Chapter Ten #3
They had but a moment, and Willoughby looked at her with a burning intensity in his eyes. “Meet me in the library after you have dressed.”
Marianne had never completed her toilette so quickly in all her life; once she was satisfied with her appearance, she fairly flew into the library. Elinor’s distress was forgotten entirely, for Willoughby looked mad with grief. “Willoughby! Whatever is the matter?”
“Hush, my love, for I shall not be able to unburden myself if we are discovered here.” Willoughby crossed the room and took her in his arms; in such a state as he was, the gesture was more discouraging than romantic. “You know I love you, Marianne.”
“Of course—and I love you, too.” Though this was the first time they had declared it aloud, Marianne had felt they understood one another for quite some time.
She was also convinced that no proposal would follow such a declaration—he was in some kind of trouble, and her heart ached at the thought that they might be separated.
Willoughby held her a moment longer, and then finally released her. He raked his fingers through his hair and began to pace. “What I have to tell you will be a great shock.”
“Good God! Has it to do with Colonel Brandon? He wishes to keep us apart!”
“Yes, but it is more than that. Damn and blast, but I hate to speak of it. I am sure you will despise me after.”
“Impossible!”
He looked at her with wild desperation in his eyes. “Promise me. Promise me that you will not despise me, that you will hear everything I have to say.”
“Of course! But it must be something very dreadful.” Marianne began to grow frightened, and sank onto a nearby sofa for support. “Oh, do come and sit beside me. I cannot bear your pacing.”
Willoughby chewed his lip for a moment, but finally relented.
He sat down beside her and took her hand in his, but he did not look at her.
He leaned forward, his intense expression fixed on the fireplace.
“He has some information—that is, he thinks that he knows—but it is not the whole truth. What he suspects would be enough to destroy me—Lady Allen would be furious—I am sure to be disinherited.”
Marianne’s stomach lurched. “My God! But how can this be? What information?”
Willoughby groaned, his fingers slipping away from hers as he buried his face in his hands. “I am so ashamed, Marianne,” he breathed.
Her gentle heart could bear no more—Marianne felt silent tears begin to spill down her face, and she pulled at Willoughby until he would embrace her once more.
“You can tell me anything,” she cried. “Whatever it is, it will not keep us apart. We are bound to one another, my love, you know it is so.”
“You are too good for me,” Willoughby said, his voice cracking with emotion. He pulled away from their embrace, but drew her closer and held her hand once more. “There is no easy way to say this—would that I did not have to….”
Marianne steeled herself for something very dreadful. What could he possibly be afraid of telling her? Was he a widower, perhaps—or already married?
“When we were all at Delaford, and Colonel Brandon received that urgent message—and then later, at Barton, Mrs. Jennings hinted that she suspected the colonel’s departure had something to do with Eliza Williams—well, she was not wrong.”
Marianne let out a nervous, strangled sound. “But how can that affect you? If you knew anything about it, you would have said so then.”
“I had every reason to conceal it, the truth—the truth is… I am indeed involved in the matter. I knew Eliza Williams. I knew her, you understand?”
Marianne was wretchedly still as his meaning washed over her. “Oh.”
“It was before I ever met you, late in the spring. I was passing through Sussex to visit Bath from London, and I stopped at an inn—there was a girl, a pretty girl, and… I did not know she was Brandon’s ward. She told me her name, of course, but not the rest.”
“Oh,” Marianne said again, still processing his information. “Is that all?”
Willoughby furrowed his brow. “You understand what I mean, do you not? She and I—we… I took her to my bed, Marianne.”
“Did you love her?”
“No, I did not. I did not even know her. She told me she was waiting for her father, and I offered to buy her meal at the inn, for she said she had no money. I only meant to be kind. After I had dined alone and had a bit of ale, I saw she was still waiting, and it had grown dark. I asked if she had a room, or needed one, but she said she was sure her father would arrive soon. She said she was rather frightened of some rough looking patrons, and asked if she might wait for her father in my room. I agreed, and she asked for a glass of wine while she waited. We had one glass together, and then another… her father never came, and we…” Willoughby shuddered.
“When I woke in the morning she was gone.”
Marianne fidgeted with some lace on her dress.
Of course she could not like the notion of her Willoughby and some other young lady—a pretty one at that.
And yet, she knew that while a lady was supposed to be chaste until her wedding, gentlemen were not held to such standards.
“Willoughby, I have decided it is none of my concern,” she declared.
“Had it occurred after I had met you—oh dear, it has not, has it? Wait, do not tell me.”
Willoughby looked up with disbelief, and slowly smiled at her. He captured her hand in his and kissed it eagerly. “No, it has not, nor shall it ever. You are far too good for me, Marianne! I thought you would be quite mortified.”
Marianne considered her words again. There was a strange sense of something nagging at her, although perhaps it had only been the suspense.
But no—it was jealousy; she felt the color rising in her cheeks, and looked away.
“I rather envy her, if I am honest. You and I have scarcely kissed. We were alone together all that time at Allenham, and you know Mrs. Jennings probably assumed that we…. Well, we might have at least made all the speculation worth it.”
Willoughby gave a startled laugh. “You astonish me, Marianne. I thought you might be horrified, and you only wish I should take liberties with you?”
“Well, and why do you not? Am I not as pretty? Or, have I been too modest? Have I done anything amiss?”
“No indeed,” he said earnestly. “You are utterly perfect, Marianne, and such perfection should be worshipped and preserved. I have fallen in love with you. Ours is a true marriage of minds, and not some drunken night at an inn.”
“Oh, Willoughby!” Marianne laid her head on his shoulder, and he began to stroke her hair.
A wave of relief washed over her; his terrible secret was not so very bad at all.
But then she recalled that Colonel Brandon had some role yet to play in it.
“Does the colonel know what you have told me? What is he going to do? Surely Lady Allen would not punish you for such a common thing.”
“He does not know the particulars, but he suspects.”
“But how?”
“Miss Williams has run away from the family she was staying with at the time. Whatever the family was, they could not have been proper caretakers, letting her go off in the evening like that…. Brandon has been searching for her, asking questions—the innkeeper recalled seeing us together, and Brandon put the rest together. It is bold of him to conjecture so much, and yet he is not wrong. He has made some threats—if he discovers her, and I am sure he shall eventually, he will call me out.”
“A duel? That brute!”
“I am not afraid of him, but I have no wish to fight. And it would pain me to see you fret over it. What concerns me most, however, is what Lady Allen will do. She is quite a high stickler and has no tolerance for such situations as these. If she were to discover it, she would disinherit me.”
“Surely not! Surely it could all be hushed up—nobody ever need know….”
“If there were a child….”
“Oh.” This was enough to finally unsettle Marianne, but again her jealousy was stirred. Some other girl might have the privilege of holding Willoughby’s child, and deny Marianne the opportunity to ever enjoy such bliss. “But what can be done? Can you not throw yourself on Lady Allen’s mercy?”
“Lord, no—she would hate that. No, I can only hope that I am wrong, and that Miss Williams’ disappearance is entirely unrelated to me—that she remains unaware of my connection to the colonel, and has no reason to speak to him of our time together.”
Marianne trembled. “Colonel Brandon would ruin you if he could, I am sure of it. Hateful man! I knew he envied you my affections, but I had not expected him to stoop to such viciousness. I cannot hope, for I fear the worst!”
Willoughby hung his head in despair. “So do I, my love, so do I.”
Mary Crawford caught Marianne by the hand as they met in the corridor to go down to dinner.
Marianne appeared astonished to be separated from Mr. Willoughby, but Mary leaned in close to whisper to her.
“My dear friend, I should think you may wish to pause a moment before appearing downstairs—there is a mirror just over here.”
Mr. Willoughby gave Marianne a gentle nod. “I shall go ahead, and meet you downstairs.”
Mary led the poor girl, who had obviously been crying, to a large gilded mirror in the gallery. Marianne let out a little squeak of surprise, her fingers raising to her puffy cheeks. “Oh, dear. What am I to do?”
“Come to my room—we will dab your cheeks with some cool water, and then you shall be right as rain!”
“Oh! Do not speak to me of rain!”
“Indeed, it has been a rather grim day, has it not? Even our dancing together felt very wrong. How queer everybody was!”