Chapter Thirteen
John Willoughby felt his heart twist with despair and Lady Allen’s letter fall from his fingers as Marianne fled the room in tears. He pursued her into the next room, a small parlor frequented by none of the guests but the Dashwoods.
Elinor and her mother were on the point of entering the room as well, and they both halted with some alarm as Marianne darted past them, sobbing, and threw herself onto a sofa. “Willoughby,” Mrs. Dashwood cried. “What is this?”
With effort, he tore his eyes off of Marianne to address her mother. “I have had a letter from Lady Allen. I am summoned to Allenham at once, on pain of disinheritance.”
Mrs. Dashwood gasped. “Good God! Has something serious transpired?”
Willoughby regretted his candor at once, but caution at such a moment was impossible.
His mind was too full of the pain of parting with Marianne, perhaps forever, and fear of what other torture his aunt might inflict.
“I hardly know,” he said. This much was true, though he certainly had his suspicions.
Between Colonel Brandon’s recent visit—and threats—and Mrs. Rushworth’s inquisition, there could be little doubt what had Lady Allen so riled.
Elinor looked askance at him. “Surely such distress could not be over nothing.”
“My aunt is prone to strange whims—at her age she thinks it quite her right—but I suppose it is her right to exercise the privileges of riches on a poor dependent….” Willoughby stammered, for both deceit and the truth were insupportable to him in the face of his beloved’s nearest relations.
Mrs. Dashwood looked stricken. “When must you depart?”
“Almost this moment.”
“She will not detain you from us long, I hope.”
Willoughby colored, and with his eyes fixed on the ground he replied only, “You are too good.”
Marianne continued to weep in the next room, and it tore at his heart that they must part on such terms. He could not even promise to return.
He wished to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her—to promise that every obstacle might be overcome.
But he could not even convince himself of this.
“It is folly to linger in this manner,” he muttered, loathing himself with every step he took away from them.
He reached Allenham by late evening, more downcast than he had ever felt in his life.
Peering up at the old house now felt nothing like what it had when he had brought Marianne here only a fortnight before.
Without her at his side, the place was but a dreary prison, and as he stabled his horse he felt the sunny future he had envisioned for them here slipping away.
Lady Allen would not have summoned him with such language to deliver good news.
Inside, he sent word that he would attend Lady Allen after refreshing himself from the road.
He changed his clothes and washed his face, but the replenishment he truly needed was that of the spirit, and such solace evaded him.
He was still agitated when he entered the drawing room, and doubly so when he perceived that Lady Allen was not alone.
She sat on the sofa, her posture erect and her countenance dark, for at her side was a weeping young woman who might have been called petite were she not heavy with child.
The girl moved her handkerchief from her face and looked up at him with all the alarm that he felt himself—it was Eliza Williams.
“Well, John,” Lady Allen snarled. “Finally! You have kept me waiting, and you see now how I have been occupied all this while. I do hope your explanation is satisfactory, because I will not bear the scandalous mess you have made.”
Eliza’s weeping intensified. “Oh, John,” she moaned. “Please do not abandon me—and think of your child!”
Willoughby gaped at her. “My child,” he stammered. It was everything he had dreaded; he was obliged to stagger into a chair, and gripped the arms of it as the gravity of his plight washed over him.
“Yes, John. Your bastard,” Lady Allen cried. She stood and loomed over him.
Willoughby only shook his head in disbelief, looking over at Eliza. “But how came you to be here?”
“John Willoughby of Allenham—I shall not forget how prettily you introduced yourself to me the night you….” A tear slid down Eliza's cheek, and she dabbed at it with her handkerchief. “The night you took me to your room at the inn.” She rested her hands on her belly and sighed.
“Heaven and earth, John, how could you be so careless?” Lady Allen was fairly quaking with rage.
“Perhaps you think such behavior is acceptable, that all your feckless peers have their dalliances, but such reckless immorality will not be tolerated by your benefactress, a fact you have long been aware of,” she thundered.
“Madam, I had no idea….”
“You abandoned me with nary a word,” Eliza cried. “I had no notion of where to find you.”
“You knew to come here,” Willoughby snapped at her. “I wonder you waited so long!”
“That is immaterial, John,” Lady Allen barked, and then appeared to reconsider. “Perhaps it is strange you should wait so long….”
“My allowance is small—travel so difficult,” Eliza stammered. “At any rate, I have been afraid to seek you out, but I could go no longer—I set out in the hope that you will do the honorable thing, sir!”
“The honorable thing?” Willoughby felt as if his cravat were tightening around his neck. He glanced over at his aunt, but she crossed her arms and grimaced at him.
“You see, John, what comes of such things?”
Eliza narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Have you no heart, John? You made me believe you cared for me. I am sure my guardian will forsake me, and then I do not know what I shall do!”
Lady Allen beheld Eliza’s dramatic display with evident distaste, and then rounded on John. “And I trust you know who her guardian is? Or are you truly the most careless young man in England?”
“Yes, I know, damn it!” Willoughby pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. “He is looking for you—I saw him just a few days ago. Perhaps I ought to send word to him?”
A flash of surprise alighted in her eyes, but Eliza held her chin up defiantly. “I thought to seek him out once we are betrothed—he shall be less likely to cause you any harm.”
“Cause me harm? Yes, he threatened me already, but what would he do to you, I wonder? Perhaps I ought to have told him the truth—aunt, believe me, events did not occur as this young lady may have intimated—she misled me. She seduced me.”
Lady Allen scoffed, raising her hand to her heart as if aghast, and Eliza feigned astonishment as well.
“How could you? I had never been with a man before—or since—I knew nothing of what I was about—and you gave me so much wine to drink…. Truly, Lady Allen, I should hardly know the first thing about seducing a proper gentleman, or anybody—I only wanted a meal at the inn. John was so kind at first, and offered to pay for my dinner—I did not know what the price would be—and then he was so handsome—I felt I could never say no….”
“Lies,” Willoughby cried, leaping up from his chair. “That was not the way of it!”
Eliza cowered and covered her face. “Please, do not hurt us!”
“John!” Lady Allen grabbed him by the arm. “This, too, is no way for a gentleman to behave.” She rang the bell, and a maid appeared. “Sarah, Miss Williams is overtired. Show her to her room.”
Eliza began to stammer some protest, and appeared for a moment as though she might swoon, but Sarah caught her by the arm and led her from the room.
Lady Allen resumed her seat and leveled a withering glare at Willoughby.
“That was exceedingly unseemly, John—and I have actually been imposed upon to have that person, of questionable origin, in my home for two days! All because you cannot control yourself! And really, she is Colonel Brandon’s ward!
She is not wrong in hinting that he may do you some harm—and you say he has already threatened you? You stupid boy!”
“She has misrepresented many facts, Aunt—it was she who seduced me….”
“That hardly matters! Be a man, John—you cannot blame the lady. How unbecoming. This is not behavior I should like to see in an heir, and I may have to rewrite my will if you will not take the trouble to reform yourself.”
“Aunt….”
“No! You will hear me, John. I cannot be convinced this is the first occasion you have… become overly acquainted with a young lady—but no more! It is time you were married, before some other penniless chit catches your fancy and tarnishes your respectability.”
“I do wish to marry, Aunt. Very much so, in fact….”
Lady Allen held up her hand to cut him off.
“The Dashwood girl, I know all about it.” She sighed and shook her head.
“And then what will you do? Wait for me to die so that you might have this house? Combe Magna is a shambles, I know all about it. You could never afford to keep a girl who brings you nothing, and you would be miserable for it.”
“I love her,” Willoughby cried. “Marianne is different. She is not some random pretty face at an inn….”
“She might as well be! Do not deceive yourself you would be happy with her for long. I know you, John. The demands of your pocketbook would quickly outweigh those of your heart, and you would regret her. Beauty fades and even charm grows tired—but money….”
“I will not marry only for money.”
“Then take care that you fall in love next with a lady of fortune. Even this Eliza Williams might bring you something, if Colonel Brandon can be brought around. Indeed, he may be so grateful to you for making her respectable that he makes her his heir.”
Willoughby felt his chest growing tighter as he considered this.
He knew not what Eliza was about, but there could be no good to come of it, and he wanted nothing to do with her.
“I shall see to the child, of course, but I cannot marry her. Indeed, after my last encounter with the colonel, I doubt he would allow it.”