She dressed with care, in a stylish lilac silk gown and a cloak of deep blue velvet, and waited for Eugenie. When she heard the carriage turn into the drive, she delayed a few moments before going downstairs into the sitting room, where, to her astonishment, she found Eugenie Perceval and Miss Peabody with none other than Mr Willoughby. Nothing had been said previously of his attendance at the function, and Marianne’s face betrayed her surprise, as he rose to greet her with his usual suave charm, while Eugenie hastened to explain that Mr Willoughby had been visiting them and had kindly offered to convey them to the concert in his carriage.
“Papa was pleased because he needed the carriage this afternoon to attend a business function in town, so it was very kind of Mr Willoughby to offer,” which caused the gentleman to protest that it was no kindness at all, the pleasure of driving not one but two lovely ladies was all his. Marianne felt a little ill at ease, but the feeling lasted only a very little while, as she discovered the pleasure of their company, pleasure that required little more than basking in Willoughby’s alluring flattery while indulging in the most undemanding social chitchat that young Eugenie Perceval could produce. Occasionally, when she said something particularly silly, Willoughby would smile and his eyes would seek Marianne’s as if to enjoy a private joke.
The drive was pleasant enough, but Marianne wondered whether Willoughby had deliberately manoeuvred himself into the situation in order that they might be together again; but, she told herself, surely he must have known that with Eugenie and Miss Peabody present, he could say or do little to advance his cause.
While this was indeed a perfectly logical thought, Marianne had perhaps forgotten that Willoughby was a particularly persistent opportunist and would not let such a chance pass him by if he thought he could make something of it.
The arrangements for the function proceeded sufficiently smoothly to let Marianne believe that she had done her friend a favour, for while Miss Perceval had a pleasant enough voice, she would have been seriously disadvantaged without the support of a sympathetic accompanist. The applause that followed their appearance and the demand for an encore proved her right. Marianne had arranged with Eugenie that they would do a simple English ballad if an encore was requested, and when it was, they launched into it with ease and the young performer was rewarded with generous applause.
Afterward, as Marianne sat in an alcove watching the rest of the concert, Mr Willoughby arrived at her side to praise her contribution and declare that without her accompaniment the singer would have been lost indeed. “Miss Eugenie has a very pretty face and an appealing manner, but I do not believe anyone would contradict my contention that her voice lacks strength and range, both of which were amply supplemented by your most excellent accompaniment,” he said, noting that she glowed with pleasure at his words.
It was the type of remark that Marianne should have recognised as typical of Willoughby, couched as it was in words that were calculated to win her approval, but she had already begun to credit him with a transformation of character that prevented her from comprehending his true intent. And, without the support of Elinor, who had been at her side throughout the agonising days and weeks after her betrayal by Willoughby, Marianne was increasingly inclined to accept him as he presented himself to her: a man of good intentions, whose past errors were the consequence of misfortune or the malice of others, rather than his own weakness and poor judgment. In her heart she had almost forgiven him, because he had made it clear that he had loved her then and would love her still if she would only let him. To Marianne’s romantic nature this was a potent appeal.
Seating himself beside her, as they watched the other performers, whose skill or lack of it was of no consequence, Willoughby had proceeded to use his eloquence and charm to persuade Marianne to accept an invitation to Combe Magna. “I have asked the Percevals and the Hawthornes to dinner next week, and I had hoped that you might join us. Surely, there can be no criticism of your attendance if you should come as one of the Percevals’ party. They are your friends and aware that your husband is away in Ireland; they have asked you to join them. What can be more natural?” he had said, but Marianne, as yet unready to abandon the last restraint she had maintained against his pleas, had steadfastly refused.
“I do not believe it would be right; besides, were it to be discovered by my sister Elinor, I should be roundly condemned. She would see it as conduct lacking in both decorum and loyalty,” she had said, and he had protested that she should by now have emancipated herself from the narrow confines of her older sister’s regulation.
“Indeed she would, but she is a parson’s wife and you are an independent person, Marianne, a married woman with a mind of her own. I recall that at seventeen you were more prepared to challenge your sister’s strictures upon your actions. I did not expect that at twenty-five you would be less willing to do so. Consider this: You are not being invited to participate in something unseemly or scandalous; attendance at a sedate dinner party in the company of a very respectable family with whom you are friendly cannot be regarded as imprudent by any but the meanest of minds, and since they will assume evil in anything at all, their censure is not worth considering. Do you not agree? My dear Marianne, do not tell me that you are so fearful of criticism that you have lost that fire, that exciting spirit I admired and loved so much,” he had implored, but she had remained resolute.
On the journey home, Marianne was glad of the company of Eugenie Perceval and her chaperone Miss Peabody in the carriage, for she had been apprehensive that had she been alone, Willoughby would have persisted with his efforts and she had begun to wonder how long her resistance could hold out against his remonstrations. Despite her best intentions, she had found it hard indeed to contradict the persuasive arguments he had adduced, resorting finally to a silence that she hoped would convey her refusal more clearly than words. Claiming to be very tired, she had asked that they proceed first to Delaford Manor, hoping this would indicate to Willoughby that she was unwilling to be persuaded by him. Miss Perceval, grateful for her invaluable help that evening, agreed at once. Sadly, it seemed Marianne, unable to fully understand her own situation, was incapable of withstanding the power Willoughby had over her.
***
Once upstairs in her bedroom, Marianne undressed, changed into her nightgown, and sent her maid away before opening the letter from Colonel Brandon, expecting to read a loving message which told her how much he missed her and when they would be reunited. Having steadfastly resisted Willoughby’s charm all evening, she had prepared herself to respond with warmth and affection to her husband’s sentiments, enabling her to feel some degree of satisfaction at having refused Willoughby’s invitation. She had confidently expected that the letter would affirm her husband’s love, of which she could have no doubt at all, thereby confirming the moral certitude of her own decision.
However, when she read the colonel’s letter, it did nothing of the sort. Indeed, within moments of perusing the single page of writing, she had thrown it across the room as she flung herself onto her bed in tears. Colonel Brandon wrote:
My dearest Marianne,
It is with a great deal of reluctance and a very heavy heart that I write this, for I have this day received some very unhappy news, which prevents me from returning directly to Delaford and you, as I had earlier planned to do.
This morning I received a letter from Eliza Williams, apprising me of the grave situation in which she and her young daughter find themselves. It would appear that she has been tricked into a situation, which has resulted in their losing the cottage I had arranged to lease for them and they are in danger of being evicted or worse, being incarcerated in a debtor’s prison, unless someone can be found to pay her debt. As you know, my dear Marianne, there is no one apart from myself who can do this for Eliza, for she is quite alone in the world, being bereft of friends and relations. There is also the matter of her child, who is far from well and is likely to b
e seriously afflicted by this situation. I know you will understand the need for me to hasten to help them and will not begrudge them my assistance at this difficult time.
Reading this, Marianne had cried out, “Oh, but I do, I most certainly do, because it is almost six weeks that you have been away in Ireland, and I had hoped that my husband’s first thought would have been of me, here, alone, waiting for him to return. But no, it seems it is more important that he should race off to save the damsel in distress, who seems unable to manage without his help for two months together.” She did not even bother to read the rest of his note, in which he begged her forgiveness, promised to hurry back to her as soon as he had settled Eliza and her child in a place of safety, concluding with his warmest affection, etc.
Marianne had for some time been rather impatient with her husband’s continuing concern for Eliza Williams and her child, even though she had at first charitably conceded that he had a duty to protect them. Now, her mind dwelt upon what Mrs Jennings had said of Miss Williams many years ago; that she was a “very, very close relation of Colonel Brandon… so close as to be shocking to the young ladies,” adding under her breath for Elinor’s ears alone, “Indeed, she is his natural daughter!” It was something Marianne had wheedled out of her sister, and then, she had been prepared to believe it, without prejudice to the colonel, because he had meant nothing to her at the time and Willoughby had been the centre of her world.
Later, she recalled, following the anguish of Willoughby’s duplicitous behaviour, Elinor had told her of a long talk she’d had with Colonel Brandon, in which he had told her of a girl, Eliza, who was his cousin, whom he had loved when they were both very young, but had not been permitted to marry. There was a long, tragic tale of her misadventures, which included her abuse by a cruel husband and various other men, leaving her with a daughter born out of wedlock, also named Eliza, who was the very Miss Williams referred to by Mrs Jennings. This Eliza Williams, Colonel Brandon had claimed, had been seduced by Willoughby—a claim Marianne was only willing to believe because Willoughby had admitted as much to her sister Elinor, in the harrowing interview he’d had with her at Cleveland House, while Marianne had been lying desperately ill upstairs.
While accepting Willoughby’s part in the destruction of Miss Williams, Marianne had never sought to interrogate Colonel Brandon about his relationship with young Eliza or her mother, either before or after their marriage, being content to regard it as an unhappy episode from his youth, which had no bearing upon their present life. Nor had he attempted to explain any part of the situation to her, presuming perhaps that her sister had done so already, except to make clear that he had a degree of responsibility for the welfare of Miss Williams and her child because of their familial connection.
It was something Marianne had never queried, but if she were to be honest, she would have to admit that, over the years of their marriage, there had been some moments of annoyance, even aggravation, at the frequency with which Miss Williams seemed able to call on the colonel’s assistance, often at the most inopportune of times. Yet, he never seemed able to say nay, and was always ready to rush to her side to extricate her from some dire predicament into which she had fallen, most often as a direct consequence of her own wilful actions.
This time, it seemed to Marianne that once again Miss Williams had succeeded in intruding into their lives, spoiling what should have been his homecoming, returning after some six weeks away, to his wife. Sheer vexation allowed Marianne to contemplate that perhaps Mrs Jennings was right after all. Surely, she argued, Mrs Jennings, who knew the colonel very well and had no reason to slander him, would not fabricate such a tale about him?
And Elinor had only the colonel’s word that Eliza’s mother, his cousin, whom he had, by his own admission, loved dearly, had been seduced by some unknown man who had fathered her daughter. It may quite easily have been the colonel himself, Marianne contended, which would make young Eliza Williams his natural daughter. It would certainly account for a sense of guilt that might well cause him to rush to assist her on every occasion, she argued.
With all these reflections swirling around in her already confused mind, Marianne could hope for very little sleep; what was worse, she awoke the following morning, even before daylight, with a headache and the same feeling of overwhelming misery she had taken to bed the previous night.
Within a few minutes of rising from her bed, she rang the bell to summon her maid and asked for a bath to be prepared and her gown to be laid out. When she had finished her tea, she dressed, went downstairs, and ordered that the small carriage be brought round to the front door. Marianne had decided that she would visit Elinor at the parsonage and show her Colonel Brandon’s letter, hoping that her sister and perhaps even her brother-in-law might prove sympathetic.
Unfortunately for Marianne, Edward and Elinor had left early that morning to travel to Barton Park, hoping to persuade Mrs Dashwood to return with them to Delaford. The maid, who answered the door at the parsonage, had no information to give her, except that Mr and Mrs Ferrars had left at an early hour and were not expected to return until the following day.
Finding herself alone with no one to confide in and no sympathetic listeners to hear her complaint, Marianne returned to Delaford Manor in a state of deep dejection. She proceeded to re-read her husband’s letter, looking for some indication of when she might expect him to return, but in vain; indeed, he did not even reveal his destination. She had never interested herself in the exact whereabouts of Eliza Williams; she had assumed it to be in London or someplace nearby, and expected that her husband would send her word during the day, by express perhaps, apprising her of any progress he might have made in settling the problems of Miss Williams and her child. At least, she thought, he would send word as to the date of his return.
But as the day wore on and no message was received, she began to fret and wonder, and the more she pondered, the easier it became to blame Colonel Brandon for a whole array of afflictions, all of which she could link to his inordinate desire to pander to the unreasonable demands, as she saw them, of a young woman who was in a position to take advantage of his compassionate nature. The longer she waited without satisfaction, the more her sense of grievance grew, until it occupied her mind entirely and drove out all other reasonable arguments that may have acquitted her husband of fault.
***
It was late afternoon, and Marianne, weary of waiting for news, had asked for tea to be brought to her in the sitting room, when a brougham drove up to the door. Believing it to be Colonel Brandon or some emissary bringing a message from him, she ran into the hall to find Willoughby in the doorway. Though taken aback, unable to maintain a pretence of formality she did not feel, she took him into the sitting room, where the tears she had restrained all day filled her eyes and Willoughby, astonished at her state, but able to see that she was too vulnerable to protest, abandoned decorum and sat beside her on the sofa and offered her his handkerchief. “My dear Marianne, what has happened? Please tell me what is the matter? Has there been some bad news? Is there something I can do?” he asked.
He had said all the right words; he was concerned for her and eager to help. Marianne could not but pour out the entire unhappy tale, as he held her hand and provided, with gentle words and expressions, all the warmth and sympathy she craved. It seemed to her that Willoughby, in an instant, had sensed the extent of her unhappiness and by every word and gesture had indicated his desire to alleviate her anguish.
It did not seem to matter at that moment that this man had once caused her such humiliation and despair, she had wished she would die. Nor did she recall that his explanations of his actions had, at the time, seemed glib, self-serving, and unconvincing to Elinor and even to her mother, who had once been his staunchest advocate. Now, when she was alone and miserable, he had appeared, just as he had appeared when she had tumbled down the slope, twisting her ankle, in drenching rain at Barton Park, and by
his swift action had saved her from the greater danger of pneumonia. She was grateful to him now as she and all her family had been grateful then; she recalled that young Margaret had dubbed him “Marianne’s Preserver,” a title they had laughingly bestowed upon him throughout that idyllic summer.
When she had finished, having laid bare all her grievances, not so much blaming her husband, but expressing her deep displeasure at Miss Williams’s ability to summon him to her side as and when she wished, Willoughby, shrewdly avoiding any overt criticism of Colonel Brandon, stoked the fire of Marianne’s resentment by pointing out that some women were notoriously selfish by nature, and when they discovered a generous, kindly man, they would use him for their own ends. “I do not mean to suggest that Miss Williams is such a person, but I have known many friends who have been dragged down by such women, who seem to have some hold over them,” he said, as she sobbed and asked, “What shall I do, Willoughby? I know my husband is a kind, generous man and I am convinced he is being used by her. Surely, she must have some power over him; how else can I account for his behaviour? I expected him to return home to me after six weeks away in Ireland, yet here he is rushing off to London because she has got herself into some predicament and demands his help. Can you explain it?”
Willoughby offered up another pristine handkerchief and as she dried her eyes, he adroitly avoided making any criticism against Colonel Brandon, but made it clear that he could not have left her alone for six days, much less six weeks.
His mind was busy devising a plan that would enable him to take advantage of the situation, without appearing to do so. It had come upon him very suddenly, with no warning, and he was as yet unable to work out how best to proceed. All he knew was this was the best opportunity he would ever get to impress upon Marianne that he loved and cared for her and to persuade her to trust him again.
Expectations of Happiness Page 23