at last.

  “Yes, well, not strictly speaking. I was passing Marianne's dressing room and I heard her and Mama talking. I heard other things, too.”

  “Margaret, no good ever comes of eavesdropping, you should know better,” scolded Elinor. “I do not wish to hear any more. Now, tell me, how is young Mr Lawrence? I am well aware that he has been to Delaford several times lately to call on you, but I have never had a chance to quiz you about the evening you spent at Whitwell. Indeed, I have almost thought you all avoiding my enquiries, so many times you and Marianne have omitted to furnish me with the events of that meal.”

  Being very careful to stick to her subject, Margaret informed her sister of the pleasant evening she had spent in the company of Henry at Whitwell. Elinor's interest in the conduct of that young man and her questions about the songs they had sung together exhausted the topic of Whitwell quite enough, Margaret thought. Would it really matter if she did not mention Willoughby's presence to Elinor? Margaret was undecided and indecisive, not wanting to ask herself why she kept back the information. But she knew that once out, it would prompt many more questions, which she would find tiresome and troubling to answer. Apart from the memory of a wonderful evening spent with Henry, the one other recollection that stayed so prominently in her mind was that of Marianne and Willoughby, arm in arm, walking into dinner. So it was with a glad heart and a clear conscience that she listened to Elinor's following entreaties to enjoy herself in London, remembering to act thoughtfully and prudently on all occasions.