Willoughby's Return_ A Tale of Almost Irresistible Temptation - Jane Odiwe [43]
“Colonel Brandon, where is your dear wife? Has she not come in to supper? I cannot think where she can be and for that matter, I cannot recall when I saw her last. I hope she is not ailing; she did look a trifle pale after the last dance. Bless my soul, but I must say it is probably wiser that she sit down more often.”
Margaret looked about the room and, in so doing, caught her sister Elinor's solemn expression. They had each perceived the hints that Mrs Jennings was making and knew their sister would be far from pleased. But apart from that neither of them could see Marianne and both recognised the solicitous mien in the other.
JUST BEFORE THE SUPPER bell had sounded, sending the throng swarming like hornets to the dining room, Marianne had been waylaid by her butler.
“There is a gentleman asking to speak with you, my lady,” he said in a low voice, “a Mr John Willoughby. He wishes a private interview with you. Shall I send him away or summon the Colonel?”
Marianne had felt very tempted by the offer to send for help but knew that she would have to be the one to grant him an interview. She owed him that much at least, and she was gratified by his conduct. He had not come waltzing through the door expecting to be greeted with open arms.
“No, that will not be necessary, Thompkins, I will come right away,” she answered, smoothing her gown and pushing back a strand of hair that had escaped from her headdress.
“Very well, madam, he is waiting in the small parlour.” Thompkins led his mistress away, leaving her at the door of the room but remaining outside in case he was needed. He did not like the idea of gentlemen conducting audiences with Mrs Brandon in the middle of the night. He felt that the Colonel ought to have been with his wife or seen him himself, especially as the gentleman had been so adamant that he should talk only to Mrs Brandon. It was not right.
John Willoughby was standing, leaning against the mantle-piece when she entered the room. He turned with a bow and as he did so, Marianne tried to compose her feelings. She imagined that she must look no more sophisticated or grown up than when they had first met. Finding it difficult to look upon his countenance, she was unable to meet his gaze when at last she found the courage to raise her eyes. Why did she have so little confidence when faced with his impeccable figure? He looked more imposing than ever as he towered before her, dressed for the evening in a black coat that turned his eyes into dark stones of glistening granite. She tried to tell herself that she should not be afraid, that she could withstand any meeting. After all, she was the mistress of Delaford, with this grand house and her noble husband behind her. But as he spoke, all those feelings fragmented and vanished like the vapour frosting the windows. She was seventeen again and just as gauche.
“I had intended to come to the ball this evening at your invitation and indeed, the Lawrences are expecting me, Mrs Brandon,” he said with some agitation.
“Yes, Mr Willoughby, I am aware of that fact,” was all Marianne managed to say.
“I do not imagine, however, that my presence here is really desired,” he continued, pacing across the room to stand within inches of her.
“I do not understand, Mr Willoughby,” Marianne replied, drawing courage from the fact that he seemed far more ill at ease than she. “If that is what you have suspected or surmised, then I cannot think why you are here or why you would wish to have it confirmed.”
“I suppose I hoped, in a small way,” he asserted, “that you might really have decided to forgive me and welcome me into your home. I realise it was a vain hope. I can see by your very expression that I shall not find a welcome here from you. I hardly expected to find one from your husband, but I hoped to find forgiveness in you.”
“Mr Willoughby, it is not as simple as you make it