by Jane Odiwe
“John Willoughby,” she said out loud.
Marianne allowed herself to repeat his name, but instantly admonished herself for dwelling on the remembrance of former times. Willoughby had used her very ill. At the time she had believed that he was in love with her yet still he had chosen to marry another. He had been her first love and therein rested the problem. If she could not entirely forget Willoughby, who had injured her, how could Brandon ever be freed from the memory of his first love, the woman who had been taken from him by circumstances beyond his control?
“I want to blot Willoughby from my mind, even to hate him,” she said to herself, “yet I know that he will always be a part of my conscious mind that I can do nothing about. I do not want to think of him but I cannot help myself. I love my husband more than life itself, but am I not as guilty as I declare him to be if I allow thoughts from the past to haunt me?”
And she understood why he crept stealthily like a phantom into her thoughts once more. Willoughby was inextricably linked with the Brandons and her husband's concerns in a way that could never be erased or forgotten by Marianne.
Besides all that, this business of Henry Lawrence coming home was occupying her daydreams more than she would admit. Henry and Margaret were two young people with like minds, she was sure. Perhaps first attachments could end in happiness, without the complications that second ones entailed. A girl with so similar a disposition to her own must be allowed to follow her heart, and Marianne was determined to help her.
Edward Ferrars returned from his parish duties to the comfort of Delaford Parsonage where his wife Elinor was busy supervising the children at tea. The door of the nursery was open and he crept upon the pleasant domestic scene unobserved, to lean against the doorframe and smile at his good fortune. He had loved Elinor the moment he had set eyes on her and, having overcome all the difficulties that had threatened to forestall their happiness, had succeeded in claiming her as his wife. He observed the happy scene. His daughter Anna was chattering to her mother in a most endearing way, whilst George looked about him, cradled in his mother's arms.
“I expect he will be just like me before he is much older,” Edward thought, “happy to sit back and observe his surroundings, letting the conversation flow with little attempt at joining in.”
Elinor was cutting up slices of cake with her free hand and appeared rather pensive, though to all intents and purposes, was engaged in attending to her little girl. He could always tell when she was immersed in her thoughts, because her eyes darted from one place to another and her brows knitted together. Edward wondered what she could be worrying about.
“Papapapapa,” shouted Anna, who had suddenly spied her father and pointed at him with a chubby finger.
Elinor rose immediately to greet him, the ribbons fluttering on her cap in her haste to reach his side, a smile replacing her frown.
“Edward, you are just in time for tea. I will ask Susan to fetch some more tea things. Come, sit down and tell us all about your day. How are Mrs Thomas and all her family? I do hope she enjoyed your basket of vegetables and the bread and honey. I did not imagine on my marriage that I would be blessed with both a gardener and a bee charmer for a husband, but then I know I should never be surprised at your talents, my dear.”
“Mrs Thomas enjoyed her bread and honey very much, Elinor,” he replied, dropping a kiss on Anna's curly head before picking her up in his arms. “She is feeling much better and now the weather has improved she expects to be very cheerful.”
“Well, that is good news.” Elinor paused. She wanted to tell Edward about Marianne's visit, to admit her misgivings about her sibling's present state of mind. She had not seen her sister's spirits so unsettled for a while and she was concerned. She knew perfectly well what was behind it all and could only guess at what other fancies disturbed the balance of Marianne's mind. Elinor decided she would say nothing of her fears for the present. “Marianne has been to visit us today and told us that Henry Lawrence of Whitwell is coming home at last.”
Edward hardly attended. He had Anna on his knee and she was demanding the clapping game she loved so much. “I am glad you had your sister for company,” came his reply.
MARGARET DASHWOOD SAT BEFORE the glass in her room, gazing pensively at her reflection, unaware of the plans that were being made on her behalf. She tugged at her gleaming locks, pulling out the pins that restrained her curls, letting her hair fall down her back.
“How shall I ever leave home or lead an independent life?” she asked as she stared at the girl in the glass. “And as for my dreams of travelling to the far corners of the world, I do not know why I torture myself with such ideas. How, indeed, could a girl like myself even manage to travel on my own from one end of the country to the other, let alone another land?”
She imagined she would always live with her mother. Marriage seemed to be the only chance she might have to fulfil her desires, but she knew without a dowry her chances for finding a suitor were slim. Not only was there the problem of having no money, but there was also the delicate matter of a suitable match. There was not a young man in Devonshire whom she found in the least attractive or who could tempt her to marry. Not that she had received any firm offers to refuse. At eighteen, she had already decided that she would end an old maid with no prospect of fortune or adventure. Besides, there was another reason. How could she leave her mother all alone?
Mrs Dashwood had made it quite clear that she required no company and would not stand in the way of Margaret's happiness. “I do not wish to be a burden to my children. I am perfectly comfortable in my cottage and here I will stay until the good Lord sees fit to do otherwise. No, thank you, Margaret, it is not my wish to become a dependent relative, interfering in my daughters’ lives and frightening away their husbands.”
“Mama, I will never leave you. I cannot bear to think of you spending your days all alone.”
“Why, I shan’t be alone, I have all the company I need in my cousin, Sir John, and his family at Barton Park. As well you know, we have often wished that our lives could be half so quiet. There will always be company enough for me in that household, I can assure you, when you are gone to make a new life for yourself.”
Despite these assurances, Margaret was inclined to worry about her future and that of her mother whom she was sure could not really relish the prospect of living out her days alone at Barton Cottage. Mrs Dashwood would be returning from the village at any moment. Margaret bit her lip and pinched the colour back into her cheeks, before she grimaced with resignation and went downstairs.
“I have a letter from Marianne,” Mrs Dashwood announced as she came through the door a minute later, putting down her basket but omitting to remove her cloak and bonnet before she sat down. She loved to hear Marianne's news and with impatient fingers undid the seal.
“Dearest Mama and Margaret,” she read out loud, “I hope this letter finds you well, as we all are here. I know you will be as excited as I am to hear William's good news. His nephew, Henry Lawrence, is coming home to Whitwell at last. William is anxious to welcome him and has suggested that we invite Henry and all the Lawrences to Delaford with a view to reacquainting him with our family. Is that not good news? I have heard that he is a very pleasant, handsome young man, Margaret.”
“Am I never to be free from Marianne's schemes for matchmaking?” groaned Margaret. “There is not a man alive in Devonshire or Dorsetshire who has not been made to stand up with me by my sister. Nor is there one who has yet lived up to my expectations from descriptions exaggerated by old friends and neighbours. How many handsome young men do we hear thus chronicled, who have nonetheless turned out to be very far from pleasing to the eye and years past their youth?”
“Come, Margaret, you are a little hard on your friends. I am sure you thought Charles Carey quite handsome enough at one time. He was very smitten with you, I know, and I daresay that is why he has gone off to sea. You have quite broken his heart.”
“Mother! Charles
is a dear friend, but that is all. There never was the romance you suspect. For one thing, he is too practical, too prudent for my taste. For another, he does not like poetry, scoffing at any mention of Cowper's cool colonnades or Wordsworth's dizzy raptures.”
“I always thought Marianne the one with the most romantic sensibility, but I think I have been mistaken. And whilst I admire a lofty crag or babbling rill as much as the next person, I do not know if it is wise to cast off eligible young men simply because they do not wax lyrical on a sofa or shady dell.”
“Mama, you love to tease me but I will never compromise. Perhaps I should not say so, but there has only ever been one man who matched my idea of manly perfection. But his name is never uttered here now and I know you will be cross if I so much as mention him.”
“I cannot think to whom you refer, Margaret—James Whitaker perhaps?”
She gave a sideways glance at her mother. “No, he is not the man. It is John Willoughby.”
“John Willoughby!” her mother exclaimed. She studied Margaret's face, folding the letter and setting it down upon the table.
Margaret took a deep breath before speaking her thoughts out loud. “I know I was hardly fourteen years of age when he came to court my sister, but John Willoughby stole my heart as well as hers, though I am sure no one suspected as much. There, I have dared to say his name.”
“Well, do not speak it again, I beg you. I do not know what you can be thinking, Margaret, after the way he treated Marianne. I have forgiven him in my own way of course, and indeed have felt quite sorry for him, but I hope I shall never set eyes on him ever again, nor have cause to wonder about him in any way. I am quite ashamed of you.”
“What else does Marianne say?” Margaret asked, turning the subject back to the letter's contents as quickly as she could.
“And I am glad to say that I have never seen Mr Willoughby in these parts,” her mother replied, completely ignoring her. “He has not visited Allenham often, I believe, since his marriage to Miss Grey, though by all accounts I hear old Mrs Smith is to leave the estate to him after all. Lucky for him that I have not bumped into him in Barton on his trips into Devonshire!”
“I doubt he has ventured as near as Barton, Mama, nor would he wish to, for fear of encountering Mrs Jennings. I believe she gave him a piece of her mind when she ran into him at Yeovil when she was visiting her daughter.”
“Yes, Charlotte Palmer delights in relating that tale whenever we see her,” Mrs Dashwood sighed, untying the strings of her bonnet, “and to anyone who will care to listen. One would imagine from her tone that she is quite upset not to have made an acquaintance of Mrs Willoughby. She says she has not been able to completely ignore the Willoughbys’ presence at Combe Magna, as they are practically neighbours, and has even once had them to dine.”
“Do not distress yourself, Mama. Although Mr Palmer is an M.P. in the opposition, I expect it was because of some political matter that they were forced to entertain them. As for them being neighbours, I am sure I heard Mr Palmer say that the Willoughbys live at least ten miles away.”
“Well, it is no concern of ours, I am sure.” Mrs Dashwood removed her bonnet and smoothed back her hair before picking up the forgotten letter again. She resumed reading.
“I have persuaded William that we should host a ball, to be held on Friday se’ennight. There is nothing like dancing to put us all at ease with our neighbours. To be frank, if we are all up on the floor, there will be less reason for me to have to converse too often with my sister-in-law!”
Mrs Dashwood paused in consideration. “Marianne never did suffer fools, and though they do not meet often, I know Hannah Lawrence has not always been on the friendliest terms with our own dear girl. I have always suspected her to be jealous of Marianne's youth, beauty, and good health. But perhaps we should not be too quick to misjudge Lady Lawrence, I believe she is often ill with nervous complaints and has to take to her bed.”
“I would enjoy a ball. I love to dance, and it would be fun to see my Delaford friends. I haven’t seen Anne Courtney since June when Marianne gave a picnic in the park,” cried Margaret.
Mrs Dashwood continued with the letter. “Margaret need not worry that I shall forget her; if she can be ready by eleven o’clock on Thursday morning, I will collect her in the chaise and we will go to Exeter to choose a muslin for the occasion. We have plenty of time for it to be made up before the night of the ball.” Mrs Dashwood smiled. “Marianne is so generous, is she not, Margaret?”
“She is a true-hearted sister, though I cannot help feeling she has reasons for wanting to make the most of my appearance; motives which are not only to do with her generous nature.”
“How can you be so suspicious?”
“Because I know Marianne almost as I do myself,” said Margaret, laughing. “However, I am prepared to overlook her grand designs for me because I will admit that I find the prospect of a new gown and a dance most diverting. As for Mr Lawrence, I daresay he will fall in love with me as soon as our eyes lock across the crowded ballroom. Alas, it will all be in vain. He should be warned, there is not a man who can live up to my ideals of perfection and until that man comes to claim me, I shall remain single.”
COLONEL BRANDON LOOKED SURREPTITIOUSLY at his wife over the breakfast table. Three years on from the day they had wed had hardly changed his feelings toward her, although as he sat in secret contemplation on the matter, he swiftly acknowledged his regard for Marianne was altered in every way completely. His love for her was deeper and more passionately felt than it ever had been, he decided, and his covert glances at her over the coffee pot confirmed this in his look of sheer admiration. He watched her as she buttered a slice of toast and stirred her chocolate, before licking the fragrant cocoa from the silver spoon, her eyes closed to savour the moment.
“Marianne Brandon is a very attractive woman,” he thought, “her complexion as brilliant as when first my eyes beheld her, her smile still as sweet, and in those dark eyes, her spirit and eagerness are as discernable as ever. Even the most disenchanted soul would call her a beauty.”
She looked quite contented as she daydreamed. Yet, he was disturbed by a sense that Marianne, for all her animation, was not as happy as she ought to be. Sometimes, as he watched her, he was aware that she was lost in her own thoughts, seeming to be somewhere else far away. He occasionally detected a want of spirits, discerning the escaping breath of a sigh from her lips; a sound so slight as to be hardly there at all, only perceptible to him. Any enquiries he made, however, as to her welfare, always had the immediate effect on Marianne's composure, bringing a bright smile to her countenance once more. But there was something on her mind, he was certain. Ever since he had returned from Lyme there had been a feeling of slight distance between them but he knew she hated to talk about Eliza and Lizzy, or to hear about their life, so he had kept his silence on the subject.
“He hasn’t mentioned a word about his trip,” thought Marianne as she scraped the remains of chocolate from the bottom of her cup. “He does not wish to communicate his true interest in his other life, the one he shares with those who possess such a claim on his affections. I wish I knew how Miss Williams looks, if she is like her mother's painting. And the child; she must be almost five years old now. Does she favour her mother or her father? But I cannot ask Brandon; I must pretend that I do not care about either of them. He would think me such an unworthy person if he could read my mind and know how I despise them for taking him away from me so often. But Elinor is right; I must bear it for his sake. And I must try harder not to think about his time spent with them and keep my counsel on the subject. After the last time when I said so much that I did not really mean, when I saw the look of hurt in his eyes, I cannot be so outspoken again.”
William longed to ask his wife on what she was reflecting. Indeed, any conversation would have been welcome. He wished he could talk to her about his fears for little Lizzy's health, but the last thing he wished was to upset her with any
conversation of Lyme. He tried to catch her eye but failed. His reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door. James, accompanied by the nursemaid Kitty, ran into the room to jump upon his father's knee. Marianne laughed, catching William's eye at the same moment. He held her gaze in his and the look of love that passed between them brought a blush to Marianne's cheek. She looked down to smooth the tablecloth with her slender fingers, aware of his lingering expression and feeling immense happiness that at last she had gained William's full attention.
“Your mama is in very good looks today,” pronounced the Colonel to his little son, as if expecting him to understand his every word.
“William, do not tease so,” Marianne admonished with a smile, raising her eyes to his again, to be caught once more by a look that spoke of his most earnest feelings.
“I have never been more sincere,” he added, blowing a kiss to his wife over the top of his baby's head. “I am wondering if the mistress of Delaford has any plans for today?”
“Why, yes, I have made arrangements to see my sister,” said Marianne, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin to remove the last traces of chocolate. “I am to take the carriage to Barton and then Margaret and I are to travel on to Exeter to visit the shops. I have promised her a new gown for the ball. She must look her best. I daresay Henry Lawrence has seen many a young French fancy in his time, but he is going to fall in love with a beautiful English rose. Margaret has a bloom as fine as any flower.”
“You and your schemes for matchmaking. Does Margaret know what is in store for her? Or more to the point, should I be warning my nephew of your plans? Do be careful, Marianne, it is a dangerous game you are playing.”
“Psh, dangerous, it is not. Exciting, thrilling, and stimulating are the words I would use to describe the game of love. In any case, a little flirtation is vital for our young people. How else might they find their partner in life, the soul most suited to theirs?”
