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By Root 880 0

she did not want to envision. Miss Williams and her daughter had seduced him as surely as she believed the first Eliza had done so and Marianne could only feel animosity toward them. She hated William at this moment, for choosing to spend his time with Eliza and more so for loving her daughter with a tender affection he did not seem to bestow on his own child. Besides his obvious infatuation of the Williams family, Marianne was disturbed by the apparent lack of feeling or any sense of true devotion toward herself. His final words were deficient of any real sense of passion or love, she thought. Suspecting that he had transferred his affection, she reasoned that it was only too apparent that this was the case. But what she would do about it, as yet, she could not decide. Venting her feelings of frustration in a single cry, which echoed in the empty silence of her room, did not assuage her emotions. As the snow fell out of the sky her anger turned to bitterness.

In her fury she had almost forgotten the package, tightly bound in string and brown paper. Her trembling fingers could not untie the knots, so gummed were they with red sealing wax, and her stomach churned with anticipation. She hardly wanted to acknowledge her excitement and eagerness to discover its contents. Climbing out of bed, she fetched her scissors from the drawer of her dressing table and with a satisfying scrunch the string was cut. Marianne tore at the paper and found within the layers a slim volume, a book of poetry. Her fingers stroked the leather cover and traced the embossed name on the spine of her favourite poet, William Cowper. Skimming the pages to find her best-loved poems, the book fell open at the place where a piece of folded paper had been inserted. She read.

February 5th

My Dear Mrs Brandon,

Words cannot express my gratitude to you for your kindness to me yesterday. I think I have probably asked too much of you and will understand if you feel you cannot help me. I hope you know that my intentions have only been to right my mistakes; though I fear I shall never truly be able to reverse every wrong I have inflicted, especially those crimes committed against the dearest and loveliest creature I ever had the good fortune to know.

I wished to send you wildflowers, which I recollect were always your favourite, as a symbol of my gratitude, but as there are a scarcity at this time of year and are hardly to be found in London at all, I hope you will accept this “Winter Nosegay” which so eloquently laid down in this tome provides all the sentiment I could wish to express.

I am yours ever,

John Willoughby.

Marianne read the poem, one she knew well but with a sense that she was reading it for the first time. It was the last verse that she read over and over again.

See how they have safely survived

The frowns of a sky so severe;

Such Mary's true love, that has lived

Through many a turbulent year.

The charms of the late blowing rose

Seem’d graced with a livelier hue,

And the winter of sorrow best shows

The truth of a friend such as you.

Folding the paper, she replaced it between the pages and, clasping the book to her breast, smiled for the first time that morning.

BY THE MIDDLE OF the week the snow had stopped falling, and grey skies were replaced by bright blue, making everywhere glitter in the sunshine. Visitors started to call again. Mrs Jennings and Sir Edgar visited as soon as their carriages could be dug out of the snow. Marianne did not feel equal to such gadding about herself, but received all her guests with cordiality. Mr Carey and his sister came with an invitation for Margaret to go skating with them in Hyde Park on Thursday. The Serpentine had frozen to a solid thickness, they reported, adding that Mr Mortimer and his sister were to be of the party also. Their excitement at the scheme soon infected Margaret with the idea that this venture might be as fun as it was proclaimed and so she accepted.

The following afternoon, as good as their word, the party called. Marianne greeted them in the hallway as they