Jane Odiwe - Willoughby’s Return

Margaret tried hard not to listen as the sisters talked of weddings, with hints of naval ceremonies and nudges in her direction. Her eyes perused the lower end of the table; she could see Marianne seething with indignation as Lady Lawrence regaled her with tales of nuptial expectations and stories of ill health, whilst piling her plate high with pastries and cake, managing to consume every last morsel.

Charles Carey and Mr Mortimer did not make an appearance at supper, and on looking about, Margaret could not see any sign of them. She wondered briefly if they were still in the card room, but decided that this was not very likely. It was more probable that they had left, especially if Mr Mortimer had explained Margaret's position. This idea did not please her and her spirits sunk lower. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her old friend, but she could not go on giving him the idea that there could be any hope of her accepting a proposal. It was best this way, but she hoped he would forgive her in time.

With most of the eating accomplished, tables were breaking up and new groups forming. Margaret observed Henry greeting Mr Willoughby and his wife, introducing Mademoiselle de Fontenay, who curtsied prettily. Looking at Henry made her feel more miserable than ever. How soon could they go home? Looking across at Marianne, their eyes met. It was clear that she was thinking the same.

“Where has your beau gone off to, Miss Dashwood?” came Anne's irritating voice to break her reverie. “Mr Mortimer promised me the first dance after supper and now I can’t see either of them. Mind you, we were behaving a little particularly after having danced two together. Maybe he doesn’t want to set tongues wagging against us. If you are about to tease me about him, Miss Dashwood, I do not know what I shall say in return!”

“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort,” retorted Margaret, who could not bear Anne's company any longer. “Excuse me.”

She got up, leaving the room immediately in search of quiet and solitude. Out in the corridor she did not know which way to go. In such a large house it was easy to lose oneself. Heading off the main corridor, she turned, mounting a few steps into a smaller walkway. On spying a door left slightly ajar with a glimpse of bookshelves and an easy chair, she slipped into the room. Flopping down on the seat, she gave in to her feelings at last. Having tried so hard to rein in her emotions, they got the better of Margaret now. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over her cheeks at the recollection of images too painful to recall, her small frame convulsing with racking sobs, which nothing could prevent. After a few minutes, willing herself to stop, she brushed at her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. This would never do. The last thing she wanted was to give Henry the satisfaction of seeing that she was upset. Any feelings of concern and affection for him were rapidly giving way to other sentiments. “He is no better than a libertine,” she thought, “dallying with my heart.” Fetching out her kerchief from her reticule, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

With a determination to triumph over her emotions, she opened the door to set off back to the ballroom. As she turned the corner into the main corridor, she was arrested by the sight of Mademoiselle de Fontenay engaged in conversation with a young man whom Margaret did not recognise. They neither of them appeared to notice her, so engrossed were they in animated dialogue. Margaret managed to pass them undetected; only the agitation in the young man's voice was discernible. A good-looking gentleman, but with the appearance of one who had known better times, Margaret could not distinguish enough of what he said to make sense of his speech. His voice was low and his French dialect so strong that she could not make out a single word, although it was very clear that he was greatly upset. She was most curious, wondering who he could be. Mademoiselle Antoinette was clearly disturbed by what he was saying. Margaret looked about but could see no sign of Henry. As she reached the end of the corridor, she looked back. Antoinette turned to regard her but as Margaret lifted her arm to salute in recognition, the other young lady turned her back as if she did not see her. Margaret was sure that she had been observed. Mademoiselle Antoinette's behaviour was more than a little puzzling.

In the ballroom, Marianne had sat out the first three dances after supper, sitting between Mrs Jennings on one side and Lady Lawrence on the other, who for the most part talked across her and at length on the merits and disadvantages of every match in the room. William had abandoned her to their care, leaving for the card room with what seemed to Marianne to be indecent haste. She could not blame him nor could she easily forgive him. If she were a gentleman, she mused, forced to sit with the likes of these ladies, she would be as anxious to escape. Indeed, it was hard enough to bear but Marianne disliked cards so much that she was prepared to admit that half an hour in the company of her sister-in-law was almost preferable to a game of chance.

So she was thrilled when Sir Edgar stepped up to claim her for a dance. Willingly, she took his arm to join the set for a country dance. The dancers lined up on either side, forming a long chain. Sir Edgar was very gallant, complimenting her on her grace, telling her what a pleasure it was for him to stand up with her. As usual, Marianne delighted in his attentions. Although quite a portly figure, her partner was very light on his feet and made her feel as if he would not have treated a queen with any more distinction.

Gaining the top of the room, to her dismay, she encountered Mr Willoughby.

“How charming to see you again, Mrs Brandon,” he said, as they both turned to promenade down between the dancers together.

“Good evening, Mr Willoughby.”

Marianne could not look him in the eye. It was enough to feel the pressure of his thumb on her hand, his fingers underneath brushing her palm as he reached out to hold it. She felt his hand against the small of her back as he steered her round in the dance. Her body immediately responded to his touch; she was unable to prevent the feelings that quickened her breath, making her head pound with the surge of blood. Struggling against it, she determined to give him no inclination of her bewilderment. Fortunately, his power was supreme for only a moment before she managed to subdue her emotions, angry that her innermost feelings had betrayed her.

“You always were the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance,” he went on, “but I have never seen you looking quite as wonderful as you do tonight.”

“I do not think that you should be talking to me in this way, Mr Willoughby,” Marianne said, able at last to look directly into his eyes. “Think of your wife, to whom you should be paying such compliments.”

“I never can think of my wife when I am with you,” he murmured. “Indeed, it is hardly possible to think at all. You must be aware of my regard.”

“You are clearly drunk and talking nonsense, Mr Willoughby. I think you are not in your own mind at present. All I know is that I do not wish you to speak to me of such things again. If your unfortunate feelings are such as you confide, I beg you will show your true regard by leaving me alone.”

As Marianne moved on to the end of the dance, meeting Sir Edgar once more, she felt such a cheerful sense of release from the anxiety she had been suffering that she felt her countenance must give her away completely. As he escorted her back to her seat, she was surprised to see Colonel Brandon. From his expression, she surmised that he must have witnessed she and Willoughby dancing together, though she felt certain that he must have seen them talking, he could not have had any idea of the subject matter.

“Will you dance with me, Marianne?” He held out his hand.

“I thought you were playing cards.”

“I was…” he hesitated, “but my thoughts kept turning to you. I am sorry to have left you alone for so long, Marianne. Please forgive me and do me the honour of accompanying me.”

“I can think of nothing I would rather do at this moment, than being joined with you in the dance,” she said, taking his hand. She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Then again, if I might refer to our earlier promise, perhaps there is just another form of union that I might consent to with more than a little pleasure.”

William looked lovingly into her eyes to whisper in return, “I can assure you, Mrs Brandon, I never break a promise and am duty bound to our pledge.”

“Must we wait until the last dance before we go home?” Marianne implored, returning his stare with an expression that spoke of her greatest desire. More than anything she wished to go home, to renew the close bonds between them that she felt wanting these last weeks. Marianne desired to show her husband how much she loved him and to feel him loving her in return.

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.