Chapter Fifteen #3
Willoughby could dance around the hard truth of it no longer. He took another drink and stared across the table at the colonel, determined he should not give any ground. “I refused to marry her. I do not believe the child she is carrying to be mine.”
Though an explosion of rage would hardly have been astonishing, the colonel only looked deeply pained. He sighed, almost deflated, and raised a hand to his own face in a posture of utter defeat. “Good God, it is as I feared. Tell me—tell me everything.”
For a moment Willoughby was too uncomfortable to speak. He felt the ground vanish beneath him, and really began to question whether he could credit his own recollections. “You will not like to hear what I must say.”
Colonel Brandon’s stern veneer returned. “Am I not owed some explanation for why my ward believes you to be the father of her child? By denying it you are only compounding the insult you have paid her with abhorrent insinuation—I ought to call you out.”
“I cannot be of any help if you kill me,” Willoughby muttered.
“Vile coward! You are of little help already. You have ruined her.”
“I think not, sir—I swear I was not the first….” Willoughby could not finish his speech, for Colonel Brandon had seized him by the collar and was dragging him out the back door of the establishment. There was a deserted alley, and Willoughby was instantly afraid for his life.
For now, the colonel did no worse than to shove him against a wall. “Tell me, you cur.”
“Very well,” Willoughby gasped; he had hit the wall with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.
“I attended a May Day celebration with some friends in Kent, and a fortnight later I travelled to Bath. I stayed at the inn in Loxwood on my journey, and there I met Eliza.” He could not meet the colonel’s eye as he recounted the rest. It was no easy thing to tell a man that his ward was plying strange gentlemen with drink to lure them into bed.
It was clear the colonel did not believe his account of it. “You would paint her the villain? You coward!”
“Would I travel all this way to deceive you,” Willoughby countered.
“Your difficulty in accepting the truth does not make these facts any less true, sir. I have given you my accounting of things, and I had neither seen nor heard from Eliza again before I arrived at Allenham. There she had sung a sad story to my aunt—who, I might inform you, encouraged me to discover what you might be willing to pay for me to make an honest woman of your highway temptress.”
The colonel’s eyes flashed with something wild and terrifying; he cuffed Willoughby in the mouth, shouting an oath at him.
Willoughby raised his finger to his lips, and looked down at the blood on his fingers. He laughed bitterly. “What, do you not desire me for a son-in-law?”
Colonel Brandon glared at him. “I hardly know whether to be relieved or disgusted that you will not do the honorable thing. I cannot own to any surprise, however.”
“The honorable thing? Leave that distinction to the man who has really done this to her—I assure you, it was not I. As I told you, I met her in the middle of May—and yet from the looks of her, the babe may come any day. Need I fetch you a calendar, or explain the birds and the bees to you, sir? I came to you out of a sense of decency, for fear of what may befall her in her travels—I have disobeyed the express wishes of my benefactress, who would have me go to London and catch some vapid heiress to repair the damage your ward’s baseless accusations have done me! ”
The colonel scoffed. “Your suffering must be great indeed.”
“Eliza Williams,” Willoughby snarled, “is an adventuress who has cost me the woman I love—and you would blame me for her troubles? Go to your search, now you know where to look, and leave me to my suffering—I can assure you it shall be all the misery you might wish me, and more.”
For a moment Willoughby thought the colonel would strike him again, and braced himself for it. Instead the colonel turned away and began to pace. “You will not go back to Norland?”
“No. I cannot. I am threatened with disinheritance over this—I must go to London at once. Marianne is forever lost to me—I congratulate you on your triumph, sir.”
This time, Colonel Brandon did hit him. “My triumph? My ward is God knows where, with child, and you call this a triumph for me? You mean to jilt a second woman I hold in high esteem, and think only of yourself. I am sure you could never deserve either of them.”
It was this that broke Willoughby at last—the thought of what he must do, and how it would wound more than Marianne.
More than wound—his abandonment, bow lever involuntary, would destroy her gentle heart, and after the forgiveness that she had shown him—he was far from innocent—he really did not deserve such a woman.
“I do not,” he cried, and gave way to a sob that had nothing to do with physical pain.
“Least of all Marianne, I am sure.” He slumped back against the wall and looked up at the colonel in some desperation, feeling that all was lost, and almost wishing the man would just shoot him already.
Maria Bertram sat at the far end of the table at dinner, which was a shabby affair indeed.
She glared at the room in general, sourly despising everyone in it.
But no—she felt some little sympathy for Cousin Marianne, who suffered much the same plight.
There her heart might soften—but everybody else could go to the very devil, and her father could lead the way.
She had been sympathetic to what he must suffer, when first she learned of the plight Mrs. Rushworth had put him in, but her generosity began to wane.
Now, her fondest wish was that his greatest fear come to pass—in all haste.
Maria spoke to nobody at all, drank perhaps more wine than usual, and made certain that Fanny Price, Henry, and her especially father all felt her displeasure.
She was sure they did, but the rest of the table merely ignored her.
Edmund had finally ceased his moping over Mary and was grown quite animated—and utterly absorbed in Cousin Elinor’s conversation; even her mother and Aunt Norris were too much engaged in encouraging Julia and Mr. Ferrars to notice Maria’s palpable misery.
Once or twice Mary tried to catch her eye, but Maria was not sure Henry’s sister would make the best confidante.
As Fanny Dashwood and her mother had not come down to dinner, there was nobody to signal for the separation of the sexes at the end of the meal; indeed, the younger gentlemen in the party seemed to prefer following the ladies, over brandy and cigars.
Going from one room to another was a matter of complete indifference to Maria in her state of wretchedness, but as their large group meandered down the hall to the drawing room, Henry stopped and looked back at her, while Fanny moved away to keep pace with Mrs. Jennings.
Henry waited for Maria, and bowed as she approached. “Maria. Are you well?”
She made no curtsey in return, but scoffed at him. “How can you ask such a question? You must know what I suffer to see you with Fanny,” she hissed.
“Take heart,” he whispered, a bitter smile spreading across his face. “Think of your father’s happiness—was that not your wish?”
“I rather wonder at yours,” she retorted. “I begin to think you sincerely attached to Fanny Price.”
“Yet she thinks me a fickle man, who feels not deeply enough for anybody.” He gave her a hard look, then flicked his eyes to Fanny, and turned his head sharply to observe the rest of their party milling into the drawing room.
“You must get back to your Mr. Rushworth’s fascinating company, I am sure.
And his charming mother. Perhaps you might, for once, give a convincing performance. ”
Maria blinked her eyes to fight back tears. “Henry, I cannot….” She stopped herself, biting down hard on her lower lip, and then turned on her heel and hastened toward the drawing room.
Mary made another attempt to speak with Maria, but this was rebuffed at once, for Maria had not the self-possession to restrain herself from abusing Henry very thoroughly to his sister, should they speak now.
Instead Maria sought out Marianne, and the two passed the evening playing very mournful duets despite mounting protestations from their companions.
Fanny Price smiled warmly as she was joined by Mary, who had been rather coldly slighted by Maria just now.
Mary took Fanny’s hands in hers and squeezed them.
“Ah, my dear friend, how well you look tonight! But I suppose I should not keep you from Henry.” Here she leaned in, whispering with some displeasure, “I had thought to keep company with certain other unattached ladies this evening, but….” She glanced over at Marianne and Maria at the pianoforte.
“Oh, but I am happy to talk to you,” Fanny cried with affection. “Indeed, I have been thinking all day that you may be the best person to advise me….”
Mary seized her hand again, and kept her voice low as she asked, “Is it to do with Henry? But we must speak privately, dear Fanny! How I long to hear you!”
There was some laughter nearby—from behind a tall wingback chair, Mrs. Jennings turned about and looked at them with mirth and mischief twinkling in her eyes.
“Ah, my dear girls! Just look at the pair of you, thick as thieves—quite in league together!” She attempted a whisper, but Mary and Fanny instinctively moved closer to her.
“Ah, but what a fine thing, Fanny, and how I might imagine what you must wish to confide. Well! And you Mary, I am sure you are no stranger to certain sentiments, eh?”