Jane Odiwe - Willoughby’s Return

“Why do you laugh so?” William asked.

“You will think me a very wicked and licentious creature if I tell you,” his wife answered.

“I could never think anything other than that I am the luckiest man in the world, even if my wife does have a fiendish streak,” he teased.

Marianne looked into William's eyes. “I feel an overwhelming urge to lie down,” she said quietly, squeezing his hand surreptitiously, “with you.”

William returned her touch, with a firm pressure. “That is an invitation which I regard as binding as a promise. The very moment we can get out of here and go home, I intend to have you fulfil your pledge immediately, Mrs Brandon,” he whispered.

“It will not be too soon, my love.”

Brandon tightened his grip on Marianne's hand. Pure happiness seemed to flow through her veins. At last, everything was as it should be.

For all Margaret's gaiety, she was feeling most despondent. Mr Carey had claimed the first two dances, then looked no further for a partner, giving her the impression that he was perfectly happy to stand at her side all evening without wishing to dance with anyone else. Whilst she was grateful for his attention, she did not really think she should give him any reason to hope that she wanted to spend her time with him exclusively. Thankfully, Mr Mortimer came to her rescue. They took to the floor, Margaret aware that Charles was watching their every movement.

“Charles is thrilled to be acquainted with you and your family again,” he said, steering her down the set.

“I am pleased to see him again; he is an old friend.”

“When we were at sea, he often talked of you. I feel I know you as well as my own sister for all that he told me of you, your interests and ambitions. He said you wish to travel some day.”

“Yes, Mr Mortimer, I would love to see the world. How I envy you and Charles; to be in command of my own ship, now that would be something!”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Dashwood, that I think Charles's hopes for his future happiness lie with you. His dreams involve you both sailing into the sunset, I know. Perhaps your own desires to travel the world will come true.” “Oh, Mr Mortimer, I wish you hadn’t told me that.” “Do you mean to say that Charles's hopes are in vain?” “Yes… no, I don’t know,” Margaret muttered incomprehensibly. “I love Charles dearly, I truly do, but I have only ever thought of him as a sister thinks of a brother.”

“I see. Then there is no hope for a match between you.”

“I should hate to hurt Charles's feelings, but I cannot lie about what I do not feel. I could only marry for true love. But, in any case, Mr Mortimer, how can you be so sure that Charles's wishes are as you say?”

“He is planning to propose to you, Miss Dashwood.”

“Oh dear, I should hate to break his heart, Mr Mortimer. I would hate to lose his friendship over this, especially as we have only just become reacquainted. Whatever can I do?”

“Leave it with me, Miss Dashwood. With your permission, I will inform him of your wishes. All I know is that Charles has only ever wanted you happy. He will be disappointed, of course, but he will want to remain your friend, I know.”

“I hope so, beyond anything. But what shall I do now? I cannot bear to see his face, knowing that you are to enlighten him of my sentiments.”

“I shall take my friend off to the card room this instant, Miss Dashwood. Supper is not far off now and we shall be mingling in a larger set. Everything will be fine, do not worry.”

As the dance came to an end, Mr Mortimer excused himself and left the floor to join Mr Carey. Margaret stood, not wishing to move. Charles would despise her, she thought, after his friend had divulged her thoughts on his idea of a proposal. Henry clearly disliked her, too. Her spirits sank further. The recollection of her arrival in town, with feelings of excitement and happiness, depressed her further. All she wanted was to return home to Devonshire. London was a horrible place, she decided.

“May I have this dance?”

With enormous surprise, Margaret turned at the sound of the familiar voice belonging to the young man she most wanted to dance with in the whole world. Bowing before her, stood Henry Lawrence.

Marianne was feeling hot and bothered. William had left her in Mrs Jennings's company whilst he caught up with the news from an old General he had known in the East Indies. The ladies were watching the dancing.

“Lady Lawrence is in good spirits this evening,” observed Mrs Jennings.

“Yes, I cannot remember ever seeing her so animated,” Marianne answered as she watched Hannah dancing with her husband.

“Well, I am glad to see Miss Margaret has her turn with young Henry at last. I hate to see her looking so disappointed, but now look at her, so happy and carefree. I wonder where Mademoiselle de Fontenay can be. I am surprised she has let go her companion's arm.”

“I’m sure she's not far away,” snapped Marianne. “She is like a limpet, hanging onto Henry's arm. From the way she clings, anyone would imagine they are engaged. I cannot think why Henry wants to spend so much time with such a needy person.”

“I think, my dear, Mrs Brandon,” the old lady hesitated, “you had better prepare Margaret for the worst news. Lady Lawrence confided in me this evening. Although it is not yet common knowledge, everything is set for an announcement by the end of the month.”

This news was not completely unexpected, Marianne thought. But how could Henry be so cruel? He must have seen that Margaret was becoming attached to him and whilst she was grateful that their relationship had not reached the level of intimacy that she and Willoughby had known, she knew, without a doubt, that Margaret's heart would be broken when his wedding was announced.

Marianne wanted to get away before she could be prompted for any more information. “We have been left to shift for ourselves, Mrs Jennings,” she said, rising abruptly from her chair. “I will go in search of some refreshment. Would you like a glass of something cooling?”

On the lady's ready acquiescence, Marianne set forth, glad to have escaped Mrs Jennings's society for a while. A room just off to one side had been arranged for the purposes of refreshment. Marianne joined the throng that jostled and pushed their way to an inadequate table, where glasses were being filled with a wide variety of wines and other drinks. Managing eventually to procure a glass for herself and one for Mrs Jennings, she eased her way back through the great crowd, which pressed on either side. She was just feeling thankful that no mishap with two glasses filled to the brim had yet befallen her, when the sound of a voice she recognised nearly had her dropping both glasses in shock.

“Yes, that lady is the beautiful Mrs Brandon,” she heard Mr Willoughby announce to an unseen audience, who, judging from their appreciative murmur, were all gentlemen.

Marianne's heart was pounding; she had no wish to turn her head and tried her hardest to manage her nerves. Keeping her eyes forward, she slowly progressed through the crowd.

“No, I will not hear that Lady Hamilton is the standard by which all beauty should be compared. On the contrary, in my eyes, none bear comparison with Mrs Brandon and there is an end on it,” Willoughby protested.

Marianne wished she were invisible but, determined to act as if she had not heard him, kept her vision fixed directly in front, holding the glasses aloft as well as she could. Such was the crowd that it was impossible to move without being nudged and more than once did she spill the orgeat.

“May I help you?”

A voice from behind, in her ear, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, alerted her to Mr Willoughby's presence.

“Thank you, but I can manage, Mr Willoughby.”

“Here,” he insisted, “it is no trouble, let me take them.”

Before she could protest again, he had moved around and was standing directly in front of her. The multitude pushed and bumped them ever closer, it seemed to Marianne. Her hands were full; another push from the rear had her careering almost into his arms. She felt his fingers enclose hers, reaching to take the glasses from her grip and in doing so, Marianne was so astonished that she nearly dropped them. However, she kept her composure, even though her heart was beating wildly.

“Allow me to escort you back to the ballroom, Mrs Brandon.”

Moving through the sea of people with ease, Marianne had no choice but to follow Mr Willoughby. What Mrs Jennings would make of it, she did not even want to contemplate. The old lady's eyes were out on stalks as they approached, but fortunately, before the situation could be made even more embarrassing, Willoughby immediately took his leave. He did not linger, merely greeting Mrs Jennings and presenting her with a glass.

Marianne was mortified. Despite her best intention, she felt most discomposed, berating herself for being so unfortunate as to have the kind of complexion which betrayed her feelings so easily.

“I didn’t know Mr Willoughby was here,” said Mrs Jennings, regarding Marianne closely.

“Yes, I believe he is here with his wife and a party of friends. I bumped into him in the refreshment room.”

“He's still a handsome rogue, is he not, Mrs Brandon? And with his wife, you say. Well, by all accounts that is most unusual. Does the Colonel know he is here? Though perhaps it might be a good idea not to mention him; that gentleman's presence only seems to upset your husband. Old wounds take a long time to heal!”

Marianne felt her confusion most pertinently. To her great relief, she saw Margaret coming off the floor after dancing with Henry. Excusing herself, she moved off to greet them both. To her great dismay, Margaret did not look at all happy. Perhaps Henry had told her of his forthcoming engagement. It was impossible to talk now; she would have to wait until they were at home before she could even broach the subject and even then, she thought, it might be necessary to wait for Margaret to speak on the matter.

Colonel Brandon appeared at her side, only to tell her that he was in request for a game of cards after supper with an old friend he had known in the East Indies. He apologised, promising her the last dance, but Marianne felt most disappointed. He always revelled in the company of men, she mused, and her own dislike of cards, particularly whist, meant that she was often left to find some other amusement whilst he entertained. He was not really a man who loved to dance as she did, although he usually tried to please her by partnering her often. However, on this occasion she felt most upset that he was choosing to leave her alone.

Alas, the supper bell rang out at that moment. She really did not feel in the mood to sit with anyone and was worried that Mrs Jennings, or worse still, Lucy Ferrars, might mention Willoughby. Marianne was sure William had not yet seen him and hoped it would remain so, as she knew nothing would alter his mood quicker than the knowledge that his old rival was in the vicinity.

Margaret's dance with Henry had been a disaster from her point of view. Although she had been delighted that he should have asked her to dance at all, the outcome could not have been more upsetting. Henry had not spoken a word; there had been no familiarity, no ease of address, and certainly no feeling that he was going to repeat his request. She felt he was simply going through the motions out of a sense of duty. Margaret wished he had not bothered. But by the time she returned to her seat she began to blame herself, thinking perhaps that she should have made more effort to speak to him. The activity had been such a strain on her nerves that in a way she was glad it was over. Henry would not have to ask her again; he had behaved in a polite if cold manner and could now return to his Mademoiselle.

Supper was a trial. Margaret imagined that Mrs Ferrars and Miss Steele only sat on her table to amuse themselves by her reactions to the behaviour of Henry and his ladylove, who were seated further down the table.

“Look at the lovers now, Lucy,” cried Miss Steele. “Did you ever see such a public display?”

Margaret did not want to look down the table but could not help herself. Henry was whispering to his lover with urgent intent. Never had two people looked more confidential to her way of thinking.

“I expect Lady Lawrence is thrilled,” answered Lucy. “Mademoiselle de Fontenay's fortune will mean there will be no delay to their marriage.”