Willoughby's Return

by Jane Odiwe

  “Believe me, Marianne,” he murmured, using her name in the old familiar way, “I have wanted to, but I knew Brandon would sooner kill me than agree to let me anywhere near the child. Do you remember when we last saw one another at Whitwell?”

  Marianne felt the blush painting her cheeks with spots of colour that Anna's doll would have been pleased to sport. Mr Willoughby was looking at her intently.

  “I tried to tell you that evening. I wanted to ask you to intercede on my behalf,” he continued. “I realised that I was asking too much and that to put you in such a position with your husband might make matters difficult for you, but please believe me when I say that I wish to atone for my sins. If I could be allowed to see the child, help provide for Lizzy and her mother, I hope I might feel some of my misdemeanors eradicated.”

  “Brandon will never allow it!”

  “Ordinarily, perhaps, but if you were to speak on my behalf, I think anything might be accomplished. If you were my wife, I should not refuse anything you asked of me.”

  “But I am not your wife, Mr Willoughby,” said Marianne, regarding him with distrust, remembering all his crimes with a sickening lurch of her stomach.

  “If I could change the hands of time, you would be my wife. Forgive me; I have broken my promise not to talk to you of those feelings I once had for you. All I ask is that you help me persuade Colonel Brandon to let me make amends; to little Lizzy, at least.”

  In spite of herself, Marianne was very touched to hear the tender way in which he spoke his child's name and moreover, she could not really think why he should now be denied a chance to repair the past.

  “Please, Marianne, I will never ask anything of you again.”

  “I will certainly consider the matter, but I have to tell you that I am not at all sure that my influence will count for very much. I do not know if I shall be able to change the Colonel's mind.”

  “Thank you,” he managed to utter, stepping forward to take her hand between both of his, before bending his head to plant a kiss. “I will be forever indebted to you.”

  Marianne watched his carriage move off from the window. Shivering at the sight of the fog descending on the square, she pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. The fine weather of the last few days was turning; the temperature was dropping, changing the unseasonable warmth into winter again. After she watched the carriage disappear from view, Marianne sat down to compose a letter to her husband, but although her promise to Willoughby had been heartfelt, she did not think she could broach the subject in a letter. She fully intended to keep her promise, but she would have to wait until Brandon came home. How long that might take she had no idea.

  When Margaret returned from her outing, Marianne saw at once that her sister was upset despite her denials and protestations to the contrary. Far from enjoying the day, Margaret had had the misfortune of running into Anne Steele, who had taken great delight in informing her of Henry Lawrence's forthcoming engagement. Margaret insisted that she was resigned to the idea, declaring it was no more than she expected, but Marianne was not blind to the truth of her real sentiments expressed behind her blue eyes in sadness. As soon as Margaret retired to her room, Marianne sat down to write a letter to her mother telling her of a change of plan. She and Margaret would be cutting their holiday short and coming home as soon as arrangements could be made.

  MARGARET AWOKE NEXT MORNING to the sense that somehow the world was different to the one she had known the day before. Her bed chamber was not suffused with the glorious sunshine of the past week, but as gloomy and dark as it ever was in winter. The windows were spangled with frosty ferns and ice blossoms, and the familiar sounds of London outside seemed muffled with a curious resonance. Carriage wheels and horses’ hooves were barely audible, and the customary calls of the milkmaids and muffin sellers echoed as though they were calling out of a long tunnel. She got out of bed to pull back the muslin from the window, shivering with the cold as she did so. The sky, dark as a woodpigeon's breast, was filled with floating crystal feathers swirling down to earth to alight on grey rooftops swathed in swansdown, icy pavements and the cathedral tracery of dark boughs. Looking up at the leaden skies, she watched the snow's twirling progress from the heavens, blinking as each sparkling flake hurtled into her line of vision. Margaret wondered if Henry was looking out at the snow, too. The remembrance of yester- day's news came to her in sudden recall. At least she now understood why he had behaved in such a cold manner. Pulling the coverlet off the bed, she arranged herself on the window seat to watch London turn white and sort out her thoughts. There was something so underhand about the whole affair with Henry that she could not get out of her head, which, combined with the memory of their last outing together, puzzled her exceedingly. Perhaps Marianne was right. Lady Lawrence must be implicit in his change of heart. But if that was the case, then surely she was better off without a man who could be so easily persuaded to marry someone else. She couldn’t deny that she had seen admiration in Henry's eyes for Mademoiselle de Fontenay. No, more than that, she had seen true love between them. It made her angry to feel how she had been duped, deciding there and then that she would never trust a man again, nor give away her heart so readily.

  Marianne awoke late. When she eventually sat up in bed to observe the state of the weather, her spirits sank. The snow was drifting up to the railings and settling like thickly folded cotton sheets blanketing every surface, making the street outside look more like a scene from a country landscape. There would be no chance of travelling today, and she would be very lucky to even manage to send a letter to tell her mother of delays. And what of the weather in Lyme? Brandon would not be able to travel if the roads were bad. In any case, he did not seem to be in any hurry to return to London if the contents of his last letter were anything to go by. Perhaps the snow would be descending on Delaford also. She knew Mrs Dashwood would understand and wait for news. But if Marianne could not send a letter home, then surely none would be delivered in London either. However, at that very moment, as if the fates decided to prove her wrong, a knock at her door brought a pile of post and a mysterious parcel, which she was informed had been hand delivered. A quick perusal of the handwriting on each revealed that she had received news from her mother, Elinor, and William. On examining the parcel, the recognition of the script had the effect of disturbing her mind with sensations she could hardly describe. It was put aside; she did not want to unwrap it immediately. Marianne opened her letters first, saving Brandon's until last.

  February 4th

  Wolfeton Fitzpaine

  My dear Marianne,

  I write with good news. Lizzy has turned the corner at last and we believe she is on the road to a full recovery. Eliza wishes me to thank you for your kind letters—they have been a true source of comfort. She is quite worn out with tending to the child; I have rarely seen such tender devotion or such capability. I wish you had made up your mind to travel with me; for I am sure if you could meet them you would hold them in the same esteem as I do. I have tried to make their home as comfortable as is possible whilst I remain here, but Eliza has a very independent streak and there are only so many gifts and offers of help as I am able to bestow upon them. But despite their lack of riches and their humble way of living, I have never witnessed such a harmonious household with boundless love, joy, and laughter to make me quite envious of their situation. I think you would be very taken with their cottage, Marianne. Eliza's talent for making something special out of the most unpromising materials have produced a warm and cheerful home, from the fashioned drapes at the windows to the carefully tended kitchen garden, her accomplishments with so very little would astound you, I am certain. Now the child is out of danger theirs is the happiest abode you can imagine. I wish you could see little Lizzy; I am sure you would love her as I do. She is growing into a very pretty girl; her hair has become quite dark and has a natural curl. Her manners are unaffected and she is unspoiled, making her quite the little heroine of the village. Despite
their situation, the people round about have taken them to their hearts, and since I have been here they treat me with equal cordiality. Never a day goes by without a visit from some kindly neighbour bringing a posset of herbs or a mustard plaister. It gladdens my heart to see it and to know that when the time comes for me to leave I shall be able to do so in the sure knowledge that they will be well cared for when I am gone.

  If all goes well, it will be in my power to return in another week. Of course I must be satisfied that my charge is truly recovered; there is a danger of a relapse and it would be pointless for me to make a journey too soon only to find that I am required to come back again.

  I trust you and Margaret are enjoying yourselves in London. I suppose the delights of all the city has to offer would always be preferable to life in a cottage.

  I remain,

  Your loving husband,

  William Brandon.

  Marianne tossed aside the letter in frustration. All her jealous suspicions surfaced with a greater resentment than she had ever felt before. “It is clear,” she thought, “that Eliza intends to beguile and captivate my husband with her charms and talents.” To what ends, she did not want to envision. Miss Williams and her daughter had seduced him as surely as she believed the first Eliza had done so and Marianne could only feel animosity toward them. She hated William at this moment, for choosing to spend his time with Eliza and more so for loving her daughter with a tender affection he did not seem to bestow on his own child. Besides his obvious infatuation of the Williams family, Marianne was disturbed by the apparent lack of feeling or any sense of true devotion toward herself. His final words were deficient of any real sense of passion or love, she thought. Suspecting that he had transferred his affection, she reasoned that it was only too apparent that this was the case. But what she would do about it, as yet, she could not decide. Venting her feelings of frustration in a single cry, which echoed in the empty silence of her room, did not assuage her emotions. As the snow fell out of the sky her anger turned to bitterness.

  In her fury she had almost forgotten the package, tightly bound in string and brown paper. Her trembling fingers could not untie the knots, so gummed were they with red sealing wax, and her stomach churned with anticipation. She hardly wanted to acknowledge her excitement and eagerness to discover its contents. Climbing out of bed, she fetched her scissors from the drawer of her dressing table and with a satisfying scrunch the string was cut. Marianne tore at the paper and found within the layers a slim volume, a book of poetry. Her fingers stroked the leather cover and traced the embossed name on the spine of her favourite poet, William Cowper. Skimming the pages to find her best-loved poems, the book fell open at the place where a piece of folded paper had been inserted. She read.

  February 5th

  My Dear Mrs Brandon,

  Words cannot express my gratitude to you for your kindness to me yesterday. I think I have probably asked too much of you and will understand if you feel you cannot help me. I hope you know that my intentions have only been to right my mistakes; though I fear I shall never truly be able to reverse every wrong I have inflicted, especially those crimes committed against the dearest and loveliest creature I ever had the good fortune to know.

  I wished to send you wildflowers, which I recollect were always your favourite, as a symbol of my gratitude, but as there are a scarcity at this time of year and are hardly to be found in London at all, I hope you will accept this “Winter Nosegay” which so eloquently laid down in this tome provides all the sentiment I could wish to express.

  I am yours ever,

  John Willoughby.

  Marianne read the poem, one she knew well but with a sense that she was reading it for the first time. It was the last verse that she read over and over again.

  See how they have safely survived

  The frowns of a sky so severe;

  Such Mary's true love, that has lived

  Through many a turbulent year.

  The charms of the late blowing rose

  Seem’d graced with a livelier hue,

  And the winter of sorrow best shows

  The truth of a friend such as you.

  Folding the paper, she replaced it between the pages and, clasping the book to her breast, smiled for the first time that morning.

  BY THE MIDDLE OF the week the snow had stopped falling, and grey skies were replaced by bright blue, making everywhere glitter in the sunshine. Visitors started to call again. Mrs Jennings and Sir Edgar visited as soon as their carriages could be dug out of the snow. Marianne did not feel equal to such gadding about herself, but received all her guests with cordiality. Mr Carey and his sister came with an invitation for Margaret to go skating with them in Hyde Park on Thursday. The Serpentine had frozen to a solid thickness, they reported, adding that Mr Mortimer and his sister were to be of the party also. Their excitement at the scheme soon infected Margaret with the idea that this venture might be as fun as it was proclaimed and so she accepted.

  The following afternoon, as good as their word, the party called. Marianne greeted them in the hallway as they arrived.

  “I do hope that you will consider joining us, Mrs Brandon,” pronounced Charles.

  “Oh, Mr Carey, that is very kind of you,” Marianne answered, “but I am sure you young people won’t need me to chaperone you.”

  “Marianne, please come,” entreated Margaret, who thought the change of scene would do her sister good. Moreover, she considered that another person added to the party could only be of benefit, although she was glad to see that Charles spent all his time observing Caroline Mortimer when he thought no one was looking. Indeed, his behaviour toward that young lady was becoming very particular, she surmised.

  Everyone declared how much they would all enjoy Mrs Brandon's company. Before she could make any further protest against their entreaties, Margaret summoned a warm pelisse and fur muff for Marianne to face the chill outside.

  The main roads were quite clear so that the carriages made steady progress, arriving at Hyde Park in a very short while. All were astonished to see the great crowds of people intent on trudging through the snow for their amusement. Children with sledges slid down any likely hump in the landscape, their faces bright with laughter. Snow figures lined the roadways and a crowd of rowdy youths pelted one another with snowballs. As they approached the frozen lake, Margaret craned her neck to see the wintry scene. She had heard of famous frost fairs in London when the great River Thames had frozen over, but nothing had prepared her for the sight of the Serpentine Lake fringed with glowing lanterns in the dim afternoon light, the branches of trees dipping their lacy fingers into the polished, black ice. Crossing and re-crossing the vast expanse skated a myriad of figures in a stately ballet, silhouetted against ribbon streams of sunshine in tints of rosy pink to gild the clouds. There were icemen sweeping and burnishing the lagoon to a gleaming finish, hiring out skates for those intrepid enough to try them. Several booths had been set up from which hot ginger wine, ale, or brandy could be purloined. The costermongers were setting up shop by selling fruit, their wives tempting weary skaters with oysters and hot meat pies. The noise of people shouting, cheering, and laughing echoed in the still air to the accompaniment of cracking ice, loud as a firing musket.

  They soon had their skates on and were taking their first cautious steps upon the ice. The frozen water was very thick; leaves imprisoned in layers within the depths gleamed like amber jewels in Venetian glass. Margaret linked arms with her sister and before long Miss Carey and Miss Mortimer joined them. They kept up a swift pace to skate behind the gentleman and were soon out of breath, Marianne begging them to stop so that she could rest for a while.

  “I cannot go any further,” she cried. “I will stop awhile and watch if you will excuse me.”

  “Then I will sit with you,” added Margaret, holding onto her sister's arm.

  “That is quite unnecessary,” Marianne insisted. “You go on or the others will disappear. I am quite happy to si
t on this bench until you have exhausted yourselves. Go and have fun!”

  Marianne sat down, watching her breath in little puffs on the cold air gradually slow to a normal rhythm. Margaret disappeared from view. It was very gratifying to see her laugh again, thought Marianne. Miss Carey and Miss Mortimer were clearly intent on making her feel most welcome into their circle. Skating had lifted her spirits, too. It was only now that she began to wonder about Brandon again. There had been no more post since last week, but she knew that the weather was responsible for that.

  “Will you take a turn with me, Aunt Brandon?”

  Henry Lawrence's voice brought Marianne out of her reverie. She looked up to see not only Mr Lawrence standing before her grinning from ear to ear, but also Mr Willoughby at his side, regarding her with an air of study.

  “Good afternoon Mr Lawrence, Mr Willoughby,” Marianne managed to say. She was shocked enough to see Henry here at all, but the recollection of Willoughby's gift was enough to emblazon her cheeks the same hue as the setting sun. But she was cross with Henry. How dare he stand there as though he had nothing to be reproached for, as if his behaviour had not been reprehensible?

  Henry held out his hand. “Please, Aunt Brandon. I wish to speak to you on an urgent matter.”

  Marianne saw that the laughter had died from his eyes and that he was in earnest. “Very well,” she replied, rising unsteadily, “but I warn you, skating is not my forte.”

  He took her arm and, leading her around the edge of the lake, they moved slowly along hardly skating at all.

  “I must say, Henry,” Marianne began, “that I can hardly bring myself to speak to you at all. I am sorry to say this when I am aware that I should be congratulating you on your forthcoming engagement, but I believe you have behaved very badly toward my sister. I am quite astonished that you appear to have no remorse or that you can address me in such a manner that belies any sense of guilt. There, I have said what I think on the matter and am not in the least sorry for it. Perhaps you would rather find someone else to go skating with than an aunt who expresses such displeasure in your company.”