Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (29 page)

My deepest regrets if I led you to believe otherwise or to think that there was more than friendship between us.

I wish you a safe journey back to Hadleighshire and remain

Yours, etc.

K Willloughby

A sheaf of letters – hers, written when she’d first arrived in London with her mother and sisters and still in their envelopes, unopened and unread – fell through her fingers to the floor.

“Mari, darling,” Mrs Holland called out as she hurried down the stairs, “I do believe I’ve lost my mind. Have you seen my handbag anywhere –?”

She came to a halt on the bottom step as she saw her daughter kneeling on the floor.

“No,” Marianne replied, her words flat as she stood up. “I haven’t seen it. Sorry.”

So saying, she turned away, leaving the letters and the note from Willoughby scattered on the floor, and brushed past Mrs Holland and went up to her room, and quietly shut the door.

***

The Hollands returned to Barton Cottage late on Monday evening. Marianne sent a text to Matthew to confirm that she’d return to the clinic the following morning.

“Work is just the thing,” her mother agreed as they trudged up to bed. “It’s the best cure when you’ve suffered a setback like this. Having plenty to do keeps your thoughts occupied. After all, ‘the devil makes work for idle hands.’” She glanced over her shoulder at her eldest daughter. “Isn’t that what they say, Elinor?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” She bid them goodnight and went into her room and shut the door.

Marianne murmured goodnight as well and went into her own room, glad to finally be alone with her thoughts… alone with her heartbreak.
Why did I ever expect Elinor to understand?
she wondered moodily as she changed into her nightgown and crawled, exhausted, into bed.
My sister’s incapable of feeling any kind of real emotion.

Following their argument at Lady Violet’s, she and Elinor had not exchanged above a dozen words. They avoided each other assiduously and, when circumstances forced them to speak, addressed one another with the detached politeness of strangers. If their mother noticed the constraint between them, she gave no sign.

Marianne pulled the blankets up to her chin and closed her eyes. Despite her tiredness, images of Kit’s handsome face haunted her thoughts. She saw him astride his horse on the night of the storm; smelled the woodsy scent of his aftershave; felt his lips, so warm and tender, on hers; heard the words of affection – and, yes, damn it,
love
– that he’d spoken to her.

Tears rose and leaked out, sliding down her cheeks and dampening her pillow. She knew she’d never see him again.

“Kit Willoughby isn’t worth the hand-wringing and breast-beating you’re wasting on him. He treated you horribly.”

Although she’d never admit it, she knew Elinor was right. Willoughby had treated her horribly. Unforgivably. But even knowing that, she couldn’t let go of the slender hope that maybe…perhaps things might yet work out between them. He’d realise his mistake, and he’d seek her out and beg her forgiveness and admit that he couldn’t live without her by his side.

And with that comforting fantasy in mind, Marianne fell at last into a deep sleep untroubled by dreams.

***

“Miss Holland. Welcome back.”

Marianne looked up from her seat behind the reception desk at the veterinary clinic the next morning to see Matthew Brandon standing before her.

“Thank you.” She managed a wan smile. “It’s good to be back. How did Mackenzie work out?”

He shrugged on his lab coat. “Fine, until she scheduled Fifi and Billy within fifteen minutes of each other, and they damn near tore the waiting room up trying to rip out each other’s throats.”

“Oh, no.” Her eyes widened and her hand rose to her mouth to suppress a giggle. “I’m sorry. Just picturing it. Still, it must’ve been awful.”

“It was no laughing matter at the time, I assure you.” His grey eyes met hers. “I’m glad you’re back.” As he turned away and headed for the kitchen he called over his shoulder, “Who’s my first appointment?”

She took out his diary and checked. “Mrs Dawson. She’s bringing Bingo in for his distemper shot.”

“Wasn’t she just in two weeks ago, with her husband?” His disembodied voice floated back from the kitchenette.

“She was. She swore he had fleas, but he didn’t.”

“Who? Bingo, or her husband?”

Marianne’s lips curved upwards as she set the diary aside. “Bingo, of course. I think she has a little crush on you, Dr Brandon.”

She heard the sound of a coffee cup crashing to the floor, following by a flood of swearing.

“If anyone should need me,” Matthew informed her when he emerged a few minutes later, another coffee cup in hand, “take a message. Oh – and if Aidan’s available, he can take care of Bingo –
and
Mrs Dawson.”

“I’ll let him know.”

And so the week passed. The clinic remained busy and, thankfully, left Marianne no time to spare so much as a thought for Willoughby – not with so many appointments to schedule, animals to be fed and watered, insurance forms to be filed, and phones to be answered.

When the last puddle of dog urine had finally been cleaned and the floors mopped and disinfected late on Friday afternoon, Marianne straightened and surveyed the waiting room with satisfaction. Everything sparkled, ready for their half-day tomorrow.

“I’m off,” she called out from the surgery doorway just before she left. “Aidan’s gone to Carywick on an emergency call and says he won’t be back. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hold up.”

Matthew appeared in the doorway. He’d changed from his lab coat to a tweed jacket. His hair, as usual, was as rumpled as an unmade bed. He ploughed a hand through it and added, “Let’s go grab a bite to eat down the pub. I’m buying.”

She stared at him in mingled surprise and suspicion. “You are? What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” he retorted. “Do I need an occasion? I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you since you got back.”

“You’ve talked to me every day.”

“It’s not the same bloody thing and you know it.” He gave her a determined, flinty-eyed glare and took her firmly by the elbow. “No equivocating, Miss Holland. I’ll not let you off the hook. I reckon we can both manage to be civil to one another, at least for an hour or two.”

Chapter 43

Twenty minutes later found them back at the Endwhistle pub ensconced at a table for two in the back.

“What’ll you have?” he asked as they perused the laminated menus.

“I fancy a plate of roast beef and mash and a glass of red,” Marianne said at once. “I’m
starving
. I haven’t eaten a thing all day, except for a crumpet with a tiny bit of jam this morning. Elinor used the last of the jar.”

Matthew lifted his brow. “And are you sure you’re not after the most expensive thing on the menu, just because I’m paying?”

“Can’t fool you, can I?” she said. “That’s exactly why I chose the roast beef and mash.”

He gave their orders to the waitress – who, thankfully, didn’t remember their previous visit to the pub – and met Marianne’s eyes. “I wonder if a glass of red’s a good idea, after the last time?”

A flush of embarrassment heated her cheeks as she remembered how she’d looped her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him that night – that awful night – when Willoughby had left for London.

Matthew’s rejection had stung. But the memory of her reckless, drunken behaviour, how she’d all but thrown herself at him, just as she’d thrown herself at Kit, stung even more.

She dropped her gaze now from his, mortified by the memory of how she’d all but begged him to take her to bed. His refusal had left her embarrassed and humiliated.

“You should have feelings for the other person. You shouldn’t use someone to slake your grief, or scratch an itch, or make you forget someone else.”

She knew he’d been right. What a disaster it would have been if they’d slept together. A more mismatched pair was never made…

“I’m sorry.” Matthew spoke now, his words low. “I was only joking. I see by your reaction it wasn’t at all funny. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No, it’s okay,” she assured him, and lifted her gaze from the scarred wooden surface of the table. “You’re right.” She managed a smile. “You have the wine. I’ll get something else.”

“Don’t be daft,” he scoffed. “Have your wine. Enjoy it. You deserve it after the week we’ve just had.”

“Did you ever come here with Lynn?” she asked suddenly.

“Lynn?” He stared at her and shook his head. “No. Not…” He took a swallow of water. “Never just the two of us, I mean to say. She’s married and I’m not interested.”

“So am I to take it that you’re interested in me, then?” she teased. “Since you’ve asked me to this fine local establishment for dinner?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, not missing a beat. “I’ve fallen head over heels in love with you and your cutting sarcasm and I can’t wait to tie the knot. Will you pencil me in for the ceremony next Saturday, Miss Holland?”

She pretended to consider. “Sorry, but we’re both working. And I have laundry to do. What about next Sunday?” she countered.

“No, that won’t work for me. I think I’ve got some sheep to castrate.”

“How romantic.”

He met her eyes, his own eyes dark with amusement. “What do you mean? I’m every girl’s knight in shining armour, I’ll have you know.”

“More like every girl’s nightmare,” she retorted. She took a sip of her wine and added, “I met your father while we were in London.”

He looked at her sharply. Just then, the waitress arrived with their plates and set them down.

“Anything else you need?” she asked them, although her gaze rested squarely on Matthew.

He glanced at Marianne, who shook her head. “We’re fine. Thanks.”

As the waitress took her leave, he turned back to Marianne. “So you met my father. Am I to take it that he was at Edward’s party?”

“He was.” She cut into her roast beef. “He was very nice. Charming. Not at all like you.”

He made no reply, but dashed a liberal dose of malt vinegar over his fried cod and chips and began to eat.

She added, “He told me it was a good thing that your patients are all animals, since you’ve no bedside manner whatsoever.”

“Is that right?” He laid his fork aside and took a leisurely sip of his ale. “I’ll have you know I’ve been told I have a very good bedside manner.”

Marianne blushed. There could be no mistaking his meaning. “I wouldn’t know,” she retorted, and took a bite of her roast beef. “And nor would I want to.”

“Then that’s the two of us, agreed on something for once.” He cut into his fish.

“Your father’s invited us to Delaford,” Marianne offered after a moment. “He’s hosting a dinner party next Saturday evening.”

He eyed her in surprise. “Really? He must’ve been quite taken with you and your mother and sister. He hasn’t held a dinner party at Delaford since –” He stopped.

She looked up, curious. “Since when?”

“Since my mother ran off with his best friend when I was eighteen.”

Marianne lowered her fork to her plate. “He did? I’m sorry,” she murmured, dismayed. “I didn’t know. I thought your father was a widower –?”

“He is. She died a few years after she ran out on us.”

“That must’ve been hard for you. For both of you.”

“It was no picnic.” He pushed his plate aside. “What about you? What about your father? Why is there no Mr Holland? I hope he didn’t abandon you three the way my mother abandoned us.”

“No. No, he died just after I turned sixteen, of a massive coronary. It was completely unexpected and so it was very difficult to get through. It was especially hard on my mother.”

“I can imagine.”

“I think,” Marianne ventured slowly, “that coming here to Northumberland’s been the best thing for her – for all of us. There were too many memories at Norland.”

“You’re lucky in one respect, then.” His words were abrupt. “At least your memories are good ones, unlike mine.”

“I suppose.” She pushed her own plate, half-eaten, aside. “Although I’ve found that sometimes good memories can be even more painful than bad ones.”

He nodded, and they lapsed into silence as he nursed his ale and she sipped at her wine.

“Do you ever get lonely,” Marianne asked suddenly, “living by yourself at Greensprings? It seems such a…solitary existence.”

“I have the animals.” He glanced at her. “Good thing, too, since – as my father pointed out – I’ve little patience with people in general. I see enough of them at the clinic and on my forays in the middle of the night on emergency calls to relish my time alone. I get precious little of it.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Marianne studied the dark red liquid left in her glass. “I love Elinor and mum to bits, but sometimes it’s good just to be alone with my thoughts.”

“And where do you go, to be alone with your thoughts?” he asked.

“Well, I used to go to the tree house behind the cottage.” She thought of the kisses and conversation she and Kit had shared inside the rough wooden structure, and the memory strung. “I’ll have to find somewhere else.”

“Marianne…” he began, and stopped.

She looked up at him, her face expectant. “Yes?”

“Don’t waste your tears on Willoughby,” he said roughly. “He’s not worth a single one.”

“Yes, so you’ve told me, and more than once.” Her words were measured as she remembered his earlier words.

“It’s not like Willoughby to miss a chance to further his acquaintance with a pretty girl…especially not one who practically fell from the sky into his lap.”

“Why do you dislike him?” Marianne asked Matthew now. “What’s he ever done to you?”

“He’s done nothing to me.” His eyes locked with hers. “But my sister’s another story.”

“Lacey?” She stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Matthew leaned forward. “He slept with her.”

“What? No.” She shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. She’s only
fifteen
, Matthew. She’s just a – a kid.”

“Exactly. But that didn’t stop him from having sex with her.”