Jane Odiwe - Willoughby’s Return

Margaret longed to confide in Marianne, but it was impossible with Brandon looking on. He adored his sister and eagerly dismissed any suggestion that she was less than amenable by excusing her irritability as poor health. Marianne would understand Margaret's fears about Henry's mother, she was sure. Besides, she wished to tell her sister about the hints he had made about offering a young woman a home. Waiting would not be easy, but she would just have to speak to Marianne later. At least Henry would be there tomorrow and they would be able to spend some time together. Hadn’t he promised they might have an outing also?

Marianne looked on Margaret's countenance with satisfaction. “My sister has a glow about her,” she thought, “a radiance that seems to effuse from every pore. Despite her untidy appearance, her skin is flushed to a rosy luminosity, her lustrous curls tumbling and escaping in gleaming profusion from the ribbons in her hair. There is a girl in love.”

Marianne had spent a quiet afternoon pottering about as she saw to all the arrangements necessary to their arrival in town. Meetings with the household staff, the discussion of menus with the cook, and the particulars of the daily routine with the housekeeper had taken up much of her time. Mrs Jennings had called, staying far longer than was the usual calling time. Brandon had gone out again all afternoon, and so they had not had the opportunity of speaking more than two words together.

Although to any casual observer Marianne was convinced that as a pair they appeared to be perfectly amicable, she recognised that this was not an entirely true reflection of reality. Even if there had been an opportunity to share more time together, she was sure they would not have spent it in conversation. Brandon had withdrawn from her, she felt, and, though as civil and polite as ever in company, when on their own they were not truly communicating with ease. It had not escaped her notice that William's valet had organised her husband's belongings, directing them to be placed in the rooms adjacent to her own. Ordinarily, that might have been completely acceptable behaviour for most husbands and wives, but not for them. William always slept in Marianne's room, they always shared her bed, a vast canopied Queen Anne four-poster that Marianne had had transported from Delaford on their marriage, to remind them both of their home. Knowing that William's valet would not have acted without his instruction, she could not help but feel alarm and worry at his actions. The time to question him had not arisen. Brandon was stiff and awkward in her company, answering any enquiry with words of one syllable. Trying to be light-hearted and jovial had given way to a certain gravity in her own manner, relieved only by the timely arrival of her sister to force them into conversation once more.

After dinner, Marianne was feeling tired by the journey, brought on by the fretful anticipation of being in town and worn down by her general feelings of anxiety. Margaret chattered away animatedly enough about her hopes for a tour of all the sights during the coming week and Marianne was happy to sit back, letting her make all the conversation.

Colonel Brandon was sitting at a desk with a sheet of paper before him, dipping his pen into the ink and staring thoughtfully into the distance before committing it to his letter. He wrote rapidly, filling two sides in as many minutes, before taking another sheet and beginning again. Marianne did not ask about the recipient of his letter, as she was certain she knew to whom he was writing. That Eliza and Lizzy Williams filled his every waking thought, she was certain.

He soon finished, sprinkling the wet ink with sand before folding the letter with precision and sealing it with red wax. Marianne observed his profile, the candlelight illuminating his furrowed brow and highlighting his dark waves of hair with glints of gold. “He looks so worried, his mind full of concerns and yet I cannot speak with him. I wish I could run to his side to caress his hair and drop a playful kiss upon his lips, but I am convinced that my desires would be unwelcome to him. Everything about his posture suggests a man feeling ill at ease. He looks lost in thought, yet his agitation bristles in waves of tense brooding.”

Sitting in silence, the stillness was broken only by the soft, repetitive tapping of the letter upon the table, a sound that further alerted Marianne to the impression that her husband had something on his mind.

“I saw Sir Edgar at my club this afternoon,” he remarked, turning in his chair to face them, his expression impassive. “He complimented me on my charming wife, as he always does, but there was an enthusiasm and eager passion in his tones that I must confess excited my interest. He was kind enough to elaborate on his reasons for his present fervour, saying how delightfully you entertained Mr Willoughby in my absence at their family dinner at Whitwell.”

Marianne experienced the sensations of extreme heat and cold in one, feeling instantly nauseous as she realised how it was that Brandon's irritability could be explained.

“I did not embarrass my brother by revealing my ignorance of the event but returned his compliments, assuring him that you had been delighted to have been of assistance in diverting his guest. I told him that I could quite imagine that you were as attentive as he proclaimed. Indeed, he remarked that if he hadn’t known better he might have imagined you both to be long acquainted from the way ‘you did rattle on together.’ I do not know why you felt it necessary to neglect to mention these details, Marianne, but I hope, in future, you will consider my feelings and keep me better informed.”

Picking up his letter, he bowed in their direction and without uttering another word, left the room.

Marianne sat stunned and unable to move. Her mind was racing with all the possible intelligence that Sir Edgar might have revealed and how such a description of the events of that evening might have been painted. But no sooner was this done than she began to feel angry. Perhaps she had been wrong not to tell Brandon about the dinner in any detail, but she had been thinking of her husband, trying to protect him. Marianne had known how he would have disapproved of it all; her only hope was that Sir Edgar had spared William details of their walking in to dine together. But what could she do now? What should she do for the best? Her first instinct was to run after him, but reason told her that by doing so her guilt might be implied. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing to feel guilty about. The circumstances had been most unfortunate, but she had borne it for Henry and Margaret's sake. Not once did she remind herself of the disturbing effect the whole episode had made upon her mind. Those emotions Marianne had buried almost as soon as they had left Whitwell.

“Oh, Marianne,” Margaret started, “I’ve never seen William so cross. I must confess I am not surprised that you chose to keep your silence, but he was bound to have found out sooner or later. Why ever did you not tell him?”

“William has no cause to be so upset. His behaviour is little better than a small child who cannot have his own way. Surely he must see that there was nothing we could do about the situation. Storming off in such a fashion is ridiculous, and if he thinks I am going to rush after him, he can think again.” Marianne rose, smoothing her silk gown with her slender fingers before announcing, “I have a headache, Margaret. If you will excuse me, I will go and lie down.”

Margaret was left alone with her thoughts and fears. Her hopes for reconciliation between her sister and brother had been dashed for the time being. Even so, her present mood could not be entirely deflated. An evening party with Henry in attendance promised to be an excellent diversion. How she could wait until tomorrow, she hardly knew.

Alone in her room, Marianne lay on her bed but she could not rest. Hot tears stung in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks. Giving in fully to her emotions, she sobbed until there were no tears left, feeling herself injured and indignant. Gradually the sounds of the city subsided, darkness descended, and beams of moonlight crept stealthily through a chink in the blind, sending a shaft of silver to illuminate her ghostly reflection in the glass on her dressing table. Never had she felt so alone. As she lay half hoping that the Colonel would come to her and all would be well, there came a soft knocking at the door. William's voice called her name beseechingly and though she wanted to call to him, something inside prevented her from doing so.

“I will not be so easily persuaded,” she railed. “If he thinks I will forgive him so quickly for making me feel so wretched, he can think again. He can apologise to me tomorrow if he wishes, and perhaps he will act with more forethought in future than to make me feel as if I have wronged him. How dare he!” Brushing her damp cheeks with the back of her hand, she blew her nose once more and snuffed out the last whisper of light from the candle by her bed.

Marianne’s temper was not improved when Margaret suggested over breakfast that she should have made her peace with her husband, forgiving William for his brusque manner, which surely had resulted from a natural jealousy.

“Mama always used to say that you should never go to bed with an argument unresolved. Besides, Marianne, you look awful. You have dark circles under your eyes. Did you sleep at all?”

“I confess I did not sleep at all well, but it is not my fault. And now it appears that William could not have really been serious about wanting to ask my forgiveness, because he has left the house already. I expect he has gone to be with his cronies at the club. Well, we too shall go out, Margaret. You and I are going shopping.”