Chapter Twenty-Three
Hertfordshire
Marianne played a duet with Rebecca, whose beautiful singing voice came as a surprise to those who had only ever heard her raillery. They had practiced the duet often in the time Marianne had spent at Netherfield, while Elinor was occupied in the secret preparations of the ballroom.
Marianne knew the music well, and allowed her mind to wander, for she was vastly looking forward to seeing the ballroom in all its ethereal glory.
A blush warmed her face as she recalled her glimpse of it the night before, when Mr. Bingley told her it was all done for her, and it was impossible for her to refrain from dwelling upon the remembrance of how he had kissed her.
She had lain awake half the night thinking about it – the other hours she spent tossing and turning, fretting over what Jane would make of it.
Her sweet and gentle cousin had encouraged her relations to welcome Mr. Bingley back to the neighborhood, which Marianne had not done; what she had done was nothing short of a betrayal.
Marianne had never imagined herself capable of such treachery.
She had always styled herself the sort of woman to sympathize with the plight of other ladies, even when they were wrong, which was sure to be seldom.
Even when the lady in question was her own cousin, who had actually praised Mr. Willoughby!
A small voice in her mind told her that perhaps there was some justice in the matter – that if Jane could like such a villain, perhaps she had not deserved Mr. Bingley, or perhaps there was never much affection between them.
She began to play with greater feeling, resolving to herself that she could hardly repent her affection for the man who had gone to such great lengths to please her.
When she finished her performance and received the applause of all the guests, she looked up and saw Mr. Willoughby in the doorway.
Marianne was sure her tortured mind had conjured the apparition to further torment her, but when Mr. Bingley approached him with a look of curiosity for the guest he did not recognize, Marianne staggered back with horror.
She reached for Lady Rebecca's hand and searched around the room for her sister, but Elinor and the colonel were both absent. “Good God, Willoughby is here,” she said to her friend.
Lady Rebecca followed Marianne’s gaze across the room and sniffed with disdain. “Oh dear, you must have been very lonely in Devonshire, to think such a man could be handsome.”
Marianne felt a surge of resentment that he should presume to intrude on such a joyful day, that he had the audacity to speak to her Mr. Bingley, to show his face amongst all her friends.
As the refreshments were served and the guests began to seat themselves at the card tables in the adjoining parlor, Marianne launched herself forward.
Mr. Willoughby bowed as Marianne approached.
Mr. Bingley stood beside him, rigid with a hostility that Marianne had never imagined him capable of, and which she found to be far from unbecoming.
It was evident that Lady Rebecca had repeated to him much of what Marianne had confided in her friend, and she could scarcely object to his willingness to defend her.
Neither Mr. Bingley nor Marianne performed any introductions, but this did not stop Lady Rebecca from offering Mr. Willoughby a frigid smile as she dipped into the slightest of curtseys.
“Sir, we are hosting an entertainment this afternoon. The event is open to all our neighbors, though I never imagined it necessary to warn the servants not to admit strangers.”
“I am John Willoughby of Combe Magna in Somerset,” he said with another bow and a bright smile. “I presume you have heard of me. I have come at the urging of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and wish to speak privately with Miss Marianne, if you will permit me.”
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Bingley said.
“Miss Marianne has been a guest in this house for several days, and she is under our protection,” Lady Rebecca said coolly. “Furthermore, she is far too popular amongst our neighbors – we could not possibly spare her.”
Marianne folded her arms in front of her chest and glared at her erstwhile beau with a triumphant smile. He smiled back at her, giving a rueful chuckle and a shake of his head.
“Perhaps it might sway you if I state unabashedly that Miss Elizabeth Bennet made a very persuasive argument in favor of my coming to speak with you, after assaulting my person in the thoroughfare outside Mrs. Jennings’s home this morning.
She believes that what I have to say will be to your benefit, Miss Marianne, though I am happy to forfeit any privacy, if that is your preference. ”
“What makes you happy, sir, must be as insignificant to me as my preferences have been to you since our last meeting,” Marianne spat. “I cannot imagine why my cousin would desire you to intrude on such a festive occasion and force your company upon me and my beloved friends.”
The penultimate word rolled off her tongue all too easily as her gaze drifted to Mr. Bingley; there was an endearing air of struggle about him, as if it did not come naturally to him, to make himself such an imposing figure. She offered him an encouraging smile, and Mr. Willoughby’s brows shot up.
“If you are displeased by what I have to say to you, I shall give you leave to eject me from this house in the same style as your cousin did, by pushing me down into the muck and slamming the door in my face. Surely after burning my letters, you would not deny yourself the satisfaction of terminating our acquaintance so thoroughly, if that is still your wish after a half hour’s conversation. ”
Marianne hesitated at the pleading look in his eyes.
She turned to Lady Rebecca, who gave a haughty laugh.
“A quarter of an hour must suffice sir, for the sake of such an inducement as this. I confess I am vastly curious to hear an account for your intrusion on our celebration. Surely the happy news the Dashwoods are celebrating today is too sublime to be dampened by anything you can say in a quarter hour. I hope I am a formidable enough chaperone to ensure that is the case.”
Mr. Willoughby looked confused by this allusion to the Dashwoods’ felicitous news, but he asked no questions.
Marianne felt a surge of anxiety in her chest, but she nodded her assent.
She was glad that Lady Rebecca’s words had excluded Mr. Bingley, for she could not like the thought of him bearing witness to what promised to be an exceedingly uncomfortable interlude.
Nonetheless, he followed them across the hall to his study, and declared he would wait outside near the door, should his presence be required.
Lady Rebecca led Marianne around Mr. Bingley’s desk and bid her sit in his chair.
She remained standing at Marianne’s side as Mr. Willoughby sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.
He looked more amused than offended at her friends’ determination to protect her, and Marianne resented his ease. She nodded for him to speak.
“I suppose I ought to begin at the beginning,” he mused aloud.
“Remarkable,” Lady Rebecca quipped, pointedly observing the time on the clock behind them.
“When I left Devonshire, it was at the urging of my mother, Mrs. Hatchard. Her husband, who is as dear to me as if he were my own father, had fallen ill. He remains in failing health, though I shall treasure what time I have left with him. My aunt, Lady Allen, was convinced of his imminent demise. She has long desired me to wed an heiress, and her first thought after I received the distressing news was that I should be prevented from marrying well – or marrying at all – if I were to go into mourning.”
Mr. Willoughby finally betrayed a modicum of discomfort and squirmed a little in his seat as the two ladies merely stared at him stonily.
“I ought to acknowledge that I did admire you and enjoy our time together, Miss Marianne. Your fondness for me flattered my vanity, and had I not been faced with the imminent loss of a relation so dear to me, I might have considered the affection between us to be love. Only the agonizing grief I felt when I read my mother’s words of heartbreak and desperation taught me the difference between true devotion and a fleeting attachment which had lacked the time to develop into something more enduring. ”
Behind the desk, Marianne gripped the seat of her chair but refused to betray any further reaction.
Internally, the rejection he implied stung acutely, but cooled into disbelief.
Perhaps, for him, it had been a passing whim, but she knew her own disposition to be singularly disposed to the swift and fervent attachment he now dismissed.
“I do not say these things to wound you, Miss Marianne,” he said softly.
“I have come to respect you more since our parting, and I believe you deserve to hear what I was too great a coward to explain then. I have long known that I would need to marry well, and what I felt for you only taught me that it is not only for my own comfort that I must do so, but for the comfort of my future wife. I have been obliged to let Combe Magna to a family of means, and it will be several years before this income settles the debts I inherited with the estate. Any woman whom I could love and esteem, I should bind to a life of deprivation. I have, since our parting, resided in the small and drafty rooms above my stepfather’s bookshop.
You may imagine in your romantic heart that true love could endure such penury, and yet you made your disdain of Barton Cottage no great secret.
I cannot fault you for it – it is my own failing that I allowed you to imagine I had anything more to offer. ”