Willoughby's Return (17 page)

“Look, here comes the pageant now,” declared Henry as a vast parade of costumed minstrels, pipers, and medieval maidens marched around the green, singing and playing as they strolled. “There will be a Mummer's play this afternoon, I daresay, with Saint George and Bold Slasher battling it out, no doubt followed by death and Beelzebub to frighten all the ladies!”

“Well, I shall not be frightened,” Margaret declared, “because I know it will all be fine in the end, everyone will come back to life with the aid of a magic potion. I’ve seen something like it before, you know; in any case, I am not of a timid or nervous nature.”

“Except on occasions when you find yourself in a yew arbour with a young man,” Henry retorted.

Margaret giggled. “You are such a forthright young man, Mr Lawrence, I declare my sister Elinor would be exceedingly shocked if she could hear you run on so.”

“But I think Mrs Brandon might not share her point of view,” he answered immediately, “I am clearly a favourite with my pretty aunt.”

“Are you always so outspoken and thoroughly outrageous? I cannot think that I ever met such a young man in my life. If Elinor were here she would extract me from your side at a moment's notice!”

“But she is not here and I have the perfect delight of sharing your company all day. At least, I hope you wish to accompany me around Colystone and its environs for the rest of the time we are in this delightful village. Will you do me the honour, Miss Dashwood?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Margaret exclaimed as she fairly skipped along at his side.

There was so much to see and do. Mr Lawrence led her along to peruse the stalls set up around the edge of the green. Tables were laden with all manner of fairings, from trays of twisted barley sticks and spiced gingerbread gilded with candied peel, to the neat rows of mutton pies and fat, round butter pats, garlanded with green leaves. Pails of golden walnuts, rosy apples, and yellow pears adorned with dollies of corn looked as tempting as any of the sweeter fayre. Bottles of spruce beer, orange wine, and ladlefuls of heated negus warmed the constitutions of the passing patrons and relaxed the hold on their pennies, which they gladly exchanged for enticing treats.

“What may I tempt you to, Miss Dashwood?” asked Henry, showing her a basket of heart-shaped peppermint creams. He took one and instead of merely offering it up there and then, bowed with a great flourish before bending down on one knee.
With an expression of solemn sobriety he begged her to consider his plea in loud enough tones for the whole village to hear. “Please, Miss Dashwood, you have rejected my heart twice before. I beg you, take this or else I am undone!”

Such a little crowd gathered around them at the spectacle, now urging her to do exactly as he commanded, that Margaret felt unable to do otherwise. To a resounding cheer she accepted his heart with good grace and even bit into the soft confection, flouring her lips with icing sugar as she nibbled.

Mr Lawrence rose to his feet. “There is no going back now, we have witnesses to our pact, Miss Dashwood, and you cannot give back what you have taken. You have my heart and what is more, you have sunk your teeth into the flesh!” He staggered about as if he might drop dead at any moment to yet more laughing from their audience.

Margaret could not help but laugh at him, though she could not decide how much of what he said was merely in jest. Sometimes he looked as if he believed every word he said, his expression was so sincere, but then in the next breath his teasing was of such a merciless nature that she felt more confused than ever by his behaviour.

They walked towards the swing boats where two children whooped and laughed as they pulled on a rope to make their vessel move. Margaret watched them with amusement and did not immediately notice that Mr Lawrence had suddenly left her side to stride in the direction of the dobby horses just a few yards away. Her stomach knotted with nerves when she saw whom Henry addressed.

“Willoughby, how glad I am to see that you could come after all. Is your business finished to your satisfaction?”

“It is all done, and on such a fine day I thought I should take you up on your invitation. A fine goose is on the top of my list and then a visit to the horse dealer; a chestnut gelding is my fancy.”

The men turned and walked towards Margaret, who at this moment was feeling most disconcerted. She wondered where Marianne could be and if she knew of Willoughby's proximity.

“I believe you are a little acquainted with Miss Margaret Dashwood of Barton Cottage, are you not, Mr Willoughby?”

“We have met before,” Willoughby answered with a bow toward the young lady, “though it is a few years now since we have spent much time in one another's company. Forgive me for saying so, Miss Margaret, when we met at Barton the other day I would not have known you but for the fact that you are growing to be very like your sister. You have altered so much that I can quite understand why Mr Lawrence cannot talk of anyone else when I am in his company.”

Margaret blushed and looked toward Henry, who had started with some animation.

“Then you know my aunt, Mrs Brandon?” cried Mr Lawrence in surprise. “Why, I had no idea you were so well acquainted with the family.”

“I know them a little, but I expect that the family did not realise that I had returned into Devonshire to make it worth mentioning,” answered Mr Willoughby, fixing his dark eyes upon Margaret's face and holding her gaze with steady scrutiny.

Margaret looked down at the floor. What could she say? It was better surely to pretend that the past had not happened and that the acquaintance had been of the briefest sort.

“Sophia and I have spent our time largely in Somersetshire for some considerable time, with the occasional visit to town,”
added Willoughby. “In any case, I expect the Brandons and the Dashwoods have long since forgotten me.”

Margaret raised her eyes to see something flicker past Willoughby's countenance, the merest hint of his discomposure that to her alone was easily construed. He had never recovered from his love for Marianne, she was sure.

“Oh, look over there,” she exclaimed, pointing to the wooden staging where the Mummers were gathering, “I think the play is about to start!”

On the other side of the green, Marianne, who had become separated from Mrs Dashwood, Sir Edgar, and the Middleton party, was pleased to have found solitude and dawdled along in her quest to find a treat to take home for James.

A toyman with a tray laden with all manner of trinkets and gewgaws strolled past. He made a curious picture. From his shabby tricorne hat were suspended a variety of goods on strings: lace bobbins, wooden spoons, buckles for shoes, and bunches of ribbons. Snuff boxes, skeins of silk, candles and kerchiefs, dolls and toy soldiers were all neatly arranged on his tray, suspended by straps around the pedlar's neck. A tumbler on a stick was lying next to a red-cheeked wooden doll that was beautifully dressed in a piece of worked Indian muslin with real black hair jutting out under a satin hat. Marianne paid the pedlar for the toys, which she knew would make both James and Anna very happy. As she turned to make her way back in order to find the others, she was stopped in her tracks. Her reddened face showed her discomposure as she stared at something or someone in the distance.

MARIANNE COULD NOT BELIEVE her eyes. Margaret, Mr Lawrence, and a man who could not be mistaken for any other but Mr Willoughby were engaged in animated conversation. They were walking toward her but as yet she was sure they had not seen her. Like a captive bird whose wings are clipped, she felt powerless to move. Mr Willoughby, she could see, was dressed for the country in a chocolate brown coat, with buckskin breeches moulded to his legs, encased in expensive tan boots to match his gloves and his waistcoat. His air of confidence and self-assurance struck Marianne once more. Fortunately, he was so engaged with her sister that she was certain she had not been spotted by any of them.

“Is anything amiss, madam? You look quite affrighted,” the old pedlar asked.

Marianne recovered herself enough to speak. “I am well, thank you,” she responded.

Turning on her heel and heading off in the opposite direction, Marianne decided it was time to see if she could latch
onto the safety of a larger party. Seeing Mr Willoughby again had been a shock, but she was sure she would feel better if her own mother were at hand. The play started in earnest. Huge numbers flocked toward the makeshift stage, which made it doubly difficult to forge ahead. Looking into every face and turning at the sight of a bonnet or cloak of the same hue as that belonging to Mrs Dashwood, Marianne began to despair that she would ever meet up with her mama again. But just as she thought she would have no choice but to turn again, she caught sight of Sir Edgar, Mrs Dashwood, and Mrs Jennings coming out of the refreshment tent.

“We are all going to see the play,” said Mrs Jennings as Marianne approached. “I daresay we shall catch up with the others. The Middletons were here just a moment ago; I do not know where they have gone now. It is so easy to lose one another in this sort of crush. Where are Miss Margaret and her beau? Have you seen them, Mrs Brandon?”

“No, I have not,” Marianne quickly lied.

“I expect we will see them, by and bye,” chuckled Sir Edgar.

“I should not count on it, if I were you,” Mrs Jennings smirked, “I do not think our pretty pair will be so interested in a village play as the rest of us.”

Marianne bit her tongue, though she would have liked to tell Mrs Jennings that she was being a little too easy with her imagination. It was fairly certain that Margaret and Henry liked one another, but she alone knew what sort of damage idle gossip could do. She did not want Margaret to be subject to the sort of speculation that she herself had been all those years ago when Willoughby had courted her. Perhaps she ought to warn her sister. Had she been wrong to encourage Margaret to spend time
unchaperoned with Mr Lawrence? What would Elinor do if she were here?

Mrs Dashwood, who was listening to this exchange, expressed her concern to Marianne in a low voice as Mrs Jennings continued to spout forth on the subject of courting lovers. “Will you go and look for her, Marianne? I think I have been unwise to let her out of my sight for so long.”

Marianne hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to have a conversation with Mr Willoughby.

“Please hurry, Marianne,” her mother entreated, “I will feel much better if she is here with us. I have given her too much of a free rein, I think.”

Smiling reassuringly at her mother, but with a sinking heart, Mrs Brandon sallied forth, determining to find levels of courage she felt she did not possess. Heading in the direction where she recalled seeing Margaret last, Marianne did not know whether to feel relief or alarm when it was clear that her sister was not in the immediate vicinity. Easing her way through the rapt audience, who were cheering and booing by turns at a figure with a painted red face, she could see nothing of Margaret's blue bonnet or Henry's tall black hat. Working back toward Mrs Dashwood, Marianne realised it was a fruitless task; they could be anywhere, the assembled throng was larger than ever. Reluctant to return without her sister, she decided to circumnavigate the outer boundary of spectators, tiptoeing as she went, looking high over their heads. And then she saw them. Margaret and Henry were together and alone, she observed with some relief. However, this feeling soon gave way to one of apprehension. The pair appeared to be in a hurry, fairly running along away from the crowds across the green in the opposite direction. Marianne made up
her mind to follow them, or at least be certain of where they were going. They moved with such urgent intent it was clear they had some purpose. She was almost running to keep them in view, but stopped suddenly with a sense of defeat, when she saw exactly where they were headed. Sighing with frustration, she saw Mr Lawrence hand Margaret into his father's phaeton, before seating himself beside her on the seat. He took up the reins and with a crack of the whip, she saw the carriage lurch into motion and set off at speed.

What would her mother say, and even worse, what would Mrs Jennings have to say on the matter? Marianne shook her head and emitted a long sigh.

“Let them be, Mrs Brandon, I beg you.”

Marianne had no need to turn in order to identify the voice that nonetheless had her reeling round with a look of astonishment. “I beg your pardon, Mr Willoughby.” It was a rebuke, not an apology.

He bowed. “Please do not be severe upon them. They are young and Henry is a good fellow.”

Marianne lifted her chin and found her strength. “I do not know how or why this should concern you, Mr Willoughby. I will decide what is to be done and I should be very glad if you would now excuse me.”

Turning abruptly from him, she started to walk away, but an arresting hand on her arm prevented her progress.

“Wait, please, I beg you, Mrs Brandon… Marianne,” he continued. “Forgive me, but I entreat you to allow me to speak.”

Marianne could not move nor utter a word. His manner was calm, very gentleman-like, and though she wished to be on the other side of the country at this moment, she knew she ought
to hear what he had to say. Indeed, a part of her could not deny that she wished very much to hear him out.