Willoughby's Return (23 page)

“Henry Lawrence is a very pleasant young man,” remarked Marianne. “We are pleased to have made his acquaintance at last.”

“He is a very rich man, or will be when he comes into his money, I hear,” added Lucy. “And you know, Miss Dashwood, both your sister and I have proved beyond question that it is not necessary to have a fortune of one's own to marry well. Our charms were quite enough, were they not, Mrs Brandon. I daresay, Miss Dashwood, you will be engaged before Easter is upon us!”

Margaret was incensed. Trust Lucy Ferrars to be so tactless.

“Do you remember Charles Carey, Mrs Brandon?” Lucy rattled on. “My sister Anne and I met him at the Middletons’ several years ago, you know, when you first came into Devonshire… Well, perhaps the less said about those days the better. He was just a boy then and went away to sea we heard. Now he is grown to a man, he is raised to a Captain and returned from the wars. My sister Anne is on the lookout for a new beau and she is in high hopes that he will be the man! A woman of more mature years is never a real impediment to true love, and I feel sure she must meet the right man sooner or later.”

Instantly recognising the name of her old friend, Margaret was intrigued. “Is Mr Carey paying his addresses to your sister?”

“They have never met, I confess, but Anne is ever hopeful. No, he is to attend Mrs Jennings's party with his friend, another sailor, I believe. My cousin mentioned some French émigrés also, a particular friend of Henry Lawrence, at least that is how Lady Lawrence described the young lady. Such an exotic name, Antoinette de Fontenay, don’t you think? Mrs Jennings said that Lady Lawrence told her how she and her mother escaped during the terror, just missing having their heads chopped off by a mere hair. How droll!”

Margaret looked enquiringly at her sister. “Do you know anything of these people, Marianne?”

“I confess I cannot tell you anything other than that information which Mrs Ferrars has so obligingly conveyed. I do remember having heard their name and something of their plight. I believe they are settled in London and have been for some years.”

“We shall be a merry party,” Lucy enthused. “I am dying to see Mademoiselle de Fontenay; the French are so sophisticated and I am longing to see her style and how she dresses her hair. I wonder if our French friends will be travelling back home now we have peace again.”

“I shouldn’t think anyone who has endured what they must will be in any hurry to go back to a land where their own countrymen saw fit to put their fellows to the guillotine,” Marianne instantly retorted, looking aghast at Lucy, whom she had always considered to be more than a little silly. “Besides, that is precisely how the Comte de Fontenay lost his life.”

“How terrible!” Lucy exclaimed with a look of genuine horror on her countenance. For the first time she was considering why it had been really necessary for the family to flee from France.

Margaret was only half listening to the exchange. She was contemplating the fact that she had heard Lucy declare that this mademoiselle was a particular friend of Henry. This idea was not one Margaret was keen to acknowledge. The thought of Henry paying attention to anyone other than herself gave rise to feelings so strong that she could think of nothing else. When Lucy spoke to her again, she was so lost in contemplation on the matter that she had to pretend she hadn’t heard because of a passing carriage. At length, Lucy gave her adieus with many exclamations on the prospect of the pleasure it was to give her husband to see them later. Robert Ferrars paid no heed to his wife, nor to the sisters, turning after the slightest hint of a bow and marching off down the street as his wife tripped after him.

“What did she mean about Mademoiselle What's-her-name being a particular friend of Henry's?” asked Margaret as soon as Lucy was out of earshot.

“Oh, you know Lucy, she can’t resist an intrigue. It's probably nothing at all. I expect Lady Lawrence is trying to create mischief and spreading this gossip about because she knows how ‘particular’ Henry is about someone else. Don’t worry, Margaret,” soothed Marianne, taking her sister's arm in hers to lead her into the shop, “I certainly have never heard anything. And, in any case, you only have to see the way that Henry looks at you to see how much he admires you. Now, let us see if we can find a trinket for you to wear this evening. If Henry does not give you some sign of an understanding tonight, then my name is not Mrs Brandon.”

Margaret could not resist telling Marianne about the conversation that had been interrupted as she and Henry ate ices in
Berkeley Square and felt quite mollified again, when Marianne's reaction was everything she had hoped it would be.

The entire morning was taken up with purchases of jewellery, hair ornaments, shoe roses, and ribbons, besides considerations of new muslins and lace. Margaret was thrilled with her purchases, secretly deciding that she could not be better prepared to do battle with a French miss, if that was required. After all, she had the advantage of knowing that Henry was to call on her later and surely after their time together he would be keener than ever to keep her company this evening.

Marianne had not mentioned Colonel Brandon all morning, despite Margaret's efforts to persuade her to talk. However, as they had gone about their business Mrs Brandon's thoughts had never been far away from the situation. Now she was beginning to think that she had been in the wrong despite what she deemed as her honourable motives, and she was determined to set things right. They had never quarrelled like this before, and she recognised it was her own fault that they were at odds with one another now. As soon as they reached home she would do all she could to make amends.

On their return, Marianne hurried away to find the Colonel, whilst Margaret made enquiries of the servants as to whether they had received any calls during the course of the morning. Relieved to discover that she had not missed Henry, she went off to her room, to occupy herself happily with decisions about what to wear and how to dress her hair for the evening. It was impossible, however, not to be diverted from her activities by every carriage that rolled around the square and stopped outside. Margaret could not help looking out of the window anxiously to see if Henry might be down below, but was disappointed every
time. Once or twice, there was a knock on the front door, but it turned out only to be old army friends of the Colonel, calling to see the Brandons, now news was spread abroad of their being in town.

Once more, Marianne found little opportunity to actually speak to her husband. He was a very popular man, and those that had missed him at his club were now calling on him. To her great comfort, however, William caught her eye several times during the afternoon, even in the midst of conversation with others. His eyes held her gaze and he smiled warmly. Returning his looks of love, Marianne felt quite reassured that all would be well with the world again. When everyone had gone, they sat together by the fire in the stillness and quiet of the darkening afternoon. William put out his hand to cover Marianne's, neither of them wanting to return to the subject of their quarrel. She spoke first.

“William, I cannot decide what I am to wear this evening.” Inclining her head to give him the benefit of an expression, which only he could understand fully, she added, “We have a couple of hours before we go out. Sally has her afternoon off, so I wondered if you could assist me.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” answered Colonel Brandon and without uttering another word he escorted his wife as swiftly as was seemly to her chamber.

THE PARTY THAT SET out from Manchester Square were in high spirits. Marianne and William had resolved their differences without a word having been said. Love bound them with sweet reconciliation meted out in an afternoon's blissful reunion. Margaret, having been starved of Henry's company all day, knew that she was going to spend all evening with her love and could not wait to see him.

Mrs Jennings greeted them with her usual affability. The majority of her guests were already arrived. Margaret scanned the room on entering for any sign of Henry. She could see Lady Lawrence and Sir Edgar busily engaged in conversation with a rather grand-looking lady, whom Margaret quickly surmised must be the Comtesse. An air of elegance exuded from her thin frame, her bearing and dress displayed signs of wealth and fashion. Before Margaret had a chance to take in anything or anyone else, all eyes had turned toward the party who had just entered. Lady Lawrence immediately stretched out a bejewelled hand towards her brother, simultaneously managing to greet and cut Marianne and Margaret at the same time.

Standing to meet her was Margaret's old friend Charles Carey, but before she could cross the room to say how do you do, Lucy and her sister, Anne, were upon her.

“Miss Dashwood, here is my sister, who is longing to see you again,” cried Lucy, thrusting Anne in her path.

Miss Steele held out her hand and shook Margaret's vigorously. “I’ve heard so much of you and your beau, Miss Dashwood, though I’ve not clapped eyes on him yet. Lucy says Mr Lawrence is prodigiously handsome by all accounts and is the finest beau in London!”

“I think you are misinformed, Miss Steele,” Margaret answered as quietly as she was able. “Mr Lawrence is, I would like to believe, a very good friend of mine and, of course, related to me by marriage, but could hardly be described as my beau.”

“Mrs Jennings has told us all about it; you needn’t worry, she is the soul of discretion.”

“I see. Well, Mrs Jennings does not know anything of the matter, I assure you. In any case, I was not aware that you were acquainted with Mr Lawrence, Mrs Ferrars, to know anything about him, let alone whether he is handsome or not.”

“Oh, no, she's never met him,” cut in Anne, “and between you and me, we are wondering if we ever shall, because Mrs Jennings said he's been out all day with Mademoiselle de Fontenay. They were with her mother, but as you see, that lady is sitting over in the corner. Where do you think they can have got to, Miss Dashwood?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.” Margaret felt both sisters staring at her with great scrutiny. “Is that Charles Carey over there?” she said, knowing perfectly well that it was he. “Excuse me, I have not seen my old friend for sometime.”

Miss Steele put out her arm to arrest Margaret's progress across the room. “Was not Charles Carey a particular friend of yours at one time, Miss Dashwood? Mrs Jennings said he only went to sea so he could forget you. He reminds me very much of the doctor who came to court, but he was so much teased about me, it quite put him out of countenance. I’ve always liked a uniform and the Navy men look so dapper, very clean cut. He’d make a lovely beau. Perhaps you’ll regret giving him a wide berth when you see him again now. If he should ask about me, you will tell him I am your oldest unmarried friend, now won’t you? Oh no, that does not sound quite right—I only meant that we have been acquainted for such a long time, not that I am aged in any way. He does keep looking over here but I think he must be afraid to start up a conversation. I did try to engage him in some talk earlier. Would you say he is shy?”

Margaret excused herself again and made her way over to Charles, who was standing with his friend. Thoughts of Henry and his present conduct were gone for the moment, as Mr Carey stepped up to introduce his friend and take her hand.

“Miss Dashwood, it has been too long,” he smiled with a short bow. “May I present my friend, Mr James Mortimer.”

Margaret thought how dashing Charles looked, his black hair still as wavy and his dark eyes twinkling with merriment in a tanned skin, weathered by the elements and exposure to the sun in foreign climes, no doubt. His profession certainly seemed to be suiting him. James was of a similar age and appeared to be just as cordial. He had an open face, with light brown hair and eyes to match the October sky outside.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Margaret began, holding out her hand before turning to address Charles. “It is lovely to see you again, Mr Carey. What are you doing in London?”

“I am staying with James's family in Wimpole Street and making the most of peaceful times, though how long it will remain so is anyone's guess. We are enjoying seeing the sights of London, but I will be going back to Devonshire for a while, to see them all at home.”

“If I know Charles Carey, he won’t be content to sit about in the Devonshire countryside for long,” interrupted James. “He’ll be moping about until he gets back on board ship, won’t you, my friend. Miss Dashwood, he may talk of enjoying peace, but between you and me, he is as anxious as I am to be back in the thick of it.”

“I like to be occupied, that's all, can’t bear to be idle,” interrupted Charles. “Give me a ship and men to command, that's all I ask. What can a naval man do at home but think of the day when he can be afloat again, sailing the rolling waves? I was born to be a sailor, that is all there is to say.”

Margaret could only admire this fine speech. As she listened to their exploits in the war, she was struck by the fact that these brave men had only been too willing, not only to fight for their country but also prepared to die in battle. They were eager to be of service again and she felt quite humbled in their presence. How wonderful it would have been to join them and see the world.