Chapter Sixteen #2
Mrs. Dashwood’s eyes lit with joy, and she cupped Willoughby’s face in her hand. “Oh, my dear Willoughby! I will go join my aunt and young Margaret at the milliners, and you may catch us up there whenever you like.”
Willoughby offered Marianne his arm and began to lead her down the high street toward the church.
It was not an especially long distance, and he slowed his pace as they left the larger buildings of the village behind.
“Marianne, there is something I must tell you—something I wish to ask you, though I am scarcely at liberty to ask you—my circumstances have changed.”
Marianne gasped. “Lady Allen?”
“Yes. But there is more.”
“Tell me quickly, my love!”
Willoughby filled Marianne in on all that had transpired in the last three days, and it eased his troubled mind to confide so fully and honestly with her.
She listened intently, interjecting cries of alarm and huffs of indignation throughout the sordid tale, and at the end of it she groaned.
“Oh, Willoughby, it is beyond dreadful! It is insupportable!”
He felt his heart sink. “It is a disappointment, to be sure—I have not been accustomed to living modestly, as I must do when Lady Allen makes good on her threat to disinherit me, but Marianne, I promise you shall never want. Not for affection, nor any material concern, I swear it.”
“Oh, Willoughby! No!” Marianne drew him into a frantic embrace.
“Do not be stupid, that is not at all what I meant—how could you think it? I shall never love any place so well as Norland, but I would live a hovel half the size of Barton Cottage to be with you! I only meant that I am very sorry we must wait until Eliza Williams is recovered—that you must leave again, and not return to Norland. I will miss you dreadfully.”
Relief washed over Willoughby, and he drew her close to him.
“Dearest Marianne, you shall never cease to stir my heart, you perfect creature. I do not deserve you, but I long to. I am doing this for you as much as for myself—if Eliza can be found, the colonel will not be able to deny that her child is clearly not mine—it is scientifically impossible, I am certain of it. But I have not been entirely blameless, and I owe him this effort, if I expect him to clear my name and let the offense pass without a challenge. I will come back to you, and I will marry you with all the honor you deserve in a husband, if you will have me, knowing I shall have so little else to offer you.”
“Yes! Yes, yes, my love, of course! I should wait a thousand years with your promise to hold on my heart, Willoughby.”
Her giddiness was enough to halt his steps; he beheld her with wonder, that such a creature could really want him, for all his foolishness and folly. Then he did what he had longed to since the earliest moments of their acquaintance—he kissed her passionately, with little thought of ever stopping.
Fanny Price was grateful indeed to have been included in the Worthing scheme, though Mrs. Jennings declared it was very natural Fanny should go, and both Mary and Julia were encouraging, even eager for her company.
They were only an hour in traveling, and several hours in exploring the place, but the day passed quickly and cheerfully for Fanny—perhaps it was a little pleasanter, she could not deny, because Mr. Crawford was not one of the party.
John Dashwood had stayed at Norland to attend his wife, who was still feeling very poorly, but more than half their party had gone to Worthing in the end, and Fanny did her best to enjoy the company of those who had come, rather than dwell on the absence of those who had not.
Maria has also remained at the house—Fanny really began to hope some reconciliation may take place between her cousin and a certain gentleman, for she had learned all that she felt she might from Mr. Crawford’s attentions to her, and a great deal more besides.
That Edmund had stayed at Norland, and Elinor as well, was more of an effort to ignore. Fanny had been so sure, the previous evening, in her conversation with Mary—and such joy she had felt at the thought that she was over him. But perhaps it was only the wine.
Mary was often at Fanny’s side as they explored the little seaside village together, and the two young ladies were easy and comfortable companions together after the secrets they had shared between them.
Mary accompanied them when Mrs. Jennings implored Fanny to allow the purchase of one more gown, which must surely be ready in time for the ball, and she several times attempted to apologize for her brother’s absence, though Fanny had little wish to hear any such thing.
“I am sure Henry must have forgotten that you are for Portsmouth tomorrow, and we shall not see you until the following evening,” Mary fretted, despite Fanny’s assurances that it mattered little to her.
“I am sure you are better company for the trying on of gowns,” Fanny observed. “I am perfectly content, and have been all day. Do not forget, Mary, I have been more diverted since coming to Norland than I ever have been before.”
“Well, then you are far more forgiving than I am,” Mary laughed.
“But that is no great shock! Indeed, I grow more fond of you daily.” They had just left the modiste, who had the distinction of boasting that Princess Amelia herself had been a patron some years prior, on a visit that had lent the village much distinction.
Fanny was amazed that the gown for her come-out should share in such distinction, but here Mary seized the opportunity to lavish Fanny with more praise, in her teasing and whimsical way, and by and by Fanny began to mind it not at all, so long as Mary kept her laughing.
Mary suggested they link up with some others of their party by walking down to the beach, and Fanny was happily rewarded by the picturesque view to be had beyond the last of the shops and houses on the high street.
The village itself was smaller than Portsmouth, and the beach there was far more tranquil that the bustling port Fanny had grown up in.
Many of their party from Norland had congregated here already, and Mr. Willoughby had apparently joined them at some point—he was walking hand in hand with Marianne near the water’s edge, and Mary and Fanny exchanged a look of playful speculation about it.
Mary seemed on the verge of saying something clever about it, but Mr. Rushworth broke off from his mother and Lady Bertram to come and speak with them.
“Miss Price, Miss Crawford,” he said, not quite bowing to them—he rather stooped, his hands on his knees, to catch his breath after running some distance down the beach to meet them.
“Mr. Rushworth,” Fanny cried. “Are you quite well? Is anything the matter?”
“No, no at all.” He looked around in some confusion. “I am sure we get on very well here—but are you glad you are come today?”
“Indeed I am,” Fanny replied in earnest.
“I know I am glad of it,” Mary said, clinging still to Fanny’s arm, and inexplicably appearing to wish Mr. Rushworth away.
The gentleman took no notice of this, and Fanny did her best to ignore Mary’s sudden change in humor. “How lovely the coast is here,” she observed. “It is just as nature has left it, no interference from civilization—no artifice, no adornment of any kind is necessary.”
“Why, yes,” Mr. Rushworth agreed. “But that is the true merit of such natural beauty, to be sure. And yet, it is little surprise that every reminder of this must be a shock to us, do not you think?”
As Fanny considered, Mary laughed. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”
“Well….” Mr. Rushworth stared out at the sea and frowned for a moment, but Fanny urged him to go on. “The world has taught us that everything must be so very grand, but who says it ought to be thus?”
“A very different opinion than what you expressed when you were eager to improve your grounds at Sotherton,” Mary replied.
“Yes, yes it is,” Mr. Rushworth admitted.
“I suppose I have begun to revise my views—but is that not a fine thing? Miss Price, I think, has reexamined her own inclination to shrink from company—and we are both the happier for it, at present, Miss Crawford. It is not inconsistency to change one’s mind, not when there is some good to come of it.
Seeing what nature has done—what perfection might exist when things are arranged by nature, by the Almighty, as it were—does it not make human handiwork seem trivial and superfluous in comparison? ”
Fanny smiled widely, thinking perhaps Mr. Rushworth was speaking metaphorically, without being acutely aware of it himself. Mary only laughed again, and said, “So, you think now to let the gardens at Sotherton grow quite wild—I am sure your gardener will take it rather hard.”
Mr. Rushworth had the grace to laugh at himself a little, and Fanny did her best to give him an encouraging look, lest Mary’s teasing make him embarrassed.
“I am sure I shall still be diligent in their care—but whatever plans I had for the grounds before must be reconsidered, I am sure. I have no notion of moving forward with anything that was discussed there last summer.”
“I think a more natural approach would be lovely,” Fanny said diplomatically.
“What you have to work with at Sotherton is really impressive, sir—it is far better featured than you were wont to credit it, when we visited last August. I am glad you begin to think as well of the grounds as they deserve, and I hope you really do allow nature to be your guide, rather than artifice, as you say.”