Willoughby's Return

by Jane Odiwe

  William stroked his chin thoughtfully, catching his wife's regard with a bemused glance. “Of course there are the vast numbers of carriages to consider which might impede any expeditious progress. Perhaps it might be deemed wise to take our leave now.”

  “Colonel Brandon, I insist upon it!” Marianne declared with a laugh and, taking his arm, marched him toward the door.

  To be a woman with a passionate nature had its most favourable advantages, Marianne decided, pulling the pins from her hair that fell about her pale shoulders in a mass of dark, luxuriant waves. Such was her anticipation of the promised meeting with William that her hands shook and trembled as she struggled to remove the flowers from her tresses. When they had first married, Marianne had been quite anxious about that aspect of married life that she knew nothing about. Her love for her husband was not born of a grand passion in the way it had been for Mr Willoughby. The feelings of love that had developed from becoming more acquainted with Colonel Brandon and having a thorough knowledge of the man and his character had grown over a long period of time. He had courted her in the truest sense. Marianne's mind had first consented to the emotion that she believed was as near to being in love as that she had ever felt for Willoughby. The feelings were not so zealous, but the love she bore for William flourished slowly and with such intensity as she had never before known. He tended their affection with as much care as a gardener over a sick plant, and Marianne blossomed, blooming like a rose from one of his hothouses, her petals unfurling with every sonnet and poem of love that he read to her and with every attention that he paid. She had wished to be married. Colonel Brandon was the man she knew would make her happy; his temper and understanding were exactly what she wished for in a husband, but to say that she did not feel apprehensive about the expectations her husband might have when they were married would be to write a false history. Again, she need not have worried. No such demands were made. Indeed, her husband sought so little physical attention, keeping to his own quarters in the first days of their marriage, that Marianne was surprised to find that she was the one to crave his notice. The more he ignored her, the more she pursued William with relentless fervour. To her great delight, her mind and body soon met as one. Before the week was through, she was astonished to find not only did she want Colonel Brandon to love her but that she was pleading with him to make love to her over and over again.

  Dabbing perfume on her wrists and throat, she hoped her appearance would have the desired effect. She tied a single, red silk ribbon about her throat and, thus satisfied with her appearance, arranged herself against the propped pillows on her bed. Marianne did not have to wait long before she heard a discreet knock at the door and her husband's voice call her name. Marianne was so thrilled to see him, draping her arms around his neck as he sat at her side, that she did not at first realise that his expression was sombre or that his countenance bore all the marks of one troubled by anxiety and worry. After peppering his face with kisses but not receiving one back in return, she pulled away.

  “What is wrong, Brandon?”

  “I have some bad news, Marianne. I came to tell you that I am unable to keep our appointment.”

  “Whatever do you mean? What could possibly be more important at this hour of the night than of our being together?”

  Taking his hands in hers, she kissed them both before employing his fingertips to her pleasure, easing herself as she did so onto his lap. He could not resist her, his hands caressing the softness that pressed against him, his mouth seeking hers with an urgency that thrilled her. Whatever it was that had threatened to separate them had vanished: Marianne knew that for the time being he was in her power and that he could do nothing to free himself. But as Marianne's yearning for her husband's love increased to a pitch of fever, William suddenly withdrew from her arms, concern etched on his features.

  “It is no use, Marianne,” he said, kissing the top of her head before standing to adjust his dress. “I have come to say goodbye. It is imperative that I leave for Lyme immediately. Word has been sent that little Lizzy is dangerously ill again. Indeed, I have been informed that she may not see daylight tomorrow, and even if I leave now, I may be too late.”

  Marianne could not believe what she was hearing. How could this happen now when she was beginning to feel that they might be resolving their differences, rekindling the love that she knew was threatened by misunderstandings?

  “It will be a trial for us both to be separated again, my darling,” he murmured, sitting down again to take her hand in his own, “but you must understand there is nothing else to be done.”

  “But Lizzy recovered last time and she will be sure to again. You do not need to be there. Stay with me, William. Wait and see; if she is not better in a week, then you may go.”

  “I cannot delay. If anything were to happen to the child, I would never forgive myself. Please, Marianne, you must see I have no choice.”

  Marianne reached for her peignoir, wrapping the muslin tightly round her slight form. She was shivering now; all warmth seemed to have evaporated from her body like the dying embers in the grate. “Why must you always put their welfare before mine?” she cried. “When will you consider that my needs are as important? I want you here, William; I shall be ill if you go, and if you leave me again, I shall not answer for the consequences. I am certain this is just a ruse to take you away. Eliza cannot bear the thought of you being happy with your own family!”

  Marianne knew that she must sound like a jealous harridan, but she could not help herself. Was she always to come second or third in importance to Brandon? All her jealous insecurities came rushing forth in a torrent of words.

  “There are times, Marianne,” he answered in grave tones, “when you astonish me. I do not think you are recognisable at this moment as the woman I married, and I must admit that I am finding it difficult to understand you. How you can imagine that I do not consider you is beyond all comprehension. That you do not appreciate my position, or that of others who do not enjoy your fortunate situation, is very clear. A little girl may be dying and all you can think of is yourself and your own selfish wants. Think for a moment, I beg you. Please understand that I have no choice.”

  Marianne regretted her outspoken tirade in that moment but could not find the words to apologise. Her anger still seethed inside. William stood before her with his arms crossed, looking most displeased. “I will leave now but I need not go alone.

  Perhaps you would care to accompany me; then you will see for yourself that it is impossible for me to act in any other way. Come, let us leave for Lyme together.”

  Marianne knew that she could not accept William's invitation. There were unspoken reasons. “How can he ask me to nurse Willoughby's child and consider making me stay with the daughter of his first love? His one, true love,” she thought bitterly. What was William thinking to even consider putting her in such a position? No, she did not appreciate nor understand him, she realised, sitting with her arms hugging her body and her feet tucked under her. Perhaps it was better if he left. Some time apart might do them good.

  “I cannot leave Margaret,” she said finally.

  “Then I will say goodbye.”

  Colonel Brandon paused, as if to add something else. He took a step toward the bed. Marianne simply turned her back and lay down, pulling the coverlet almost over her head. She did not move nor speak, even when she heard the door open and shut with a soft click. The departing sound of carriage wheels and horse's hooves had only the effect of increasing her agitation, as she bitterly contemplated their angry exchange.

  WITH WILLIAM BRANDON GONE under such unhappy circumstances, a feeling of gloom and oppression settled on the house and its occupants. Margaret could easily perceive that Marianne was not in a mood to discuss the difficulties that she and the Colonel were having at present and found as a result that any conversation was problematic. Marianne was silent and uncommunicative. Excuses were readily found for the endless piles of unanswered invitations that
came to the house, and a whole week passed by before Marianne decided that she was not looking after her sister's entertainment as well as she might. To make matters worse, she had only received two brief notes from William to say that he had arrived safely and that he had no real improving news of Miss Lizzy to give. In return, Marianne sent a single sheet of similar brevity.

  Margaret was beginning to wish she could go home. She tried hard when writing letters to her mother to give the impression that she was having the time of her life, but several missives from Mrs Dashwood revealed that lady's concern all too readily. She wanted to know why Margaret did not seem to be enjoying London society and was anxious to hear if she had seen much of Henry.

  Therefore, when Margaret heard that Charles Carey had called and was awaiting her company in the drawing room, she almost skipped along in anticipation to see him. Gone were any feelings of trepidation about what he might have to say or how he might react toward her; she was so relieved that at last she had a chance for some cheerful company. To her enormous relief and surprise she discovered he was not unaccompanied. James Mortimer was standing at his side, along with two very pretty girls, one of whom Margaret recognised as Emma Carey, Charles's sister. Margaret rushed forward to greet her old friend.

  “Miss Carey, what are you doing here? How delightful to see you!” she exclaimed.

  “Miss Dashwood, I am thrilled to see you, too. When Charles wrote with an invitation from Mr Mortimer to come and stay for a few weeks before Easter, I could not refuse.” She paused to indicate her companion. “Please allow me to present my host's sister, Miss Caroline Mortimer.”

  “Dear Miss Dashwood,” said Miss Caroline with a beaming smile, “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. I have been away from home visiting my married sister in Cheltenham, but I have heard so much about you from my brother in his letters that I couldn’t wait to meet you.”

  “Miss Mortimer, the pleasure is all mine,” Margaret answered, gratified that there would be someone else in the party to divert Charles's attention away from herself. Caroline Mortimer was a beauty with her fair curls and green eyes.

  Miss Carey continued. “Charles has promised that he will take us around to see the sights, which will be a pleasure I shall enjoy. But I must admit that as soon as I heard that you were here, my first wish was that I should call upon you. It is so long since we met. It must be last summer, I think, before I was sent to school. Well, my mother could hardly spare me, but she did want me to enjoy my brother's society and that of his friends.”

  “Miss Dashwood, how pleasant it is to see you again,” Charles joined in, if a little hesitantly. “I declare we have not seen you for a week at least. I am glad to observe that you are in striking health; I had begun to think that you and the Brandons must be ailing.”

  “Oh no, Mr Carey, we are very well, but the Colonel has been called away on business and we have not had the leisure to be accepting as many invitations at present as we would like.”

  “Well, I hope you will accept our invitation to accompany us on a jaunt out to Hyde Park. It is a most enjoyable drive and the weather is very mild for this time of year.”

  “Please come, Miss Dashwood,” begged Miss Carey. “Charles has hired a chaise for our use whilst I am in London. It will be such fun.”

  Margaret did not hesitate. Charles seemed as affable as ever and showed no signs of any suffering as a result of being informed of her sentiments by Mr Mortimer. Besides, she was quite wild to get out of the house.

  Marianne was on the point of quitting her London home and heading back to Devonshire. Three weeks away from little James was too much to bear, she decided, and even though she knew he was probably having a wonderful time with his grandmother, aunt, and cousins, she ached to see him. She also needed the comfort and counsel of her mother and sister Elinor respectively, because she was finding it impossible to think clearly about the whole situation. In moments of reflection she wished that she had agreed to travel to Lyme with the Colonel, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Besides, she was still cross with Brandon. Though in her heart she knew her sentiments toward Miss Williams were bordering on her own misguided jealousy, she was still convinced that she had been right about her husband's lack of duty to his first family. She questioned his love for her and decided that she was no longer secure in his affections. By the end of the second week of his absence she was reconciled to what she imagined would forever be her lot: a marriage without true love and tenderness. Marianne was not ignorant of other marriages where the husband and wife, tied by alliance and fortune, carried on their lives as if the other person hardly existed. The wife surrounded herself with children; her husband took a mistress, setting her up in town where she generally enjoyed a freer if not better life than her counterpart. But she did not want to think of William taking such a woman or acknowledge her dark thoughts about Miss Williams in the dead of night. And however ridiculous her fears might seem on waking, when she thought about the Brandon she had married, Marianne was apt to spend long intervals in debating the probabilities of his constancy.

  At least Margaret was enjoying herself at last and was going out and about looking more cheerful than Marianne had seen her for a while. The days out in Hyde Park or visiting museums would do her good. Even though the season was just starting, she would be sure to see enough to interest her and Marianne was glad that she had friends to share their pleasures.

  On one such morning Marianne had waved goodbye to Margaret as she and her friends set off for a visit to the Tower of London to see the wild beasts. Marianne was just deciding what to do next when her reverie was broken by the sound of loud knocking upon the front door. Looking out of the window down onto the square, she could not imagine who her visitor might be; she did not recognise the smart equipage below. The servant came in proffering a card upon the salver. Taking it up, she read its owner's name with surprise.

  “A Mr Willoughby is downstairs, ma’am, and begs me to inform you that it is on a matter of great urgency that he wishes to speak with you.”

  The violence of the knocking on the door had been enough to make Marianne exceedingly curious to know why he had presented himself. Thinking of their last exchange made her hesitate momentarily before she gave the instruction for him to be sent up.

  His entrance into the room had none of its usual elegance. Mr Willoughby's dark capes flapped from an equally dark coat, giving a sombre yet agitated picture. His cheeks were flushed like raspberry stains on a damask cloth and his black hair lay in damp tendrils against his furrowed brow, emphasising the expression he bore of great concern. Marianne could not help but be moved by the sight of him.

  “What on earth is the matter, Mr Willoughby?” she demanded, indicating a seat with a wave of her hand.

  Willoughby remained standing, choosing to ignore Marianne's invitation. “Tell me, Mrs Brandon,” he cried, “I have just heard and am anxious to know. Is the child out of danger?”

  Marianne did not immediately answer for she was so shocked. There was only one child that he could be referring to, but how could he possibly know of her predicament? Her first thought was to deny him the knowledge he craved and send him away. But as he stood before her with an expression of sincere distress upon his face, she could only give him the news that the child was in a stable condition to her knowledge, if not out of grave peril.

  “Lizzy is under the best care and with those that love her, which surely must be the best medicine any child could receive,” she said with as much equanimity as she could muster.

  “Thank God!” Willoughby cried. “I beg your forgiveness, Mrs Brandon, but when I heard the news that she was dying, I had to hear it from those who know the true facts.”

  “From whom did you receive this news?” asked Marianne, perturbed and puzzled about the source of his information. To her knowledge no one in London knew anything about the Williamses apart from Mrs Jennings. She hoped the old lady had not been indiscreet.

  “
I have my informants, friends near Lyme who bring me intelligence and news about those in which I have an interest.”

  Scarcely able to disguise the surprise on her face, Marianne was mute, unable to speak for a moment.

  “I realise that my coming here like this will probably be a shock to you,” he went on, “and I can imagine what you must think about my past misdeeds… You of all people know that I was a young man only capable of folly and imprudent behaviour.”

  “And a total disregard for the effects or outcome on those for whom you had little consideration,” Marianne answered immediately.

  “I cannot tell you how truly I regret my past conduct,” he pleaded, “not only to Miss Williams, who did not deserve such reprehensible treatment at the hands of the scoundrel that I was then, but also because the woman I loved above any other was lost to me forever as a result.”

  “Come now, Mr Willoughby, do not pretend that you were in love. As I recall your true devotion was a predilection for the finer things in life. Your material satisfactions far outweighed any devotion to another human being.”

  As soon as the words were out she could have bitten her tongue. To show him how much she was still affected by his actions after all this time was not her intended purpose.

  “I have regretted you ever since and I will to the end of my days, you know that,” said Willoughby. “You were so gracious as to grant me forgiveness for my actions against you, but it will never entirely assuage my guilt, all that I suffer.”

  “But why wait until now to show your concern? And what of your child? As far as I know you abandoned Miss Williams to her fate and have never once tried to make reparation to little Lizzy.”