Willoughby's Return

by Jane Odiwe

“I should hate to hurt Charles's feelings, but I cannot lie about what I do not feel. I could only marry for true love. But, in any case, Mr Mortimer, how can you be so sure that Charles's wishes are as you say?”

  “He is planning to propose to you, Miss Dashwood.”

  “Oh dear, I should hate to break his heart, Mr Mortimer. I would hate to lose his friendship over this, especially as we have only just become reacquainted. Whatever can I do?”

  “Leave it with me, Miss Dashwood. With your permission, I will inform him of your wishes. All I know is that Charles has only ever wanted you happy. He will be disappointed, of course, but he will want to remain your friend, I know.”

  “I hope so, beyond anything. But what shall I do now? I cannot bear to see his face, knowing that you are to enlighten him of my sentiments.”

  “I shall take my friend off to the card room this instant, Miss Dashwood. Supper is not far off now and we shall be mingling in a larger set. Everything will be fine, do not worry.”

  As the dance came to an end, Mr Mortimer excused himself and left the floor to join Mr Carey. Margaret stood, not wishing to move. Charles would despise her, she thought, after his friend had divulged her thoughts on his idea of a proposal. Henry clearly disliked her, too. Her spirits sank further. The recollection of her arrival in town, with feelings of excitement and happiness, depressed her further. All she wanted was to return home to Devonshire. London was a horrible place, she decided.

  “May I have this dance?”

  With enormous surprise, Margaret turned at the sound of the familiar voice belonging to the young man she most wanted to dance with in the whole world. Bowing before her, stood Henry Lawrence.

  MARIANNE WAS FEELING HOT and bothered. William had left her in Mrs Jennings's company whilst he caught up with the news from an old General he had known in the East Indies. The ladies were watching the dancing.

  “Lady Lawrence is in good spirits this evening,” observed Mrs Jennings.

  “Yes, I cannot remember ever seeing her so animated,” Marianne answered as she watched Hannah dancing with her husband.

  “Well, I am glad to see Miss Margaret has her turn with young Henry at last. I hate to see her looking so disappointed, but now look at her, so happy and carefree. I wonder where Mademoiselle de Fontenay can be. I am surprised she has let go her companion's arm.”

  “I’m sure she's not far away,” snapped Marianne. “She is like a limpet, hanging onto Henry's arm. From the way she clings, anyone would imagine they are engaged. I cannot think why Henry wants to spend so much time with such a needy person.”

  “I think, my dear, Mrs Brandon,” the old lady hesitated, “you had better prepare Margaret for the worst news. Lady Lawrence confided in me this evening. Although it is not yet common knowledge, everything is set for an announcement by the end of the month.”

  This news was not completely unexpected, Marianne thought. But how could Henry be so cruel? He must have seen that Margaret was becoming attached to him and whilst she was grateful that their relationship had not reached the level of intimacy that she and Willoughby had known, she knew, without a doubt, that Margaret's heart would be broken when his wedding was announced.

  Marianne wanted to get away before she could be prompted for any more information. “We have been left to shift for ourselves, Mrs Jennings,” she said, rising abruptly from her chair. “I will go in search of some refreshment. Would you like a glass of something cooling?”

  On the lady's ready acquiescence, Marianne set forth, glad to have escaped Mrs Jennings's society for a while. A room just off to one side had been arranged for the purposes of refreshment. Marianne joined the throng that jostled and pushed their way to an inadequate table, where glasses were being filled with a wide variety of wines and other drinks. Managing eventually to procure a glass for herself and one for Mrs Jennings, she eased her way back through the great crowd, which pressed on either side. She was just feeling thankful that no mishap with two glasses filled to the brim had yet befallen her, when the sound of a voice she recognised nearly had her dropping both glasses in shock.

  “Yes, that lady is the beautiful Mrs Brandon,” she heard Mr Willoughby announce to an unseen audience, who, judging from their appreciative murmur, were all gentlemen.

  Marianne's heart was pounding; she had no wish to turn her head and tried her hardest to manage her nerves. Keeping her eyes forward, she slowly progressed through the crowd.

  “No, I will not hear that Lady Hamilton is the standard by which all beauty should be compared. On the contrary, in my eyes, none bear comparison with Mrs Brandon and there is an end on it,” Willoughby protested.

  Marianne wished she were invisible but, determined to act as if she had not heard him, kept her vision fixed directly in front, holding the glasses aloft as well as she could. Such was the crowd that it was impossible to move without being nudged and more than once did she spill the orgeat.

  “May I help you?”

  A voice from behind, in her ear, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, alerted her to Mr Willoughby's presence.

  “Thank you, but I can manage, Mr Willoughby.”

  “Here,” he insisted, “it is no trouble, let me take them.”

  Before she could protest again, he had moved around and was standing directly in front of her. The multitude pushed and bumped them ever closer, it seemed to Marianne. Her hands were full; another push from the rear had her careering almost into his arms. She felt his fingers enclose hers, reaching to take the glasses from her grip and in doing so, Marianne was so astonished that she nearly dropped them. However, she kept her composure, even though her heart was beating wildly.

  “Allow me to escort you back to the ballroom, Mrs Brandon.”

  Moving through the sea of people with ease, Marianne had no choice but to follow Mr Willoughby. What Mrs Jennings would make of it, she did not even want to contemplate. The old lady's eyes were out on stalks as they approached, but fortunately, before the situation could be made even more embarrassing, Willoughby immediately took his leave. He did not linger, merely greeting Mrs Jennings and presenting her with a glass.

  Marianne was mortified. Despite her best intention, she felt most discomposed, berating herself for being so unfortunate as to have the kind of complexion which betrayed her feelings so easily.

  “I didn’t know Mr Willoughby was here,” said Mrs Jennings, regarding Marianne closely.

  “Yes, I believe he is here with his wife and a party of friends. I bumped into him in the refreshment room.”

  “He's still a handsome rogue, is he not, Mrs Brandon? And with his wife, you say. Well, by all accounts that is most unusual. Does the Colonel know he is here? Though perhaps it might be a good idea not to mention him; that gentleman's presence only seems to upset your husband. Old wounds take a long time to heal!”

  Marianne felt her confusion most pertinently. To her great relief, she saw Margaret coming off the floor after dancing with Henry. Excusing herself, she moved off to greet them both. To her great dismay, Margaret did not look at all happy. Perhaps Henry had told her of his forthcoming engagement. It was impossible to talk now; she would have to wait until they were at home before she could even broach the subject and even then, she thought, it might be necessary to wait for Margaret to speak on the matter.

  Colonel Brandon appeared at her side, only to tell her that he was in request for a game of cards after supper with an old friend he had known in the East Indies. He apologised, promising her the last dance, but Marianne felt most disappointed. He always revelled in the company of men, she mused, and her own dislike of cards, particularly whist, meant that she was often left to find some other amusement whilst he entertained. He was not really a man who loved to dance as she did, although he usually tried to please her by partnering her often. However, on this occasion she felt most upset that he was choosing to leave her alone.

  Alas, the supper bell rang out at that moment. She really did n
ot feel in the mood to sit with anyone and was worried that Mrs Jennings, or worse still, Lucy Ferrars, might mention Willoughby. Marianne was sure William had not yet seen him and hoped it would remain so, as she knew nothing would alter his mood quicker than the knowledge that his old rival was in the vicinity.

  Margaret's dance with Henry had been a disaster from her point of view. Although she had been delighted that he should have asked her to dance at all, the outcome could not have been more upsetting. Henry had not spoken a word; there had been no familiarity, no ease of address, and certainly no feeling that he was going to repeat his request. She felt he was simply going through the motions out of a sense of duty. Margaret wished he had not bothered. But by the time she returned to her seat she began to blame herself, thinking perhaps that she should have made more effort to speak to him. The activity had been such a strain on her nerves that in a way she was glad it was over. Henry would not have to ask her again; he had behaved in a polite if cold manner and could now return to his Mademoiselle.

  Supper was a trial. Margaret imagined that Mrs Ferrars and Miss Steele only sat on her table to amuse themselves by her reactions to the behaviour of Henry and his ladylove, who were seated further down the table.

  “Look at the lovers now, Lucy,” cried Miss Steele. “Did you ever see such a public display?”

  Margaret did not want to look down the table but could not help herself. Henry was whispering to his lover with urgent intent. Never had two people looked more confidential to her way of thinking.

  “I expect Lady Lawrence is thrilled,” answered Lucy. “Mademoiselle de Fontenay's fortune will mean there will be no delay to their marriage.”

  Margaret tried hard not to listen as the sisters talked of weddings, with hints of naval ceremonies and nudges in her direction. Her eyes perused the lower end of the table; she could see Marianne seething with indignation as Lady Lawrence regaled her with tales of nuptial expectations and stories of ill health, whilst piling her plate high with pastries and cake, managing to consume every last morsel.

  Charles Carey and Mr Mortimer did not make an appearance at supper, and on looking about, Margaret could not see any sign of them. She wondered briefly if they were still in the card room, but decided that this was not very likely. It was more probable that they had left, especially if Mr Mortimer had explained Margaret's position. This idea did not please her and her spirits sunk lower. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her old friend, but she could not go on giving him the idea that there could be any hope of her accepting a proposal. It was best this way, but she hoped he would forgive her in time.

  With most of the eating accomplished, tables were breaking up and new groups forming. Margaret observed Henry greeting Mr Willoughby and his wife, introducing Mademoiselle de Fontenay, who curtsied prettily. Looking at Henry made her feel more miserable than ever. How soon could they go home? Looking across at Marianne, their eyes met. It was clear that she was thinking the same.

  “Where has your beau gone off to, Miss Dashwood?” came Anne's irritating voice to break her reverie. “Mr Mortimer promised me the first dance after supper and now I can’t see either of them. Mind you, we were behaving a little particularly after having danced two together. Maybe he doesn’t want to set tongues wagging against us. If you are about to tease me about him, Miss Dashwood, I do not know what I shall say in return!”

  “I have no intention of doing anything of the sort,” retorted Margaret, who could not bear Anne's company any longer. “Excuse me.”

  She got up, leaving the room immediately in search of quiet and solitude. Out in the corridor she did not know which way to go. In such a large house it was easy to lose oneself. Heading off the main corridor, she turned, mounting a few steps into a smaller walkway. On spying a door left slightly ajar with a glimpse of bookshelves and an easy chair, she slipped into the room. Flopping down on the seat, she gave in to her feelings at last. Having tried so hard to rein in her emotions, they got the better of Margaret now. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over her cheeks at the recollection of images too painful to recall, her small frame convulsing with racking sobs, which nothing could prevent. After a few minutes, willing herself to stop, she brushed at her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. This would never do. The last thing she wanted was to give Henry the satisfaction of seeing that she was upset. Any feelings of concern and affection for him were rapidly giving way to other sentiments. “He is no better than a libertine,” she thought, “dallying with my heart.” Fetching out her kerchief from her reticule, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  With a determination to triumph over her emotions, she opened the door to set off back to the ballroom. As she turned the corner into the main corridor, she was arrested by the sight of Mademoiselle de Fontenay engaged in conversation with a young man whom Margaret did not recognise. They neither of them appeared to notice her, so engrossed were they in animated dialogue. Margaret managed to pass them undetected; only the agitation in the young man's voice was discernible. A good-looking gentleman, but with the appearance of one who had known better times, Margaret could not distinguish enough of what he said to make sense of his speech. His voice was low and his French dialect so strong that she could not make out a single word, although it was very clear that he was greatly upset. She was most curious, wondering who he could be. Mademoiselle Antoinette was clearly disturbed by what he was saying. Margaret looked about but could see no sign of Henry. As she reached the end of the corridor, she looked back. Antoinette turned to regard her but as Margaret lifted her arm to salute in recognition, the other young lady turned her back as if she did not see her. Margaret was sure that she had been observed. Mademoiselle Antoinette's behaviour was more than a little puzzling.

  IN THE BALLROOM, MARIANNE had sat out the first three dances after supper, sitting between Mrs Jennings on one side and Lady Lawrence on the other, who for the most part talked across her and at length on the merits and disadvantages of every match in the room. William had abandoned her to their care, leaving for the card room with what seemed to Marianne to be indecent haste. She could not blame him nor could she easily forgive him. If she were a gentleman, she mused, forced to sit with the likes of these ladies, she would be as anxious to escape. Indeed, it was hard enough to bear but Marianne disliked cards so much that she was prepared to admit that half an hour in the company of her sister-in-law was almost preferable to a game of chance.

  So she was thrilled when Sir Edgar stepped up to claim her for a dance. Willingly, she took his arm to join the set for a country dance. The dancers lined up on either side, forming a long chain. Sir Edgar was very gallant, complimenting her on her grace, telling her what a pleasure it was for him to stand up with her. As usual, Marianne delighted in his attentions. Although quite a portly figure, her partner was very light on his feet and made her feel as if he would not have treated a queen with any more distinction.

  Gaining the top of the room, to her dismay, she encountered Mr Willoughby.

  “How charming to see you again, Mrs Brandon,” he said, as they both turned to promenade down between the dancers together.

  “Good evening, Mr Willoughby.”

  Marianne could not look him in the eye. It was enough to feel the pressure of his thumb on her hand, his fingers underneath brushing her palm as he reached out to hold it. She felt his hand against the small of her back as he steered her round in the dance. Her body immediately responded to his touch; she was unable to prevent the feelings that quickened her breath, making her head pound with the surge of blood. Struggling against it, she determined to give him no inclination of her bewilderment. Fortunately, his power was supreme for only a moment before she managed to subdue her emotions, angry that her innermost feelings had betrayed her.

  “You always were the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance,” he went on, “but I have never seen you looking quite as wonderful as you do tonight.”

  “I do not think that you should be talking to me in this
way, Mr Willoughby,” Marianne said, able at last to look directly into his eyes. “Think of your wife, to whom you should be paying such compliments.”

  “I never can think of my wife when I am with you,” he murmured. “Indeed, it is hardly possible to think at all. You must be aware of my regard.”

  “You are clearly drunk and talking nonsense, Mr Willoughby. I think you are not in your own mind at present. All I know is that I do not wish you to speak to me of such things again. If your unfortunate feelings are such as you confide, I beg you will show your true regard by leaving me alone.”

  As Marianne moved on to the end of the dance, meeting Sir Edgar once more, she felt such a cheerful sense of release from the anxiety she had been suffering that she felt her countenance must give her away completely. As he escorted her back to her seat, she was surprised to see Colonel Brandon. From his expression, she surmised that he must have witnessed she and Willoughby dancing together, though she felt certain that he must have seen them talking, he could not have had any idea of the subject matter.

  “Will you dance with me, Marianne?” He held out his hand.

  “I thought you were playing cards.”

  “I was…” he hesitated, “but my thoughts kept turning to you. I am sorry to have left you alone for so long, Marianne. Please forgive me and do me the honour of accompanying me.”

  “I can think of nothing I would rather do at this moment, than being joined with you in the dance,” she said, taking his hand. She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Then again, if I might refer to our earlier promise, perhaps there is just another form of union that I might consent to with more than a little pleasure.”

  William looked lovingly into her eyes to whisper in return, “I can assure you, Mrs Brandon, I never break a promise and am duty bound to our pledge.”

  “Must we wait until the last dance before we go home?” Marianne implored, returning his stare with an expression that spoke of her greatest desire. More than anything she wished to go home, to renew the close bonds between them that she felt wanting these last weeks. Marianne desired to show her husband how much she loved him and to feel him loving her in return.