Willoughby's Return (35 page)

Henry pulled Margaret as closely to him as was possible. “Margaret, I love you, do you understand? I will not forget you. We are engaged! And one day you will be my wife, I promise.”

Margaret felt certain that Henry's declarations were sincere, but she thought him already lost to her. He would go abroad to far off exotic places where he would no doubt be introduced to Italian heiresses and German princesses. She could not imagine him running back to marry plain and penniless Margaret Dashwood. “I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you for a whole year,” she murmured, “but I shall endure it for your sake, Henry.”

“And when I come back we will be together, forever. I’ll come into my money then and Mother will have no say about what I do. Wait for me, Margaret.”

“I will, Henry. When do you have to go?”

“There is a boat sailing next week. We have only a few more days together.”

Henry reached down to lift her face to his own. He kissed away her tears so tenderly and with such endearing protestations of love that Margaret could only smile and kiss him back.

“How I wish I could stay in your arms forever, Henry.”

“One day you shall, my love.”

A sudden rapping at the door had Margaret almost jump out of her skin. They froze, their hearts hammering together behind the heavy drapes. The door handle creaked as they listened to it slowly turn. Margaret imagined that her breathing was so loud that it must be heard all over the house. The door opened with a noise like a low groan. Margaret had never felt so frightened. She clung onto Henry and buried her head in his chest. When the door closed and she heard footsteps across the floor she nearly screamed out loud.

“Henry, where are you?” a voice hissed in the darkness.

Henry laughed. “What is it, Willoughby? You are not wanted here, you know.”

“Listen, I thought I’d better warn you that I’ve seen Mrs Brandon wandering about the place. I think she's looking for you, Miss Dashwood.”

“Thank you, Mr Willoughby,” Margaret managed to say behind the curtain. She was far too embarrassed to show her face.

They heard the door open and shut once more. It was time to go, but surely they could find a moment for one last, sweet kiss.

Marianne left the room as soon as she was able. If it were possible she would find Margaret and they would return to Manchester Square. Her impatience to be gone from London increased with every moment. She sighed for the air, the liberty, and the quiet of the country, and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Delaford must do it. She would be reunited with little James, and the world would be set to rights again. They would go home in the morning. Out in the corridor she walked along, looking into rooms where cards were being played, and people stared at her as if they wondered why they were being disturbed. At the end by the staircase she decided she would take one quick look upstairs. Mounting the steps, she felt rather nervous, almost as if she were snooping. It was very dark as she looked down the length of the corridor and deciding she would not venture far she took a few steps before she was struck by the sight of a figure coming out of a room. In her haste to get away, she turned quickly on her heel. The pain that seared through her ankle was enough to make her cry out. She stumbled but before she hit the ground with a thump she had been caught, righted on her feet, and swept up into the arms of Mr Willoughby.

“Put me down at once, Mr Willoughby,” she started in distress. The gentleman, ignoring her protestations, opened a
door to his right and carried her in. He promptly put her down as she requested, on a striped sofa at the foot of a large four-poster bed.

“I will get help. Stay there; do not move or you will do untold damage.”

“I must go and find Margaret,” she said as she struggled to get on her feet. “She has disappeared and I am a little worried about her at present.”

“Miss Dashwood is quite capable of looking after herself,” he answered immediately in a stern voice. “Stay where you are.”

The authoritarian tone of his voice had an immediate effect. Marianne allowed him to take charge for a moment before the recollection that she had seen him looking most intimate with her sister made her instantly speak out.

“I saw you with my sister earlier this evening,” Marianne began in an accusing tone. “I’d like to know what you think you are doing.”

“Forgive me, Mrs Brandon, but I have no idea to what you allude.”

“You were whispering into her ear, I saw you,” she started, not quite knowing how to go on.

“What do you accuse me of doing, Marianne? Am I guilty of having an exchange of words with your sister?”

“I saw the way you looked at one another, an expression so conspiratorial that I do not know what to think.”

“Ah, I see. I think I know now what you have assumed. You think I am carrying on a liaison with your sister, am I correct?”

Willoughby was kneeling next to her, with his face inclined toward her and very close. In the dim light his eyes were laughing, his expression one of mockery. Marianne wanted to
move; at least she told herself that she did. She struggled to sit up but realised that by doing so his countenance was brought ever closer.

“I do not know what to imagine, Mr Willoughby.”

“I think you have imagined the very worst of me,” he said, all the amusement gone from his face. “How could you believe that I would even look at your sister, let alone make love to her, when the only woman I want to take in my arms is here with me now.”

“Mr Willoughby, you must not say those things. Please, you said you would get help.” Marianne made a great effort, rising to her feet. The pain was not so strong now and she made a move toward the door, only to be caught by Willoughby, who grasped her arms tightly, forcing her to stop.

“I should not say these words, I know, but I want you to listen to me, Marianne. I love you and I know that you love me. Deny it if you will, but I do not think you can if you search your heart for the truth. If you would admit your own true feelings, you would remember we are as twin souls, Mrs Brandon. Whosoever and whatever may separate us will never destroy that bond. We will always love one another forever, that is our burden.”

Marianne opened her mouth to speak. “John, this must stop. Please let me go.” Willoughby had backed her against the wall, and he began to stroke her hair. His touch was gentle as a single finger traced a line down her cheek and over her lips. She gasped as he murmured into her hair, whispering of his love.

“Shall I stop?” he taunted, his eyes fixed on hers with an expression so artless, so appealing that Marianne felt she was lost. As if in a hypnotic trance, she felt powerless against
him. Willoughby's mouth enclosed hers, he held her face in his hands and kissed her with such passion that she couldn’t even think. Every instinct, every nerve in her body responded to his touch.

“Come away with me, Marianne,” he whispered, brushing her neck with his mouth.

She felt his lips on her skin, his fingers flickering like feathers over her flesh, making her ache to be loved by him. Willoughby's embraces were tender and his skills as a lover so expert that Marianne began to feel that she was losing the battle. She started to cry.

“Please let me go,” she pleaded. “I cannot come away with you, nor do I wish to.”

“But we love one another, Marianne. That cannot be fought. We were meant to be together, and we can be if you come away with me now. Deny that you love me.”

“I will deny it,” she pronounced forcefully, pushing him away with all her strength. “I do not love you. I love my husband, and you are wrong to love me like this. I beg you, Willoughby, it must stop now.”

“You are lying to yourself, Marianne. I know you better than myself. Besides, everything denies your protestations. Your looks of love, your tender kisses, all betray your real feelings. We both recognise the truth. Come now, am I really to believe that you love your husband as passionately as you pretend when it is clear that he has his interests elsewhere? Where is he tonight? Lying in the arms of his lover, the spitting image of her mother before her, no doubt.”

This was too much for Marianne to bear. She raised her hand and struck him a blow across his face; immediately regretting her
action, she put out her hand to soothe the red mark she had left. “I am so sorry, that was unforgivable, but the truth is that I have made a life without you; for better or for worse, it is the life I have chosen. It is the life I want with a man who truly loves me as you never could love me, John Willoughby. You have your obligations, responsibilities that were chosen, decided upon, and made of your own free will. We both know that what you propose is shamefully wrong. You say you love me, but if you really loved me you would leave me alone. Let me go, John. If you truly love me, let me be.”

John Willoughby gazed down at Marianne and knew he was defeated. He knew she was right, and the appeal in her eyes touched him to his heart. “Very well,” he said, his voice soft and quiet, “if that is your wish, I will go, even if every instinct in my soul tells me that we are meant to be together. I only ask this, that you will give me your assurance: that if you ever change your mind or find you need me, that you will come to me.”

Marianne looked into his eyes, sincere with his request, and hesitantly nodded her assent before turning away from him for the last time.

Standing alone in the dark after he had gone, shivering with shock and remorse, she considered how thankful and relieved she was that it was finally all over. Whatever madness had existed between them she knew was finished for good. Reason told her she could never have been happy with Willoughby, even if free to be with him. Her heart and her soul belonged to one man, however uneasy their present predicament. William Brandon was the love of her life, even if he loved another.

Marianne managed to escape to the safety of her carriage with little fuss or notice from anyone after all. Everyone else was so intent on enjoying themselves that the departure of Mrs Brandon and Miss Dashwood passed with barely a comment. Mrs Jennings, who always liked to be the first fount on any gossip, assured anyone who asked that Mrs Brandon felt out of sorts due to being parted from her husband for so long. Only Lucy was disappointed that she had not seen anything pass between Mrs Brandon and Mr Willoughby to talk about. Having found Margaret, who seemed to be equally eager to leave the party, they travelled the short distance home in silence. Both were consumed with their own thoughts, Margaret upset that she had only a few days left to spend with Henry before he was to disappear for a whole year and Marianne determined to put the recent past behind her.

Unable to sleep, Marianne sat up in bed, a single candle glowing at her bedside. They would travel back to Delaford in the morning; she did not want to stay in London any longer. Thank heaven this whole business with Willoughby was over. It had been a kind of insanity, but it was over for good. All that mattered was trying to win her husband back, but how she might manage that she did not entirely know.

Just before her candle finally guttered for the last time, she heard a knock downstairs at the front door. There it was again, loud and insistent. Who on earth could it be at this hour of the night, she wondered? She did not have to wait long to find out.

Sally appeared at the door, an express letter in her hand. “I’m so sorry to wake you, madam, but I think it might be urgent.”

Marianne undid the seal and read.

Wolfeton Fitzpaine

February 23rd

Dear Mrs Brandon
,

Please come as soon as you can; the Colonel is very ill. He has been unwell for more than a week but, not wishing to alarm you or have you change your plans, he would not let me write before. I am very sorry and worried out of my mind. Make haste
,

With sincere wishes
,

Eliza Williams

“Oh, heavens, Sally,” Marianne cried. “Will you help me pack? The Colonel is ill and I must leave at once.”

Sally started packing efficiently whilst Marianne darted round the room selecting any object she deemed necessary to her travelling arrangements. She tried not to think about her husband who lay ill, or how dangerously sick he had become to necessitate an express letter from Miss Williams, but tried instead to focus on practicalities. What would Elinor do, she asked herself? And what was she to do about Margaret? Perhaps Mrs Jennings would take her in whilst she was away.

Entering Margaret's room, Marianne proceeded to wake her. “Margaret,” she said softly, trying to make the shock of waking in the middle of the night less great, “I am sorry to have to tell you but I have some bad news.”

Margaret struggled to sit up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“I have to go to Lyme. William is very ill and I cannot delay a moment longer. I am to take the coach immediately; Reynolds and Bertram will accompany me, so you do not have to worry. I want you to go to Mrs Jennings, do you understand? You cannot
stay here on your own. Write to me in a couple of days and let me know that all is well. I am so sorry to leave you, Margaret. Indeed, I am sorry that you have had such a miserable time in London and that all I am doing is prolonging the agony. I meant you to have the time of your life.”

“Marianne, I have had a wonderful time, truly,” Margaret answered sleepily. “Do not worry about me, I shall be fine. Kiss William for me and do not fret, Marianne, I am sure he will be on the road to recovery as soon as he hears that you are on your way.”

“Yes, I must send a note immediately, so that Miss Williams will expect me. Goodbye, Margaret and don’t forget to write.”

As her carriage moved away, the horses galloping down the dark streets, Marianne was filled with a sense of dread now that she had time to think about the situation. It was now easy to see why she had not heard from William. If he had been ill he could not write. It was typical of him not to want to distress her, and she reasoned that he had probably thought he would be set to rights within a day or two. Eliza had not specified what sort of illness he had contracted, but Marianne thought she could guess. Having spent so much time nursing little Lizzy had brought him into close contact with the little girl. Marianne did not want to think about the possibilities. She felt consumed by guilt that as her husband had lain unwell she had been conducting herself disgracefully. “How could I have been so stupid?” she asked herself. “How could I have jeopardised my marriage, my home, and the love of my husband and child for a moment of folly?” Swept up by her emotions, she decided she had behaved as badly
as Willoughby had ever done. The kisses she had bestowed on that gentleman were as reprehensible as any act of love they might have indulged upon. Marianne prayed to be forgiven. She prayed, as she had never done before. All she wanted was to see Brandon and see him well again.