Willoughby's Return_ A Tale of Almost Irresistible Temptation - Jane Odiwe [13]
“Actually, that is not entirely true,” Margaret persisted, although not understanding quite why she was willing to confess her old, childish fantasies.
Marianne turned, all astonishment. “Tell me, Margaret, who is this paragon, this nonesuch, this nonpareil?”
“Do you promise not to reprimand me if I dare tell?” Margaret looked into her sister's eyes, and then sighed. “Oh, it is so silly, I wish I had not said a word. It was just a youthful infatuation. What will you think of me? You will be very cross with me.”
“My goodness, Margaret, you are serious. I detect a broken heart. Whoever this gentleman is, I hope he knows of your feelings. And why should I reproach you? Margaret, it is no secret that I have been very foolish in the past and gave my heart where I ought not.”
The mother and daughter who stood directly in front of them chose this moment to give up and strut out of the shop, complaining in loud voices that they were forced to go elsewhere. Marianne sighed with relief. They were now directly behind the lady dressed in grey and she looked to be almost finished. The back of her pelisse pronounced a most elegant cut and expensive taste. The shopkeeper asked for directions to send her parcels and Marianne heard her announce in a loud voice, so that everyone should take note of it, that all packages should be delivered to Devonshire House, West Southernhay.
“Did you hear that?” whispered Marianne. “The very smartest part of town. No wonder she is so keen for the whole shop to hear of it! Now, where were we? Ah, yes, you were about to reveal your lover's name.”
“I cannot tell you,” Margaret insisted. “It was so thoughtless of me to have mentioned him at all. You will think me a perfect dolt.”
“Well, in that case, I think a spotted muslin will do after all,” snapped Marianne, but she looked sideways at her sister and Margaret noted the amusement in her eyes.
“Very well,” cried Margaret, determined to get his name out before very much more time had elapsed. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “John Willoughby is his name.”
“John Willoughby!” cried Marianne out loud. “You were in love with John Willoughby!”
Marianne had never learnt the art of being discreet; she spoke as she found and whatever happened to be in her head popped out of her mouth with little reserve. As Marianne cried out in amazement, the whole shop seemed to quieten and everyone turned to gaze at the woman who had mentioned a gentleman who was known by name to many in the vicinity. For not only had she shouted out his name but she had linked it with a word that was guaranteed to excite universal interest. There were not many other words capable of arousing such a reaction as that of love, especially when it connected itself to a married man. Margaret instantly reddened, realising not for the first time the great stupidity in relating such an ill-timed confidence. The entire shop was agog and none more so than the lady in grey before them who turned to stare with more than a hostile glance.
Marianne blushed as scarlet as her cloak as the woman in front looked her up and down. A flicker of recognition passed across the lady's countenance and trembled in the lilac plumes waving above her bonnet, to vanish just as quickly in the next second. Marianne took in the features of the handsome, well-dressed woman who stood looking down at her as though confronted by a vagrant. She lost the power of speech, her heart hammered, and all she could think about was getting herself and Margaret as far away from the place as possible.
“Will that be all, Mrs Willoughby?” demanded the shopkeeper of his customer, anxious to regain her attention and move on to the next awaiting person. “I will have the carrier deliver