Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (34 page)

“I’m not going.” Her sister’s disembodied voice, faint but determined, floated down the stairs.

Elinor turned to her mother with a frown. “Not going? Why isn’t she going? We’re due at Delaford in –” she consulted her wristwatch “twenty minutes.”

“I’m sure I don’t know. She came back late last night, after her dinner at Dr Brandon’s, and she seemed – well, not quite herself. But she went to work at the clinic this morning. We had a quick cup of coffee and she left.”

“I wonder if something happened last night?”

“I don’t think so. She told me she had a very nice time.” Mrs Holland let out a sigh. “Let me just go up and see what’s going on.”

She went upstairs and knocked on her daughter’s door. “Darling? May I come in?”

“Can I stop you?” Marianne called back crossly.

Mrs Holland frowned. Such a reaction was unlike Marianne. Most unlike her, indeed… She turned the knob and peered inside her daughter’s bedroom.

Marianne sat cross-legged on the bed, her face pale and puffy from crying. Her hair fell in a tangle down her back and looked as if it hadn’t seen a brush in some time. Nor had the bed been slept in; the covers were undisturbed.

“What’s wrong?” her mother asked, alarmed, and came to sit next to her on the bed. “You’ve been crying. Why? What’s happened? Is it Dr Brandon? Was he unkind to you last night?”

“No, of course he wasn’t
unkind
. He was perfectly nice.” Her voice wobbled. “Nicer than I deserved.”

“Then what is it, dearest?” Mrs Holland wondered, perplexed. “If it isn’t Matthew who’s upset you, then who –” She drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, my. It’s Willoughby, isn’t it?”

“Yes, mum, of course it’s Willoughby.” Marianne flung herself from the bed and paced around the room, her face filled with a mixture of anguish and fury. “It’s always, always Willoughby! I feel as if I’ll go mad, wondering why he treated me so badly. My thoughts go in circles and trouble me at all hours of the day and night. But I have no answers, only questions. Questions, and more questions…”

She began once again to weep, her shoulders shaking as she stood before the window and stared hopelessly out at the fading light.

“My poor baby.” Her mother stood behind her and slipped her arm around her daughter’s heaving shoulders. “I’d no idea you were still troubled by that horrible man. You really must try to forget him. It’s the only way forward.”

“But don’t you see – I can’t,” Marianne cried, and shrugged her mother’s arm away. “I’ve tried, truly I have. But until I know why Kit abandoned me and treated me so cruelly, I can’t let him go. I just…can’t.”

“But darling, you may never know why he did what he did. You can’t live the rest of your life in this…this tormented state.”

She turned her tear-streaked face to her mother’s. “Then what should I do? Tell me how to forget Willoughby, when the thought of him never leaves me?”

“The first step,” Mrs Holland said firmly as she drew her to the dressing table and sat her down, “is to get yourself back out there. And tonight’s dinner at Delaford is a perfect opportunity to do just that.”

“I don’t feel like being social or making conversation over courses of beef and salad and – and consommé. I have no appetite, and nothing to say.”

“Then you must find something to say. Chat about the weather, or current events, or – or compliment the food, or the dining room décor.” She picked up a hairbrush and began to attempt to return order to her daughter’s blonde tangles. “There’s any number of things you might find to talk about.”

Marianne was silent as her mother dragged the brush through her hair.

“Don’t you want to see Colonel Brandon’s son again?” Mrs Holland added. “Matthew’s an impressive man, just like his father. Principled. Intelligent.”

“Charming,” Marianne murmured, her thoughts wandering to Willoughby. “Romantic. Dashing…”

“I can assure you, there’s nothing charming about Mr Willoughby,” her mother avowed, and drew her brows together.

“You liked him well enough when he first came to call on me.”

“That was before we learned of his true nature.” She bent forward to search Marianne’s dressing table and handed her a tube of lipgloss. “I still can’t believe he could do such a reprehensible thing to that poor girl.”

“Lacey’s hardly a ‘poor girl’,” Marianne scoffed. “Always stirring up trouble, making eyes at any halfway decent-looking man in her orbit…I’m sure she’s at least partly to blame.”

“Perhaps. In any case, I saw a trace of insincerity in Willoughby’s eyes, once I looked a bit closer.”

“Oh, mum, you didn’t. He fooled us all.” Marianne glanced down at the lipgloss in her hands. “What am I to do with this?”

“Put it on. You need a bit of colour on your cheeks before we leave for Delaford. What are you planning to wear?”

“I’m not. I’m not going.” Her words were decided.

Mrs Holland strode to the wardrobe and threw the doors open. With a critical eye, she flicked through the hangers until she found what she was looking for – a bias-cut dress of dark green silk, simple but flattering. “This’ll do nicely.” She held the dress out to Marianne.

With a scowl, she snatched it and stood up. “Very well. I’ll put the dress on, and I’ll go to Delaford. But we’re only staying through dinner, and then we’re leaving.”

“Of course, if that’s what you want. Now please hurry,” her mother added as she made her way back to the door, “or we’ll be unforgivably late.”

Chapter 49

When Mrs Holland and her daughters arrived at Delaford a short time later, Elinor’s eyes widened and she leaned forward and pressed her face against the car window.

“Wow,” she said, her voice low and reverent. “I’ve never seen the house up close before. It’s impressive.”

The estate, adjoining the eastern flank of Barton Park, was more castle than house, with a stone face, turrets, and a massive front door studded with iron.

Marianne shrugged. “It’s just a house.”

“That’s like saying a Rolls-Royce is ‘just a car’,” Elinor retorted. She opened her door and climbed out. Her gaze, unabashedly admiring, swept over the stone and mortar façade that rose before them. “Delaford is magnificent.”

“I’m surprised there’s not a moat.” Marianne stared up at the turrets. “Or knights in armour with arrows drawn back, ready to shoot us where we stand.”

“There
is
a moat.” Elinor pointed to the dried furrow that surrounded the house, planted now with a riot of flowers. “See? It isn’t used any longer, but it’s there.”

The front door opened, and Colonel Brandon appeared at the top of the steps.

“Come in, ladies, come in,” he declared as he ushered them inside. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Why do I suddenly feel like Janet Weiss in
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
?” Marianne whispered in her sister’s ear.

Elinor suppressed a snort of laughter. “Don’t,” she admonished.

They were ushered into an entrance hall, cavernous and lost in shadows, and a servant stepped forward to take their wraps.

“Please, come into the drawing room,” the colonel invited. “I thought we might have a drink before dinner.”

“That sounds lovely,” Mrs Holland agreed. “Doesn’t it, girls?”

They nodded politely.

As she and her mother and sister followed Colonel Brandon down the hall, Marianne eyed their surroundings with undisguised curiosity.

Antlered game – stags, mostly – looked down on them with glassy eyes. A full-suited knight in armour stood at one end of the vast hall, a lance at the ready. An array of pikes and swords and maces shared space on the walls with a series of portraits and landscapes.

Marianne was certain she glimpsed a Turner and a Canaletto on their way to the drawing room.

“Here we are, ladies,” the colonel said, and stood back as they entered the room. “Please, sit down.”

“Thank you,” they murmured in turn as they seated themselves. Elinor and Mrs Holland chose to sit at opposite ends of the sofa; Marianne settled herself in one of two chairs angled by the fire.

“I apologise for my son’s absence,” Colonel Brandon said as he made his way to the drinks trolley. “He’ll be along shortly; he had a last-minute call to take care of.”

“Being a veterinarian keeps him busy, I’m sure,” Mrs Holland said. “Marianne tells me he’s an excellent doctor.”

“Yes. He is,” Brandon agreed. “Although I’d have preferred it if he’d followed me into the military. But Matthew’s always known what he wanted, and following in my footsteps wasn’t it. What can I get you to drink, Mrs Holland?”

“Oh, Lydia, please,” she replied. “‘Mrs Holland’ sounds so very formal, does it not?”

He smiled and inclined his head. “Indeed it does. What would you like, Lydia?”

She smiled. “A gin and tonic, please.”

“Excellent.” He glanced over his shoulder at the two girls. “What about you two? Can I interest you in the same? Or would you prefer something else?”

“Sparkling water for me,” Elinor said.

“I’ll have a G&T, too,” Marianne added. “Thanks.”

After handing out their drinks, the colonel returned and took his place on the sofa between Mrs Holland and Elinor. They began a desultory conversation about the weather – which, judging by the sullen skies outside, promised to turn to rain, or worse, and soon – when the sound of the front door opening and closing reached their ears.

“Ah. That must be Matthew now,” Colonel Brandon said.

A moment later, his hair windblown, the younger Brandon entered the drawing room. “Good evening, everyone.” Matthew’s grey eyes slanted to Marianne and away again. “My apologies for being late – I had a delivery over at the Thompson farm. It was a difficult birth, but –” he paused. “I’m happy to say, all’s well.”

He looked, Marianne noted as he went to the drinks trolley and poured himself a whisky, tired. Exhausted, even. She wondered, guiltily, if he’d slept as poorly as she had last night.

“I hope you’re well, ladies,” he added as he took the chair opposite Marianne’s.

“Very well, thank you,” Mrs Holland assured him. “We’re pleased to have dinner here at Delaford with you and your father,” she added. “Such an impressive place.”

“Impressive, yes. Cold, as well,” Matthew replied, and took a sip of his whisky. “The pipes clank and the tap water never quite warms up. It makes for quick – and cold – showers in the morning.” He shot a glance at Marianne, and his meaning was unmistakable.

“That’s one of the dubious joys of living in the country, I suppose.” Mrs Holland sighed. “We find the same problems at Barton Cottage, as well.”

“So, we’ve established that Delaford is cold,” Marianne said. She eyed Matthew. “What else can you count against it? In addition to its lack of hot water, is the place haunted, as well?”

As if to underscore her words, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the wind sent leaves whirling and scattering past the window.

“Only by the living,” Matthew replied, and downed the rest of his drink.

The colonel turned to Marianne. “A place as old as Delaford has its share of ghosts, of course, Miss Holland,” he said after a moment. “Certain rooms one should avoid, sightings reported on the turrets, a door that slams by itself…that sort of thing. It’s all nonsense, of course.”

“Have either of you ever actually seen a ghost?” Marianne wondered, and leaned forward, intrigued. “I’d love to see one, myself.”

“You wouldn’t love it so much, I expect,” Matthew retorted, “if a ghost loomed out of the darkness of your bedroom with blood-red eyes and rattled its chains at you.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs Holland murmured, and laughed nervously.

“On the contrary,” Marianne replied, and tilted her chin back, “I think the idea’s fascinating. I love ghosts, and ghost stories. Don’t you?”

“Who doesn’t?” He rattled the ice against his glass. “I’m sure, growing up, you read every overwrought gothic romance you could get your hands on, from
Frankenstein
and
Northanger Abbey
to
Jane Eyre
.”

“And what’s wrong with reading those kinds of books?” she challenged. “After all, Jane Eyre coped with everything Mr Rochester threw at her. Horrible man.” Marianne met Matthew’s gaze. “To be honest, I never understood what she saw in him.”

“And I never understood what he saw in
her
.”

Before she could form a suitable retort, a stout woman in an apron appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s served, colonel.”

Brandon senior stood. “Thank you, Mrs Deane. Ladies, if you’ll be so good as to follow me to the dining room –?”

Dutifully, Marianne rose and followed the others. She was all too aware of Matthew bringing up the rear behind her. She could feel his eyes on her.

Marianne pressed her lips together. Rude, arrogant man…

The dining room at Delaford was every bit as impressive as the rest of the house. A table half as long as a football pitch was set at one end with china and silver, and a bottle of wine chilled in a silver bucket. An array of crystal glasses accompanied each place setting.

A servant uncorked the bottle and poured a small amount of wine into Colonel Brandon’s glass, waiting as he swirled it and took a sip. With a nod, the colonel indicated that it was acceptable and the servant began to fill their glasses.

“Two wine glasses?” Marianne observed. “Wow. Do you mean to get us all smashed before the starters, colonel?”

“Marianne,” her mother murmured, and gave her a disapproving frown.

Matthew’s father laughed. “Not at all, I assure you. No, one glass is for white, Miss Holland, and one for red. On more formal occasions we put out the sherry and champagne glasses as well.”

Embarrassment suffused her face with heat. “Oh. Oh, of course.”

Matthew – who was seated next to her – leaned over and murmured, “You
do
know how to use a knife and fork, don’t you, Miss Holland?” His dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “Or shall I give you a demonstration?”

“I can manage,” she muttered. “Thank you.”

“If you’re sure.”

She opened her mouth to tell him what he could do with his offer, but he’d turned away to address her mother and proceeded to ignore her throughout the duration of the
amuse-bouche
.