Willoughby's Return (32 page)

“My sister,” whispered Marianne through her suffering, “Margaret will wonder what has become of me.”

“Do not worry,” he replied, “I have sent word already. I will take you home and have the doctor sent for immediately.”

Unwinding the stock about his throat, she watched him wrap the fabric around her swelling ankle. His expression was serious, his bottom lip bitten in concentration. Her eyes wandered to the gaping neckline of his shirt, where the pulse throbbed in his neck. He looked up suddenly as if he felt her contemplation, catching her expression. He smiled, looking deeply into her eyes.

Tears misted her eyes as she winced again. Willoughby held the cup of warm liquid to her lips and she drank the remainder of the spiced wine. Fetching out his pocket handkerchief, he handed it to Marianne. Dabbing at her eyes, his perfume and the images of a hundred autumn days threatened to overpower her.

Marianne returned his smile as Willoughby took the seat next to hers.

“I hope you feel more comfortable,” he said. Marianne could no longer look into his eyes and turned to regard the world outside. Her head felt woozy from the wine, but she felt a glow of warmth within. The sun was setting, a huge crimson ball of fire reflected in slivers of rose and silver across the lake. Outside the gaiety continued in noisy effervescence. Torches were being lit against the dimming light. It was growing dark and the carriage was filling with velvet shadows creeping over her like a mantle.

Marianne suddenly sensed that it might be dangerous to turn her head to look at Willoughby. The tension in the air was great and the only sound was their breathing, rapid with emotion.

“Marianne,” started Mr Willoughby in a low voice.

“Yes, Mr Willoughby,” Marianne answered, turning her head slowly. Her heart was beating so fast that she thought he must hear it.

He was staring at her mouth. His eyes penetrated hers with such a look of intent that she knew he wanted to express his desire. She felt lost in the depths of those dark pools, which drew her in with such a power that she knew she would need all her strength to thwart it. He moved in silence, carefully tucking the blanket he had provided around her. Too aware of his close proximity, his breath stirring the curls around her face, she felt the quiet strength of his hands and was ashamed when she acknowledged to herself that she wished to feel those fingers on her skin. Forcing herself to turn away again, she gazed out at the torchlit procession.

“Marianne…” Willoughby softly persisted.

Marianne knew before she turned her head again that something was going to happen, and though she wished she could prevent it, knew as her eyes met his once more, the certainty of the moment.

Willoughby leaned over her in the darkness. Everything was blotted out as his lips brushed hers. As if propelled by attracting forces, their lips sought one another. Willoughby's touch was as gentle as she remembered, his kiss awakening the ardour of a time she thought long over. For a moment Marianne felt her mouth disobey her inner commands and her lips seek his as hungrily as he sought hers.

“Please God, Marianne, forgive me,” Willoughby cried when she pulled away in some distress, “I could not help myself.”

Marianne was trembling, partly with the feelings of aroused passions she could not control, but also with the knowledge that she had behaved just as badly as he. For in that split second when she might have turned her face away from his, she had decided to meet him on equal terms. She had known that he was going to kiss her and she had acted accordingly. Just once more she had wanted to feel his desire, acknowledge her yearning for lost love with a craving to feel alive again. If Brandon didn’t want her, then why shouldn’t she satisfy her longing for affection, she had reasoned in a split second. In her moment of madness Marianne had believed that she was the wronged wife and was thus justified in her conduct. She collapsed into a fit of sobbing, averting her countenance and indeed her whole body away from Willoughby, who frozen into inaction by his own misdeeds, sat helpless and remorseful.

“Please, Mr Willoughby,” she managed to say at last, “will you take me home?”

Willoughby instructed his coachman to fetch the servant as soon as they reached Manchester Square and left as soon as Marianne had been carefully removed from the carriage. The doctor soon arrived to make her comfortable, swiftly followed by Margaret, who could see from her sister's countenance that she was in no mood to discuss her escapade. As Marianne lay back upon her propped pillows, her foot throbbing with pain, she tried with little success to blot out the memory of Willoughby's kiss, refusing to acknowledge her own part in the fatal conspiracy. Willoughby alone was to blame, she decided at last. He had taken advantage of a situation where, completely powerless
against him, she had surrendered. Having trusted him again, he had ruthlessly broken her faith. Marianne cried for Brandon, weeping for the man she felt lost to her forever. What a fool she had been to let Willoughby kiss her and kiss him in return. But wishing that nothing had happened was not going to alter the fact that it had. Marianne knew she would have to live with this truth and with the consequences, whatever they may be.

When Margaret questioned her about the accident the following day, Marianne could hardly meet her eyes, relating the briefest details of Willoughby's rescue, choosing instead to turn the conversation round to that of her sister's recollections of the day. Marianne's own thoughts on the matter had shifted slightly. She did not blame John but acknowledged that her own part, fuelled by unhappiness and Brandon's neglect, had been partly responsible. The combination of so many factors had led to her disgrace. Finding herself in so intimate a situation with Willoughby had brought back so many emotions from the past. Acting instinctively by following her heart had led to a second of selfish desire. It had been a gross mistake but she could not pretend that Willoughby was entirely to blame. Marianne could not think about what she should do but knew beyond a doubt that she would never allow such a dreadful episode to happen again. But for now, in order to preserve her sanity, Marianne decided to put the whole affair out of her head.

MARIANNE’S THOUGHTS TURNED TO her sister, deciding that she would not tell Margaret about the conversation she had had with Mr Lawrence. He was another gentleman of whom she was extremely wary; she was not clear about what he had meant and wanted to spare her sister from further harm if she could. But an incident that morning not only puzzled her exceedingly but also was enough to divert any misgivings she had had about the events of the previous day.

Mrs Jennings called with a report of such astounding news that neither Marianne nor Margaret quite knew what to make of it. She almost burst into the room, her agitation clear for all to see.

“Well, my dears,” she started, “this is a to-do and no mistake. I have just called upon my friend Mrs Clarke and she informed me of a most alarming report.” The old lady paused to catch her breath, puffing as she lowered herself onto the sofa. “God bless me, I am quite out of sorts,” she laughed, fixing her eyes with such intent upon the two sisters that their first thought was that
she must be about to tell them a huge joke. “You will never guess what has happened!”

Marianne and Margaret waited to hear the momentous news.

Certain that the sisters were completely engaged and anxious to relate her gossip, she announced the terrible event with much gesticulation and nodding of her head.

“Mademoiselle de Fontenay has disappeared!” she declared at last.

This information was quite enough to produce audible gasps from the two young women. Margaret's first thought was that she was certain Mademoiselle de Fontenay had not vanished on her own and waited with dread to hear that Henry had quit London also.

“Not only has she gone, no one knows where, but she has run away with a good-for-nothing fellow, as I heard tell of it!”

Margaret was so shocked she blurted out, “Who on earth can you mean, Mrs Jennings?”

“Apparently, Lady Lawrence has taken the news very badly, for you know she had such hopes that her Henry was going to marry the French miss. It appears that she has run away—nay, eloped—with a penniless Count by all reports. Unfortunately, Mrs Clarke didn’t have any more details; she had only just heard it from her friend Mrs Harris, but I thought you would be interested to hear of it. What do you make of it, Miss Margaret? Didn’t we all think that a wedding was about to be announced between Mr Lawrence and his mademoiselle?”

Margaret was so shocked that she couldn’t speak. The more she puzzled about the affair, the more entangled her thoughts became. She kept returning in her mind to the day at Hookham's library when she had overheard the whispered
conversation between Henry and Mademoiselle de Fontenay. Nothing made sense.

“I only saw Henry yesterday,” Marianne said at last, not quite knowing what to make of the news. “I am sure I saw him with Mademoiselle de Fontenay, although it is true they were quite a distance away from me.”

Mrs Jennings now rose to take her leave, having divulged her gossip to great effect. “I daresay you will have to call on your sister-in-law, Mrs Brandon. She is by all accounts in a terrible state, a relapse, I have heard, of her old ailments. Lord knows what Brandon will say when he hears about this. I do hope he comes home soon. You are looking a little peaky, my dear. I daresay he will put the colour back in your cheeks soon. Well, I had better be going. I am sure Lucy will want to hear my news!”

Then her eyes alighted on the stick at Marianne's side. “My dear, what on earth has happened? Are you lame?”

Up until that point the offending foot had been hidden underneath Marianne's skirts, but it was impossible not to give some account of her accident. Margaret filled in most of the details, but Marianne noticed that she gave no hint of Mr Willoughby's implication in the whole affair, for which she was really grateful. After expressing much commiseration and recommending ice for the swelling, both girls were relieved when Mrs Jennings called for her carriage.

No sooner had Mrs Jennings left than Henry Lawrence called. He stood at the door looking almost bashful, Margaret thought. He came in at Marianne's invitation and sat down.

“I expect you have heard the news by now that Mademoiselle de Fontenay has left town,” he said.

Margaret could not speak. She stared at Henry, who looked so handsome in his blue coat, she decided. Almost overcome by her feelings, she could not think how to answer him and sat staring, quite mute.

“Mrs Jennings called not ten minutes ago,” Marianne said eventually.

There was silence for a minute after this last statement, broken at last by Henry, who appealed to Marianne and Margaret at once.

“I wondered if I might persuade you to accompany me to Gunter's once more, Miss Dashwood. That is, if I may gain your permission, Mrs Brandon. Of course, Miss Dashwood, I will quite understand if you do not wish to come. Perhaps you are engaged elsewhere. You might have other plans and be expecting other callers this morning who may wish to take you out.” He stood up as if he could not decide whether he should stay or go. “But I should like it above all things if you should come. I must speak to you and explain everything.”

Margaret could hardly contain herself; she didn’t know whether to feel pleased or be cross with Henry. But she knew she was quite prepared to hear him out and if necessary was ready to give him a piece of her mind. “I should like to come with you, Mr Lawrence,” she answered, taking the arm he proffered.

Marianne was unsure whether she was doing the right thing by allowing her sister to go off with Henry. It was indeed a puzzling affair, but she hoped everything might soon be settled one way or another between them so that they could both go home to Delaford. Wanting to leave London was her priority, but she wanted to depart from town with her husband. Where was he? Would he ever come home? There was still no news from
Brandon, but she reasoned that the weather had no doubt made delays in the post. In her thoughts the Colonel seemed such a remote figure. Whenever she tried to think of him, the image in her head depicted scenes that she did not want to acknowledge. Haunted by the idea that he was happier in Lyme with Eliza and Lizzy, she imagined him with the child on his knee, kissing her ebony curls. How did he occupy himself in the evenings? Did he read poetry to Eliza as he had once read it to her, sitting by the fire in a cosy inglenook with the curtains drawn against the storms outside? Did he sit in the parlour watching her nimble fingers and swift needle weave their magic? How did Eliza look in candlelight? Like her mother, Marianne had no doubt. Her dreams entwined the pair, Eliza and Brandon joined by the passion of love lost long ago. Marianne, jealous and resentful, felt her solitude and loneliness increasing. She faced the future with dread.