Chapter Six #2
Prudence sniffed. “I am sure I would like to know more on that score, another time, but I must have your agreement on our great concern first. You know you are like another daughter to me, my dear, and I would have your approval to proceed as I should like to.”
Margaret peered out of the window as she considered.
“I know you have reasons of your own to press the issue, but I am not entirely ready. Perhaps when we are there, I will begin to feel as I did before, for they are so very vexing, and always giving offense—but I should at least like to cling to some hope, for Elinor’s sake.
If Edward does come, I should wish them to settle things between them before anything is made known to all—after all, it will affect his sister… .”
“Yes, yes, I do understand you. Well, surely he would not hold it all against Elinor—but then James may very well—but no matter. I am content to wait, and let Sir Thomas squirm awhile longer. Only do not let us wait too long, for I wager he and John will surely undertake some scheme of their own, and if we play our trump card we must be assured of our own triumph. I take no chances, you know.”
Prudence reclined against the plush seat of the carriage, considering the matter quite closed for the present.
She was fully confident that a week amongst John and Fanny Dashwood would bring Margaret to her senses, and perhaps it would be enough time for James to turn his eye from Maria to one of the Dashwood girls.
The details may vary, but the greater outcome, she knew, would be just what she wished.
Marianne knew she owed her sister Elinor a thousand apologies, but she could not really repent stopping the carriage an hour into their journey so that she and Willoughby might ride on top, ostensibly to take in the view; the company in the carriage was simply too much to be borne.
Mrs. Jennings’ insinuations of Elinor meeting with ‘the famous Mr. F’ filled Marianne with remorse for her share in the betrayal of that secret, and Elinor’s mortification tore at Marianne’s empathetic heart.
What agonies even her staid sister must be feeling at such a time!
And James Rushworth—well, there was nothing in the world that could have made Marianne endure another moment of her cousin’s company.
It was bad enough that her great aunt had frightened poor Willoughby half out of his wits, and then Cousin James had to rattle on at him in such a fatuous way about the superiority of his estate and a hundred other inane things. And his sad story!
Here Marianne’s heart had been softened a little—she was really very sorry that her cousin had been so crossed in love—but the lady who had wronged him was also her cousin—had he no discretion in speaking of such things?
Mrs. Jennings had, naturally, devoured his abundant information, though how the woman could make any coherent sense of it was beyond Marianne.
It was all lamentation about theatricals and garden keys—how such a prattling booby could be her mother’s first cousin defied explanation, and though she was sorry for leaving Elinor to bear it alone, Marianne supposed that her sister was far better disposed for such an undertaking.
Elinor had not her passion for intelligence and eloquence, nor her aversion to suffering fools.
These regrets soon passed, and Cousin James was forgotten—even the vexation of who was to greet them at the end of their journey faded to the back of Marianne’s mind, for she was with Willoughby, and therefore perfectly happy.
He engaged her in lively conversation, asked a great many questions about her childhood home, and showed every appreciation for her heartfelt effusions.
They arrived, and were obliged to exchange the pleasure of one another’s sole company for the tedium of distant relations, dampening the pleasure of Marianne’s nostalgic return to Norland.
Willoughby stayed by her side throughout the introductions, whispering his first impressions into her ear with little endeavor at discretion.
The Norland she had described to him was found wanting only in being so full of people who were nothing to Marianne.
Fanny and John led their relations into the drawing room, and an awkward mingling with their Bertram cousins was embarked upon by all but Marianne, who saw no reason to converse with anyone less engaging than Mr. Willoughby.
Elinor nudged her and Mrs. Jennings merely laughed at her, but Willoughby was equally engrossed by her, to the exclusion of all others, and ere long their discourtesy was dismissed by those more willing to attempt civility.
Looking about to make sure they were not overheard, Willoughby leaned close to Marianne and observed, “You must think me sorely lacking, for when I showed you Allenham, there was not a great crowd to bid us welcome.”
Marianne swatted at him, smiling at the fond remembrance.
“Oh, no,” she giggled. “You must know I should like nothing better here. I should infinitely prefer to find Norland just as empty. I am sure I would have liked Allenham very well no matter the circumstances of my seeing the house, but there was something so very poetic and alluring in viewing it as we did, as if discovering secrets hidden in the silent stillness of the place.”
“A pretty turn of phrase for what was little better than trespassing,” he whispered back, his grin conveying all the shared mischief they had felt on that occasion.
“But I fear we shall have little chance of such things here. We are a party of nearly twenty, and stolen moments alone may prove scarce.”
Marianne felt all the challenge and implication in his loaded speech, and the idea hung between them as they shared a meaningful look. Happily, it was easy enough, among so large a group, for them to steal away together unnoticed, and they made their escape at the first opportunity.
As the noise of so much stilted conversation faded behind them, Marianne began to feel more at ease, and the rounding of a corner into the main hall emboldened her to entwine her fingers with Willoughby’s as she led him through the gallery.
The portraits were dwelt upon for a time, and after an examination which betrayed a very admirable zeal for fine art, Willoughby came upon the most recent portrait of Marianne, no more than a year old.
A blush crept across her face as she watched him examine it, and when he had beheld the portrait long enough, he gently kissed his fingertips and placed them upon her lips—or, rather, on her portrait’s lips.
The simple gesture aroused her passionate sensibilities, but she was prevented from any action other than immediate flight, for the sound of voices grew very near.
Hand in hand they made a hasty retreat down the corridor, and only when they had found sanctuary in the music room did Marianne’s laughter bubble forth.
She felt wonderfully wicked at such a moment, for the musings she had entertained in the gallery had not passed, and she was nearly emboldened enough to act upon her impulse.
She beckoned him to join her at the window, for this was her favorite room, and the view here was one she had taken in more than any other afforded from the numerous windows of the house.
The lighting was just what it ought to be to display the park to advantage, the soft pink glow just before sundown, and as Willoughby came to stand at her side, his hand capturing hers, Marianne was struck by the absolute rightness of all her feelings.
Marianne moved closer to him; she laid her head on his shoulder, and as the two gazed out the window together, Marianne felt her heart brimming over with all the usual fiery ardor she felt for him, and something beyond that as well—there was a placid sense of belonging that misted her eyes with tears.
“Oh, Willoughby,” she sighed with contentment.
“This is just as it ought to be. Just as when we were together at Allenham last week.”
“And just as worth all the pert suspicions of Mrs. Jennings,” he teased, tickling her side for a moment before resting his hand on the small of her back.
“But no, I cannot say it is quite the same.” Marianne looked up at him in momentary alarm, but Willoughby gave a gentle smile and delicately brushed her jawline with his fingertips.
“At Allenham it felt a homecoming for both of us—the feeling I imagine a bridegroom must have on the day of his wedding, bringing his bride home to begin their life.”
Marianne felt her breath catch in her throat. His eyes drifted down to her lips, which instinctively twitched as he drew her ever so slightly closer. She felt the kiss coming, but it landed softly on her forehead. She let out a shaky breath, willing herself to move her face up, closer….
Willoughby let out a ragged sigh as his hands held her shoulders.
The tip of his nose brushed hers, and then his lips grazed hers for the briefest instant, before he rested his forehead against hers and drew her further into his arms. “I feel as though going to Allenham was the asking, and coming to Norland was the answer,” he murmured.
“Exactly so,” she breathed, feeling the unspoken question. She laid her head against his chest, savoring the feel of it, yet all the while wishing he would kiss her in earnest.
He did not, and yet the intimacy of the moment was almost too much for her; she was at once too nervous to act upon the yearning she felt, and unsure of how to safely spend her sudden energy.
She moved abruptly to the pianoforte, and began to play an intricate piece at a rather quick tempo.
Willoughby hesitated, but when she looked up his expression betrayed every tender sentiment, and finally he came to sit beside her.