Chapter Sixteen
James Rushworth was inattentive to the conversation over breakfast, and his mother was obliged to repeat his name several times before he could draw himself from his reverie to answer her.
He had grown lost in thought, watching Maria, Crawford, and Fanny Price at the other end of the table.
Such as Crawford’s behavior had been of late, it was impossible not to compare Miss Price’s response to Crawford’s overtures with what Maria’s had been.
He had been peripherally aware of what was happening, but at the time he had never given himself leave let the thoughts take a more coherent shape in his mind; now he could not help it.
Maria had already accepted his proposal of marriage, and yet how she had flirted with Crawford, and welcomed all his advances.
Miss Price, on the other hand, was actually free to accept Crawford’s attentions, and yet she was unwilling to do so—and quite rightly, James thought.
She had all the sense and fortitude to question his motives, when Maria had far more reason to, and never did.
He had never thought much of Fanny Price—she had been so retiring at Mansfield that nobody ever did—but James thought well enough of her to be pleased that she was not taken in by this rake.
Indeed, he had rather come to enjoy thwarting Crawford’s attempts to impose upon the poor girl, and he was always rewarded with a very pretty smile of gratitude, and excellent conversation.
Miss Price had come to be a curiosity for him.
He wondered what had possessed Crawford to pursue her, for though James came to like Miss Price more and more with each interaction between them, the qualities he had discovered in her pleased him well enough, but hardly seemed to be traits that would attract such a rogue.
Miss Price was thoughtful and intelligent, interested in matters of real substance, though very shy, and there was a kindness about her that was more rooted in a real desire to do good, rather than to merely be pleasing and likable.
She had a great many qualities that Maria lacked, though James supposed the disparity must make Maria a better partner than Miss Price for Henry Crawford.
From these musings James was called to attend his mother, who was impatient at his wool-gathering. “James! James!”
“Yes, Mother dear?”
His mother scowled at him. “Your cousin Marianne is much depressed—I have been telling her that we must raise her spirits.”
James nodded—he had heard his mother’s lamentations for both of his fair cousins.
Elinor, who had been far kinder to him at Norland, had apparently been jilted by a relation of her sister-in-law, but James had some little suspicion that she may perhaps not be so very hopeless.
Marianne was now also abandoned, and James was heartily sorry for it.
He had thought, since first meeting the fellow, that Mr. Willoughby was rather too similar to Crawford for his liking, but he was sorry nonetheless that the cad had left abruptly, and with no promise of any return.
Marianne’s disappointment had been beyond concealment, and James felt for her—he recalled what he had felt when Maria wrote to end their engagement, and it was a pain he might wish to spare anybody, if he could, though he knew he was not eloquent enough to express such a sentiment. “Quite right,” was all he said.
“Well, that is what I have been saying,” she huffed. “We must do something for her.” Marianne was not present—she had not come down to breakfast at all since Mr. Willoughby’s departure, but Elinor and her mother sat across the table with looks of concern.
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
“An excursion to the village,” his mother replied. “Margaret and Elinor are all in favor of it, and I am sure Marianne should like it well indeed. But you must come with us, James.”
“What for? I am sure you shall wish to do some shopping or the like, and I shall only be in the way.”
“Come now,” his mother pressed him. “You said just yesterday that you are needing some new gloves.”
“Gloves might be purchased in a quarter-hour, I daresay, and you ladies may be many hours at the milliners and the dressmakers. I do not wish to be in your way, I am sure I should grow very dull.”
“Very dull,” his mother quipped. “No indeed! Your cousins should be glad of your company.”
James shrugged. “I cannot think there much diversion in it—Miss Price informs me Amberley is not so large a village. Enough for your requirements to be sure, but….” He frowned.
He should be just as useless, he supposed, whether he stayed or went, but he suspected his mother wished him to be of more comfort to Marianne than he felt himself equal to.
“Oh, we need not settle on Amberley because it is nearest—Marianne deserves proper cheering up, you know. Worthing is not so very far—I am sure it must not be an hour’s ride.
We might leave directly from breakfast, and make a day of it.
Marianne should love to go to the seaside, even at this time of year! ”
Elinor smiled at James before addressing his mother.
“I am sure Marianne would enjoy an afternoon by the sea. An excursion to Worthing today sounds like a very lovely plan.” She spoke rather louder than was her custom, and James was momentarily startled by it, but then he saw what she was about—their companions further down the table had heard her, and began to show some interest in their budding plan.
Julia Bertram smiled widely. “The seaside, Cousin Elinor? My, but we are close!”
Murmurs of excitement rippled down the table, and though his mother did not look best pleased by it, James thought it a fine thing that some others might wish to join their excursion.
He glanced back down the table again; Mrs. Jennings had caught wind of the scheme and latched on—even now she was speaking to Miss Price and the Crawfords of it with considerable animation.
Maria was seated near them, and James tried to catch her eye, but she gave one parting scowl to Crawford, declared a trip to the sea in such cool weather very foolish, and quit the room abruptly.
Miss Price knit her brow and watched Maria go with a look of dismay, before meeting James’ eye with a shy smile and a gentle shrug.
He smiled back, inclined his head to the door Maria had fled through, and gave a subtle roll of his eyes, savoring the flash of amusement in Miss Price’s countenance before she was obliged to turn back to Mrs. Jennings.
Willoughby had risen at dawn, for after the lows he had reached in his very soul, he took some comfort in his business now. The rest of his life must be a wretched eternity, but for the present he must do what was right. Perhaps it might bring some comfort in the days that followed.
He had been in a desperate state when he met with Colonel Brandon, but this was some step toward atonement; by mutual agreement, Willoughby was to assist in the search for Eliza.
Willoughby was to work his way west along the coast, while Colonel Brandon went by a route to the north of the county, each of them working their way back to Devonshire in all haste.
Worthing was the fourth village he had visited; he arrived by noon, and immediately sought out local innkeepers and merchants with a recent portrait of Eliza the colonel had provided him.
He made a series of inquiries, but to no avail—just as she had not been seen in the three villages before.
He resolved to press on, but hoped that the colonel was having better luck.
As he was leaving the last establishment, Willoughby began to rummage in the pocket of his greatcoat to retrieve his gloves; was not minding where he was going at all, and as he rounded a corner he walked directly into a young woman, who let out a sharp squeal—it was Marianne Dashwood.
“Willoughby, Good God!”
“Marianne!”
“Oh, my darling, I knew you would come back for me!” As her mother had become conveniently interested in a display in a shop window at some remove, Marianne threw her arms around Willoughby’s neck.
“Oh, my love,” she breathed. “How I have missed you! But how romantic you should pursue me here, rather than waiting at Norland. Dear man.”
Willoughby tried to resist—he really wished to restrain himself, if only to spare her—but he could not. He gave in, and returned her embrace for just a moment. It was awful and wonderful, exquisitely painful. “Marianne….”
“Oh, Willoughby!” She peered up at him with tears in her eyes.
“I know it has only been three days, but I have been desolate without you. How silly of me to have so little faith in you, my love. I ought to have believed you would come back to me.” She wiped at her eyes and laughed at herself.
“My goodness, how can you make love to such a watering pot,” she breathed, and laughed again.
“Oh, my love, you must promise never to leave me is such misery again!”
The trusting affection in her eyes was Willoughby’s undoing. Everything faded away but Marianne; she was everything. But such a thought as this could not last, and the conversation they must have could not take place in a public thoroughfare, any more than their affectionate embrace.
“Marianne, I must speak to you at once,” he said softly.
“Willoughby….” She broke into a radiant smile, her eyes misting.
She was so hopeful, so beautifully, and so irrevocably the owner of his heart.
He was drowning in all that he felt, and at once resolved that he could not give her up.
He would be the man she deserved, the man she already believed him to be.
Before he could lose his nerve, he seized her by the hand and hastened toward her mother.
“Mrs. Dashwood, I must beg a private audience with your daughter. Might we walk down to the church and back?”