Chapter Thirteen #2
“Hang the colonel! I care about your good name, John, as you ought to do. You will marry an heiress before the end of the year, or I will cut you off completely. See to the child indeed—with what money? Thoughtless boy!”
Willoughby’s wits were utterly shattered.
He had known, on some level, for years that this would someday be expected of him, but he had never anticipated how odious he would find the notion.
He did desire money—he had never thought it an ill thing that he should.
But he had gotten a taste of true love; now he could only bitterly regret the knowledge of what he must give up.
“Thoughtless? My thoughts are many, madam, and grave indeed,” he grumbled.
“They are nothing compared to what they might be, if Colonel Brandon calls you out. Or if you shackle yourself to some pretty pauper and spend your old age regretting her. Use your head, foolish boy!”
“Call me boy again and I shall quit the room,” he snapped.
Lady Allen stood. “Perhaps you should. I might have expected such a tantrum from that girl, but as usual my hopes for you, though not high, have been dashed indeed. Well, I am obliged to tell you what your mother ought to have said more often—off to bed with you, and I entreat you to think upon this matter! A serious choice is before you, John. Marry the colonel’s ward, if he is willing to make it worth your while, or find an heiress in London.
Else, you shall be disinherited irrevocably. ”
“I will not marry her—I will not! Indeed, she ought to be sent back to the colonel directly, before he skins me alive.”
“I shall arrange it, then. You will prepare to travel to Town at once, and I pray you find someone rich enough, or foolish enough, to turn a blind eye to you spending her money to support your bastard.” Lady Allen fixed him with one final frightening look before quitting the room.
Willoughby remained in his seat for a minute more, still reeling; he resolved to make haste to his chamber, lest he really give way to tears of his own, such was his wretchedness.
There was a flutter of motion in the hall as he approached his room. “Stop,” he hissed, and the blur of white fabric came to a halt. It was Eliza.
“What do you do at my chamber door?”
Eliza stepped closer and peered up at him with her large, dark eyes. “I am sorry, John—I came to apologize to you. I went about it all wrong—you are cross with me because your aunt is cross with you—I never meant to make such a mess of it!”
“No? Just what did you intend? You have known where to find me these six months or more. Why did you wait?”
Eliza pouted. “You seemed such a fine gentleman—so far above me—I was sure you would never have me, but as my time draws nearer, I am so frightened and alone—I could not live with myself if I did not try—and surely you have some right to know you are to be a father.”
“Your time draws near?” Willoughby scowled and moved nearer to her.
Eliza flinched, her hands flying to her belly.
John looked down at her, and tentatively placed a hand on her stomach, feeling the size of the babe within.
“I believe your time does draw near. And yet it was but six months ago….” John recalled his late sister—she had been this heavy with child just before she passed, and her time was very near indeed.
“What game are you about, Miss Williams?”
She drew away and shook her head. “Please,” she begged. “You must help me. It is your child, I swear it—perhaps I am carrying twins—it runs in my family.”
“I think not.”
“How can you be so cruel, so heartless? I should never have come to your room had I known!”
“Would that it were so,” Willoughby scoffed. “I must bid you goodnight, Miss Williams. Sleep well, for I shall be returning you to Colonel Brandon on the morrow.”
He turned and went into his bedchamber, locking the door behind him, disgusted with everyone, even himself, and dreading the coming interview with Colonel Brandon. In the morning, Eliza was gone.
He ought to be relieved that one problem had vanished in the night, but he could take no pleasure in it.
Indeed, Eliza’s disappearance brought on almost as many worries as her coming to Allenham in the first place; John rode away from the house that morning with a heavy heart and a mind that was so plagued with troubles he could scarcely focus on any one of them.
He had been dismissed from Allenham with explicit instructions to seek a rich wife directly, and he could not doubt that Lady Allen would follow through with her threats. What a miserable fate awaited him in London!
Beyond the ache in his heart, his conscience pricked as well.
Though the colonel was sure to call him out, he ought to have made some effort to reunite the man with his ward, whatever the consequences for himself.
Willoughby remained convinced that the child was not his, but he knew the colonel would not be so likely swayed in the matter.
Still, he ought to have done more to detain her—mislead her, perhaps, until she could be sent back to her guardian—the man had been scouring Sussex for her after all.
Willoughby now began to think of risking Lady Allen’s displeasure, if only briefly.
He might send word to the colonel that Eliza has been seen in the area—better still, meet with him at Norland—and see Marianne one last time.
He turned his horse about when he reached a fork in the road. He could not go to London just yet.