Willoughby's Return (36 page)

ON THE THIRD DAY Marianne entered Lyme, weary but thankful she was nearing her destination. She had made occasional visits to the watering hole in the past with her sister Elinor and the children on hot sunny days and remembered them with happiness. The splendid situation of the town with the principal street almost rushing into the water looked very different in the winter light. Everywhere was shut up; only the fishermen were to be seen on the Cobb, their boats bobbing on the water, their nets prepared for fishing. In warmer weather the pleasant little bay would be lively with bathing machines and company in the season. Her eye sought the beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to the east of the town; they passed through Charmouth, backed by dark escarpment, trotting down narrow lanes and past Pinny, finally entering the village of Wolfeton Fitzpaine where the forest-trees and orchards waved bare, skeletal arms as if to hasten the warmer winds of summer.

They were soon stopped outside a cottage in the centre of the village, a neat-looking house with mullioned windows to either
side of a canopied doorway over which was trained an old rambler. There was a small garden to the front behind a wicket fence with a bench under a window and a stone path winding between the flower beds, where the first signs of spring were starting to sprout in the form of green shoots. Now she was here, Marianne felt very apprehensive. With anxious fears attending every step, she was assisted down from the coach and took a deep breath as she looked toward the house. Before she took another step, the door was flung back and a young girl, her dark hair framing her pretty features, rushed down the path to take Marianne's hands in her own.

“Mrs Brandon, thank heaven you are here. William has been calling for you since breakfast. I know he will feel better the moment he sees you.”

Marianne was touched by her warm reception, her worries subsiding as she entered the house, following Eliza into the parlour. A fire roared in the grate, which made the dark room appear quite cheerful. William, a diminutive bundle, lay on the sofa, which was doubling up as a makeshift bed complete with pillows and blankets. He was sleeping, lying so still that Marianne rushed forward with a cry. He looked like a small boy, she thought, his sweet countenance lost in dream and his hair tousled. Then his eyes opened.

“Marianne, you’ve come,” he said weakly. “I prayed that you would.” He started to sit up until Marianne scolded him to lie back down.

“I’ll leave you together if you’ll excuse me,” said Eliza, bobbing a curtsey. “I’m so glad you are here, Mrs Brandon. I am honoured that you could come.”

“Thank you, Miss Williams, for writing to me and allowing me to intrude upon your household.”

“It is the least I could do…” Eliza faltered before leaving the room.

Now she and Brandon were alone Marianne felt awkward, unable to look at her husband with all the expression of love she hoped to endow. How she wished she could erase the recent past, strike it from her existence and her memory. “How are you, William?” she managed to say at last.

“I am all the better for seeing you, my darling. Come here, let me look at you.” Marianne stepped forward, glowing under William's scrutiny. “I thought I might never see you again.”

“Oh William, I wish I had known sooner.”

“Even so, I did not imagine that I would see you here.” His eyes held hers for a moment but she could only look away. “Come here, my darling.”

Marianne rushed to his side and sat down on the small stool at the side of the sofa. She put out her hand to stroke his face and felt alarm at the touch of his fevered brow and pallid complexion. “Why did you not let Eliza write sooner?” she asked with fear in her voice. William's breathing was shallow; he appeared a shadow of the man she knew, as he lay languid and low.

“I did not want to worry you, my darling. Besides, I wanted to be sure.”

Marianne took a wet cloth from the bowl on the table at her side, wringing out the cool water before applying to William's forehead. His eyes were closing again as he grew restless and feverish.

“I wanted to be sure you came because you wished to be with me,” he muttered faintly before he fell into a slumber.

Marianne did not move, keeping watch over her husband's disturbed countenance as he slept. A half hour passed, during
which William's repose became more and more troubled. Marianne, who steadfastly watched his continual change of posture and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of delirious murmurings which passed his lips, was on the point of rousing him from his sleep when William, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and with feverish wildness, cried out, “Marianne is lost to me. Fetch Marianne, if she will come. Tell Willoughby I need her.”

“William, I am here; Marianne is with you, my darling,” she cried, concealing her terror, and assisting the Colonel to lie down again.

Marianne recognised with anxiety that he was not himself, and whilst attempting to pacify him, eagerly felt his pulse. It was very low and so fast as to give real concern. William was still talking incoherently so that her alarm increased rapidly. She quit the scene, running to find Eliza to ask her advice. Miss Williams was in the kitchen attending a small girl that Marianne knew was Willoughby's child the instant she saw her. The shock was great and for a moment she could not speak. Lizzy had her mother's dainty frame and pretty countenance, but the dark eyes that looked at Marianne from under arched brows were Willoughby's, with the same intensity of expression.

“Miss Williams, Brandon seems quite delirious. He only spoke to me for a moment before he slipped away into a deep sleep during which he has become most agitated. I cannot wake him. He doesn’t see me. I think we should send for the doctor.”

“Of course, Mrs Brandon, I will have Doctor Oliver sent for at once. Perhaps William needs a new dose of the cordials that he made last time.”

Mr Oliver had still something more to try, some new medicines, of whose success he was almost as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with assuring the ladies of his confidence in the efficacy of the treatment. Marianne tried to remain calm, but William showed no signs of improvement. His restlessness was gone but he lay very still and his breathing was imperceptible. Marianne felt hopeless, and in this state she continued, scarcely stirring from her husband's bed. She was convinced that she would not see Brandon's eyes open again, and her thoughts reflected on images of grief, and her spirits sank. Marianne was certain she was being punished for her wickedness, felt persuaded by the idea that her husband was ill because of her conduct, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.

About midnight, however, she began to hope once more, to fancy that she could perceive a slight amendment in William's pulse. She waited, watched, and examined it again and again; and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes to Eliza. Miss Williams, though forced on examination to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her companion from indulging a thought of its continuance; and Marianne told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already taken over and feeling all its anxiety, she bent over her husband to watch. An hour passed away, and she saw with increasing anticipation a change take place. William's breath, his skin, his lips, all thrilled Marianne with signs of improvement. Brandon's eyes looked into hers with a flicker of recognition though he could still not rally enough to speak. Anxiety and hope now afflicted her in equal measures, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival
of Mr Oliver at two o’clock in the morning, when his assurances on a recovery in her husband even surpassing his expectation gave her belief, consolation, and tears of happiness. With each passing minute his recovery seemed certain. Marianne's joy knew no bounds and when for the first time he whispered her name, her joy was complete.

Eliza had prepared a hot meal: vegetable broth with home-baked bread. Marianne fed William small mouthfuls of soup from a spoon. He could manage only a little, but seeing him looking more like his old self was more than enough reward. It was only when the dawn light broke as William fell into slumber again that Marianne sought out Eliza's company. The two women sat together on a settle in front of the fire, keeping a watchful eye on their invalid.

“I do not know how to thank you for alerting me to William's illness. He always did have a stubborn streak. I suppose he thought he had a cold and would soon recover.”

“Mrs Brandon, I have been racked with guilt and worry, but whenever I requested that you be sent for, he would not hear of it. He was not right in his mind and he rambled on about all sorts of nonsense in his sleep. I knew he was not entirely well when he kept saying that you were gone away to Allenham. He appeared to have everything so mixed up in his mind that I did not know what to do. I decided I must send for you and the doctor thankfully agreed with me.”

Just at that moment Lizzy came into the room. “I cannot sleep, Mama,” she said in a quiet voice. “Will Uncle William still be sick in the morning?”

“I am sure he will be much better, do not worry,” said Marianne kindly before Eliza managed to speak.

The little girl walked over to her with an engaging smile. She looked so appealing that Marianne swept her up and onto her knee. Lizzy allowed herself to be cradled, leaning back into Marianne's comforting arms. The smell of freshly washed hair and the innocence of childhood moved Marianne to silent tears. This was Willoughby's child, a sweet and precious little girl who had never known what it was to be loved by her father. And then Marianne realised with an enlightening acknowledgement the part that her husband played in the life of this child, acting in selfless kindness since Lizzy had been born. Marianne felt more ashamed than ever and mortified that she could ever have thought the worst of her husband. His only crime was to have wanted to protect those that he loved and make a little girl understand what it was to enjoy a father's love. She did not know if she would ever forgive herself for making such foolhardy assumptions about William. Would she ever earn the right to reclaim his love as her own? She thought that might now be impossible. If he knew the truth he would surely disown her. One day she would have to tell him about what had happened between her and Willoughby. Only then would he be able to decide her future and restore or put an end to their marriage. Despite the warmth of the fire Marianne shivered as she pulled Lizzy ever closer into her arms.

BY THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, Colonel Brandon was feeling stronger and looking more like the man Marianne had married. He wanted to be out of bed and up and about. Eliza and Marianne had a great deal of trouble trying to keep him to his bed, but were very encouraged by his hearty appetite and the return of lively spirits. The very next day he appeared at the breakfast table, washed, shaved, and in his clothes, much to the consternation of the two young women.

“I have trespassed upon your kindness long enough, Eliza,” he said, sitting down and helping himself to a hearty bowl of porridge. “I cannot thank you enough for your pains, but it is high time my wife and I left you to yourselves. Now Lizzy is coming along so well I would hate to be the very reason she has a relapse.”

“Your home is my home, William, you know that,” Eliza answered. “It has been a pleasure to have you here. You know full well I could never have nursed Lizzy on my own, and I am certain that if you had not been here, I might have been telling a
different story now. And, Mrs Brandon, I have so long wished to make your acquaintance; it has been a delight to have you here, too. I only wish I could have made your stay more comfortable. It has been an enormous honour for me to have the company of William's beloved wife; I hope you do not mind when I say that although I never had a sister, I now feel as if I had gained one!”

Marianne felt very humbled at this little speech. Indeed, every day she had been in the cottage had taught her something more about true humility and humble modesty. Eliza was entirely selfless, which made Marianne only remember her own pride and shameful attitudes towards the Williamses with regret and sorrow.