Jane Odiwe - Willoughby’s Return

Marianne did not like being reminded of Miss Williams's existence. There were times when she was totally convinced of her husband's love, when at last she thought she had triumphed over Eliza, but having since witnessed his expression as he fondly doted upon the painting hanging above the stairwell, she had no doubt that he still harboured longings for his lost love.

“Come, if you have finished your coffee we will go back to the shop and select the finest embroidered muslin, spangled with tinsel and I know not what,” Marianne announced brightly, determined not to linger on such thoughts. They gathered their belongings, wrapped themselves up against the weather and made for the door.

As Marianne reached for the handle, the bell clanged and the door was opened with full force, making her leap nimbly back to avoid being knocked over and injured in the process. Aware that whosoever was standing within the doorway was making no attempt to step forward or back to let her pass, Marianne quickly recovered herself to acknowledge the person. However, her composure was lost the instant she recognised the tall and imposing gentleman who stood before her.

It was John Willoughby! A thousand feelings rushed upon Marianne, who acknowledged his bowing form and met his earnest gaze with as little hesitation as she was able. The years had not changed him for the worse in her eyes. He was, if possible, more handsome than ever and he made a striking figure. Everything about him suggested and reflected easy wealth, from the styling of his hair to the cut of his blue coat.

He was the first to speak. “Mrs Brandon, how do you do?” His elegant appearance matched his cool manner; he spoke as if they were used to meeting every day in just this way, and Marianne hoped that her troubled feelings would not betray her. He bowed toward Margaret. “Miss Dashwood.”

Margaret became tongue-tied and hoped Marianne would find the strength to speak for them both.

“How do you do, Mr Willoughby?” Marianne answered at last. Her voice remained steady and though she wanted to run away that very moment, she knew she could not. This was a meeting she had always known would eventually transpire, and one that she had half suspected might take place before the day was out.

He stepped aside and raised his hat in a gesture that dismissed them both. Marianne, eager to leave, took Margaret's arm in hers and swept through the doorway without another word or look. She wanted to look back, to see if he observed them still, though she was sure she could feel his eyes burning into her back as they forged ahead. They walked back up the road towards the linen draper's in shocked silence. Marianne hardly knew what she was feeling.

“The worst is over,” she said to herself. “We have met and should we do so again, I shall be able to bear all with feelings of equanimity.”

“Oh, let us go home now,” Margaret begged. “I have no more desire to look at muslins than I wish to tramp about Exeter bumping into personages from the past. We will bump into Mrs Jennings next and the day will be complete.”

This last made Marianne smile. “Do not worry on my account, Margaret, I could not care if I should collide with a murderer along the High Street. I am perfectly able to conduct myself; I am not perturbed by the experience of seeing Mr Willoughby though I have to say he certainly seemed rather distraught to have seen me. And did you see his face? All lines and wrinkles, my goodness, time is ravaging to some countenances, is it not? Well, if you learn to rate your pocket book above all else, I daresay that is the penalty. Having too much money to squander does nothing for one's complexion, especially if one is outdoors too often. I suspect his wife is keen for him to follow his pursuits and encourages him to be out hunting constantly. And I expect he is keen to be gone too, when he has to look at Mrs Willoughby's countenance every day over the breakfast things.”

So Marianne ran on without a pause, until Margaret quite despaired. It was very clear to her that, no matter how much her sister protested that she was as self-possessed as ever, declaring that her encounter with Mr Willoughby had had no effect, she was most upset.

However, all conversation on the affair had to cease for the present as they soon arrived back at the shop, Marianne insisting that the most expensive fabrics were displayed and cogitated over. The beautiful mull they had seen in the window was decided on at last: to be worn over white satin of the highest quality. Marianne was sure Lady Middleton's dressmaker would be able to fashion the most wonderful creation for Margaret in time for the ball at Delaford. Despite herself, Margaret was delighted. She did not want to admit how much she was looking forward to the ball. It would only encourage Marianne to tease her about Mr Lawrence. She was looking forward to seeing her friends and showing Henry a thing or two about English country dancing.

Laden with their purchases, they made the short distance back to the New London Inn where Marianne had instructed the coachman to attend them, anxious that they leave as soon as possible in order to get home before darkness fell. Fortunately, the sun decided to make another appearance, and they travelled home in good light. The two young ladies were quiet and thoughtful.

Marianne gazed out of the window; she could not help re-enacting in her mind all that had passed that afternoon. “Oh, the shame I feel at the idea of Sophia Willoughby listening to us discussing her husband in that way,” she thought. “I will never forget the look of utter disdain that reproached and humiliated me. What possibilities can explain their presence here in Exeter? Perhaps they are visiting friends. But if that is the case, why are they not staying with Mr Willoughby's benefactor, Mrs Smith?”

As if she read her thoughts, Margaret spoke, breaking the subdued solitude of their ponderings and the rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves, as they splashed through mud and thundered over turf.

“What do you think they are doing here?” asked Margaret, turning to face her sister, to scrutinise her expression.

“I suppose they must be on a visit to see Mrs Smith,” Marianne replied, “though it seems a little odd that they are not staying at Allenham itself, do you not think?”

“They have not visited these parts for a long time, I am sure,” Margaret added. “At least, they have never been here for any significant length of time or I am certain we should have heard about it. The Middletons would surely have had some news of them being in the vicinity, and there has not been a mention of them. And even if Lady Middleton were only being discreet, fearing to mention them in front of Mama, her mother certainly would not have held back. Indeed, Mrs Jennings has only ever spoken his name to declare that he must be the cold-hearted creature she always assumed, to leave poor Mrs Smith alone, for years on end.”

“How dare she presume to know anything about him,” Marianne exclaimed in irritation.

“I believe she only attacked him for the way he treated you in the past,” urged Margaret, placing her hand over her sister's to reassure her. In this mood, she knew Marianne could erupt like a volcano or simmer away like a hissing kettle on a low flame, depending on how she was handled. Margaret was determined to keep her on an even keel if she could.

“You must not mention a word about what happened this afternoon,” Marianne burst out. “News of their arrival in Exeter will be certain to reach Barton Park sooner or later, and for my own part, I would wish it to be a lot later. Let us hope it is a fleeting visit, though I am sure this cannot be the case. They would not have taken a house in Southernhay if they were only here for a day or two. I cannot bear to think what Mrs Jennings will have to say when their proximity is discovered. Thank heaven I shall be gone back to Delaford tomorrow. If only this carriage had wings and could fly, I should give my excuses and be gone this very evening. How I dread going up to the Park and being scrutinised by them all.”

“Oh, it is not so very bad, I am quite used to it,” Margaret answered, a little put out that Marianne had no feelings for her situation. Going to dine at the Park was a trial she had to endure several times a week. “All the attention will be on me, I suspect, with all the talk of Henry Lawrence and the Delaford Ball. I do not see why you are so worried. I shall be the butt of all Mrs Jennings's jokes and merciless teasing. Lady Middleton will comment on how I have grown and say how much I have improved, glancing in my direction once I suspect, as she does not have time for anyone but her children. Sir John will be as jovial as ever and force us all to be lively. You do not consider anyone's feelings but your own, Marianne. You forget; I am forced to rely on these very people for most of my entertainment. You are let off very lightly, I think. I wish I could hide away with a husband and a child who love me.”

“I am sorry, Margaret, please forgive me,” Marianne begged. “I do not suppose that I have ever considered what your daily life must be. But I have known Mrs Jennings longer than you, and if you think I shall be let off her inquisitions, you are deluding yourself. However, I promise I shall steer our conversation round to that of muslins and fripperies and away from young men.”

“If you really think you shall succeed with that line of talk, then you are very much mistaken, my dear sister,” Margaret retorted. “Have you really forgotten her passion for gossip? I cannot believe it!”

Marianne sighed with resignation. They were passing the signpost for Allenham, the narrow, winding valley a mile and a half from Barton Cottage. Seeing Willoughby again had disturbed her mind, and now she was travelling through countryside she could only ever associate with him. Pulling down the window to breathe the cool air, she could not help being reminded of a time, five years ago, of a season just like this one. She tried to dismiss her thoughts, but they crowded in on her until she was forced to remember a particularly golden, autumnal day, when she had first been taken to see Allenham Court, which John Willoughby would inherit one day. The dwelling he had hinted would also be her future home was the place where he had first stolen more than a lock of her hair.