Willoughby's Return

by Jane Odiwe

  MARGARET COULD NOT HELP feeling a mixture of emotions as she stepped into Sir Edgar's coach. She did not know what to think; anger, excitement, and fear trembled over her in waves. Henry seemed like a stranger; she could not think when last they had really spoken to one another and as yet, Henry had not uttered a word.

  “Miss Dashwood, I realise I have a lot of explaining to do,” he began from his seat on the opposite side, “Would you mind if I change our plans very slightly? I have so much to talk to you about and I do not think I can relate it all to you in so public a place as Gunter's. I have my father's permission to take his coach for the afternoon, and I wondered if I might take you first for a drive through Hyde Park as I promised all that time ago.”

  There was something so gentlemanly about his request and he put her so at ease by the kindly way he addressed her that she raised no objection. Henry gave the command and they set off, soon finding their way down Oxford Street in the direction of the park.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment or two. Margaret looked out at the melting snow turning to slush along the highway, dripping iced water from tree branches of black lace silhouetted against a sky of storm clouds.

  “I saw you with Charles Carey and his sister yesterday,” said Henry.

  “They have been very good to me whilst I have been in London,” Margaret answered. “James Mortimer and his sister have been very kind also.”

  “Mr Carey admires you very much, I know,” Henry ventured, watching Margaret's countenance closely.

  “Mr Carey is a friend of long standing. Whether he admires me or not is another matter.” Margaret felt her confusion in a warm glow spreading upwards from her neckline.

  “But Anne Steele told me he wishes to marry you and that everything is set for an engagement between you.”

  “Mr Carey has no such expectations. I have no desire to marry him. He is like a brother to me and as such could never be anything else.”

  Margaret turned her gaze to look at Henry. “Appearances are not always as they seem, I do not think.”

  “No, indeed,” said Henry with a smile. “One should never rely on outward show alone or the confidence of others. Miss Steele and her sister Mrs Ferrars were very convincing. I was assured that you were to be married before Easter.”

  “I would like to be able to pardon them, to say that they mean well, but unfortunately I cannot in truth come to their aid. Those sisters have always enjoyed a gossip and if there is none to be had, they simply make it up,” Margaret declared with a shrug of her shoulders. “Getting wed is all they talk about. Perhaps that is their ambition, but I have never had any intention to get married to anyone.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Henry replied. Margaret noted that Henry had such an expression of sadness on his face that instead of feeling any animosity toward him, she felt rather sorry as she remembered that his heart must be broken and his pride more than a little bruised. It was impossible to feel anything but compassion for him.

  “Henry, I am so sorry about Mademoiselle Antoinette,” she said. “I know you were engaged. It must have been a huge shock.”

  Henry raised his eyes to hers, shaking his head before bursting out with laughter. “Margaret, forgive me, but as you said yourself, outward show is not always as it seems.”

  Margaret felt quite cross again. He was laughing at her, she was sure. She stared at him incredulously, deciding she should ask him to take her home instantly.

  “Listen, Margaret. My engagement with Antoinette was all pretence and façade, you know. There has never been anything other than a deep friendship between us; we have known each other since we were small children. I do love her but as one loves a sibling, the sister I never had. Our mothers are great friends and they always cherished a hope that we might marry some day. Antoinette met her Count several months ago in the Assembly Rooms at Bath and fell in love whilst dancing.”

  Margaret was stunned into silence. She was remembering the young man she had seen at Lady Denham's ball. “I do not understand,” she said at last. “Surely there could be no objection to her marrying a French Count.”

  Henry sighed. “I feel very sorry for the fellow. He has unfortunately lost all his money so it was considered a most imprudent match. He has always nurtured hopes that his house and land might be returned to him in France, and Antoinette told me that he is to come into an inheritance some day in the future. Regrettably, this information was not enough to satisfy her mother and why everything was set for a match between us. You may imagine that my mother and the Comtesse are most displeased. Happily, they are unaware of my involvement in the whole proceedings.”

  “Did you help Antoinette run away?” asked Margaret, certain of the answer.

  “I did, and was prepared to take the blame also, but she would not hear of it. Fearing the wrath of both our parents and more particularly of my mother, she insisted that I should not give myself up to their questions. Nevertheless, I have still endured a dreadful interrogation, but I am happy that the lovers are far away.”

  “Will you tell me where they are gone?” Margaret knew she shouldn’t ask, but she thought she had an idea that they might have undertaken a long journey.

  “Can I trust you, Margaret?” Henry looked into her eyes. Margaret held his gaze steadily, so earnestly did she wish him to divulge his secrets. “You can trust me with your life,” she answered truthfully.

  “I believe I can. They have gone to France where Jean has many friends and relatives to help them. Perhaps it might be seen as a dangerous step, but Jean is adamant that his claims to his land may yet be fulfilled and his home recovered. I do not know if they will stay, but Antoinette did not want to risk remaining here. After all, she might have had to marry me!”

  “Did she consider that to be such a bad thing? Antoinette is a very good actress, I think. I was completely fooled. She looked as if she adored you.”

  “And may I ask, Miss Dashwood, what you thought about that?”

  Henry's eyes were staring into hers again. Margaret fixed him with a bold glance. “I must admit that I did not like it.”

  “And I must admit that I was ready to run Charles Carey through with a sword!”

  “Oh, Henry!”

  “Will you forgive me, Margaret?”

  “Of course I will, Henry.”

  The coach had come to a standstill under the trees in a deserted spot at the edge of the park. Margaret felt the impropriety but could not have cared. To be sitting so intimately with Henry gazing at her with adoration was all she could wish. He sat forward on the edge of his seat and put out his hand to take hers.

  “I love you, Margaret,” he said softly. “I have since the moment I met you and never did stop loving you, though I am certain that is not how it must have appeared. The risk was too great. Not that I couldn’t confide in you, but I had to convince others that there was no hint of any relationship between us. I had to make you hate me and make my mother and the Comtesse believe that I loved Antoinette in order for our plan to succeed.”

  “I understand, truly,” Margaret whispered, delighting in the touch of his fingers entwined with her own. “But in any case, I could never have hated you, Henry, whatever happened. I love you too much.”

  Suddenly, the sound of dripping water pattering down upon the carriage hood rose with a crescendo, drumming with the rhythm of a sharp shower of rain. Water ran in great rivulets down the panes of glass at the windows, making it impossible to see out. Margaret felt cocooned in a little world of her own, marooned with the only man she ever felt she would love. Henry stroked her gloved fingers, raising them to his mouth. He turned her palm over, brushing the soft flesh of her wrist just above the edge of her glove with his lips.

  “Margaret, forgive me,” he said, clasping her hand to his cheek with great affection, “I must ask you something of importance, but I have to tell you that I am so afraid of your answer that I do not wish to ask it of you.”

  “Oh, Henry, am I so fearsome?”
Margaret declared, thrilled by the sensation of her hand against his face, “Please ask me anything at all!”

  Henry shook his head. “No, I do not think you fearsome, Miss Dashwood. On the contrary, you are the most delightful person I ever met and that is why I am wary of speaking to you on a matter which will decide my future forever.”

  Margaret attempted to cover her feelings with a flippant retort. “Henry, you are so funny. I should think you didn’t like me from the way you talk.”

  Henry moved from his seat to sit next to her, still clasping her hand in his own. He looked down, smoothing the leather as he spoke. “I know that you have no wish to marry anyone ever, but I am hoping that if one day you should change your mind that you would consider becoming my wife.”

  “Henry, I should be honoured to be your wife, whenever you wish it,” she answered, moving her head to arrest the gaze of his wandering eyes so that she could show him her sincerity with a look of pure love. “I didn’t know it before you asked me but I am very sure now that I should like it above all things.”

  Henry bent down on one knee, looking up at her imploringly. “Margaret Dashwood, will you marry me?”

  “Yes, Henry Lawrence, I will!” Margaret answered eagerly.

  Margaret watched Henry rise to be seated at her side again, only this time he was so close that her breath quickened in response. He lifted his eyes to hers again, as he removed his gloves, revealing his long, tapered fingers. She felt the tug on her bonnet ribbons as they slipped undone between his fingers and made no movement as he removed her bonnet. Henry touched her hair softly. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, reaching to clasp the tender skin at the base of her neck where the curls fell down her back. Pulling her toward him, Margaret anticipated him, raising her lips to his own to enjoy the sensation of his mouth caressing her in a sweet kiss.

  “We have just one small problem to overcome,” Henry began as they reluctantly broke apart.

  “Your mother will do everything in her power to oppose the match.”

  “I would not be telling the truth if I were to contradict you, but that is not the immediate problem. I have not yet told my parents of my desires. As it is, Antoinette has only just fled from London and I hope you will understand when I say that I wish to keep our engagement secret for a while. My mother thinks I am heartbroken and for the present I do not wish to disillusion her. I think it safest if Antoinette and Jean are given as much time as possible to secure their own marriage and livelihood. I am so sorry, Margaret, if I disappoint you. I hope you understand.”

  “Henry, I do not care how long we have to wait to tell others about our engagement,” she said, regarding him almost shyly. “All that matters is that I know you love me and you want me to be your wife some day. Do not worry, I shall not tell a soul, not even Marianne, though how I shall manage that under her scrutiny, I cannot quite imagine. But I will, I promise.”

  “Margaret, I have a little something for you, a token to express my love and, I hope, secure our secret engagement.”

  Henry pulled a small, hinged box from his waistcoat pocket. Hesitantly, he offered it to Margaret, who gasped with delight.

  “I was not expecting a gift, Henry,” she cried, sliding back the hook on one side. Within the box she found the most perfect ring she could imagine. An emerald, surrounded by diamonds, twinkled like a daisy in summer from its velvet cushion. “Thank you, Henry,” Margaret cried as he placed it on her finger. “Of course I shall hide it until we can make our announcement official. I do hope you will be able to persuade your mother and father that we might marry.”

  “My father will be very happy, I know, and I am sure it will just be a matter of time before my mother will be brought round. No one could help falling in love with you, Margaret. We shall be the happiest pair that ever lived!”

  Indeed, no two people could have seemed happier at that moment as Henry Lawrence and Margaret Dashwood took a turn around the Park once more, clasped in each other's arms.

  MARIANNE WAS DISAPPOINTED THAT Margaret did not have any interesting news to divulge on reaching home. She had been sure that Henry's explanation of everything that had happened might mean that he wished to make amends to her sister, but all her questions proved in vain. Margaret was being highly evasive. The most her sibling would admit was that it had been good to see Henry, going so far as to say that she hoped they might be very good friends again. But Margaret's behaviour was very worrying, Marianne decided, especially on further observation over the next few days. Her sister kept choosing to go out alone, spurning the company of all her friends. It didn’t seem natural. Perhaps Henry had told her of his broken heart. How selfish men could be.

  “I just like to go walking, that is all,” Margaret insisted after Marianne's curiosity got the better of her later on in the week.

  “Forgive me for asking this, Margaret, but did you and Henry quarrel that day?” Marianne asked, forgetting all her resolution to remain silent on the subject of Henry Lawrence.

  Margaret looked at her sister with exasperation. She had known it would be difficult trying to meet Henry in secret, but she had at least credited Marianne with having some discretion. “I’ve told you, Marianne, it was lovely to see Henry and we are friends again.”

  “But did he not give you any indication of anything else?” Marianne started, realising instantly that she had probably said far too much and had communicated her enquiries very ill.

  “Marianne, I think your questioning of me in this manner a great impertinence,” declared Margaret before deciding to assuage her sister's inquisitive nature by attempting to silence her on the subject of Henry Lawrence permanently. “Henry has yet to recover from Mademoiselle Antoinette's duplicity, he told me. He wished to speak to me and confide in me as his friend; that is all. Besides, I do not want any romantic attachments, Marianne,” she said, turning away from her sister as she spoke the words so that her face and expression were averted. “My heart was broken quite cruelly and I do not know if I can trust any gentleman ever again. I am happy to be on friendly terms with Henry and Charles, but I do not wish to marry either of them! That is all I am prepared to say on the subject. I am going out now. The fresh air restores my spirits and if you do not mind I would prefer to walk alone.”

  “We will go home to Delaford, Margaret. I think you will be much happier if you can see Mama,” soothed Marianne. “The weather is much better now and I think it will be for the best.”

  “I do not want to go home; I wish to stay here. Goodbye.” Margaret ran from the room, fearful that Marianne might stop her. On reflection she realised that she had not conducted her side of the conversation very skillfully. Marianne would be even more determined to find out where she was going and what she was doing. But she couldn’t help that now. All she wished was to meet her love in secret.

  Another week passed by and there were no more letters from Brandon. When people made their enquiries, Marianne was finding it difficult to provide explanations. Her husband's “business” in the West Country was taking an inordinately long time and with everyone expecting his prompt return as soon as the snows thawed, it was a problem knowing how to answer their questions when he didn’t arrive. As for Mrs Brandon herself, she had no such eagerness to know what was delaying her husband. She tried not to dwell on bleak contemplation. At least she had seen nothing more of Mr Willoughby. Fortunately, the memory of that fateful wintry day, too terrible to dwell on, like the bruising on her ankle, was fading fast.

  An invitation arrived from Sir Edgar on Tuesday to attend an evening party in Portman Square. His letter begged that Marianne and Margaret should be present as they all needed cheering up, what with a certain young lady not being amongst them anymore. He added that the party would be large, Lady Denham, Mrs Jennings, Mr and Mrs Ferrars, Miss Steele, the Mortimers, and the Careys having all accepted. To her great surprise, Margaret seemed eager to go and as Marianne reckoned it would cause more gossip to decline than to go and suffer interroga
tion, she opted to accept the invitation. Though she was not looking forward to the questions and examination that she knew Mrs Jennings's conversation would entail, it would give Margaret a chance to be out in society again with a group of young people. All this walking around on her own was not entirely healthy, Marianne knew, and besides, there was always the chance that Henry might fall in love with her again or that Margaret might finally fall for Charles.

  The party was considerably larger than either of the young women had anticipated. There were many faces that Marianne did not recognise, and she was grateful to Sir Edgar for introducing them to many of his friends so that for an hour at least Mrs Jennings could not get near them.

  Finally, it could not be avoided. Mrs Jennings appeared, regaling them with all the gossip she had heard.

  “It seems Lady Lawrence is reconciled to the fact that Henry has missed his chance with Miss Antoinette. She thinks he has had a lucky escape now she has learned of the elopement. I notice the Comtesse is not amongst us this evening; I daresay she must still be distraught at what has happened. I don’t believe they have yet tracked down the rascals.”

  “Either that or Lady Lawrence has omitted to invite her, which would not surprise me,” Marianne declared, the words out before she could stop them. “I expect the Comtesse has fallen down the social ladder somewhat after this escapade.”

  “Mrs Brandon,” said Mrs Jennings at the volume of an actor's stage whisper, “I hate to be the one to tell tales, but Sir Edgar did let it slip that Lady Lawrence and the Comtesse have become quite estranged as a result. He has been quite out of his mind with worry about his wife; I believe she has been very ill. Sir Edgar says he is only thankful that Henry has come out of it reasonably unscathed. Broken hearts and young people are ever twinned, are they not, Miss Dashwood? Have you broken Mr Carey's heart irrevocably? Look, over there, he is gazing at you with such admiration, poor fellow. Give him a little more encouragement this evening and if you are not engaged to be married by the end of it, I shall not know my own mind!”