Jane Odiwe - Willoughby’s Return

“Mrs Brandon, how charming you look this evening, does she not, Mr Ferrars?” Lucy asked her husband. Barring the way with firm resolution stood Mrs Ferrars. Marianne would have liked to pass by, but it was impossible and she certainly did not want Lucy to know that her sister was nowhere to be found.

“You must be missing your dear husband so much. Didn’t I say, Mr Ferrars, how much Mrs Brandon must have been pining for her spouse?”

“I cannot recollect anything of the sort, Lucy. But then I daresay I don’t attend to half of what you say. Were you just talking of Colonel Brandon?” Marianne watched him preen himself. Without casting an eye over either lady, his full attention was on his reflection in the looking glass on the opposite side of the room.

“Yes, of course, Mr Ferrars,” Lucy cried in exasperation. “I do wish you’d pay attention. Colonel Brandon has been away on business but he has been gone for three weeks; or is it more like a month, dear Mrs Brandon? You must be so lonely. And especially with him not being here to help you when you sprained your ankle. It's a good job you have other friends to keep you company.”

“I am fortunate indeed,” Marianne managed to say but did not fail to catch Lucy's expression.

“Mr Willoughby has been a friend of your family for a long time, has he not, Mrs Brandon?” She lowered her voice before announcing, “It must be of some comfort to you and your husband that difficult scenes from the past have not stood in the way of true friendship. But I see what you are thinking, Mrs Brandon. Perhaps not everyone might understand your carrying on such a friendship whilst your husband is away. Be assured, my dear, I am as silent as the grave.” Patting Marianne's arm as if to reassure her she added, “Well, I daresay I am very discreet but I cannot talk for others. Take care, my dear, I should not like to see gossip and false talk come of such a harmless episode. Come, Mr Ferrars, you promised me a dance and I’m jolly well going to get one.” They left, leaving Marianne staring after her, quite ready to burst into tears.

Henry and Margaret were sitting on the window seat hidden between wooden shutters and long velvet curtains.

“This was such a wonderful idea, Henry.”

“I could not spend all evening without speaking to you or touching you,” Henry whispered, taking her hand to plant a kiss. “Besides, I have something I must tell you. I don’t know what I am to do about it yet; or even if I can find a way out but…”

Henry broke off with such a look of concern on his countenance that Margaret was instantly alarmed.

“What is it, Henry? Oh, please do not look like that, you are truly frightening me.”

“You must promise not to be too upset when I tell you. There are more problems for us to face, but I hope I can find a way to overcome them.”

“Tell me, Henry, I can endure anything so long as I can be with you.”

“That is part of the predicament I find myself in, dearest Margaret. My mother's attempt to cheer me up involves plans to have me sent away to further my education. We will no longer be able to see one another.”

“Oh, Henry, where does she wish to send you?”

“To the continent. She reasons that as people are heading over to France once more that I should take advantage of the present climate and embark on a grand tour, taking in the sights of France, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland.”

“I see,” Margaret whispered quietly, trying to keep every hint of sadness at the prospect of Henry leaving out of her voice. “What a wonderful opportunity.”

“They are places I know well enough, I assure you. We spent so much of my childhood travelling from one health spa to another for a cure for Mother's ailments. And splendid though some of these places may be, I have no wish to go gallivanting abroad at present. At least I do not wish to go alone.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know what to do, Margaret. I do not think I have the power to refuse. I am entirely dependent on my parents at present, and I have no desire to be the cause of family argument. My father suffers quite enough at the hands of my mother without me adding to his burden. In any case, it is all arranged. I will be gone for a year at least, I imagine.”

“You have no choice but to go, Henry,” Margaret said bravely. “I daresay your mother thought she’d best remove you just in case we struck up our friendship again. But I hope you will come back to me. Please do not forget me.”

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.”