Willoughby's Return (26 page)

As if reading Marianne's thoughts, Margaret addressed her sister directly. “I am fine, Marianne. Please do not be concerned. I am perfectly happy and just wish to select a book. I suggest you do the same.”

Sensing that Margaret might wish to be alone with her thoughts, Marianne went in search of some music manuscripts. When feeling at odds with the world, her remedy was to lose herself in melodious harmony. Nothing soothed so well as a piece of composition. Although she had not confided in Margaret, the truth was that relations between her and William were strained once again. Criticising Brandon's sister had been an ill-judged censure but she had felt it necessary, nevertheless. Her fierce and protective love for her sister and perhaps for a part of herself she now thought lost had been at its root, but how she was to make her husband understand, she could not decide. However, all that could be forgotten at the present; Marianne selected a large sheaf of music and finding a seat in a cosy corner, determined to lose herself for a pleasant half hour.

Margaret busied herself with a variety of books, stacking them on a small table beside her; unable to decide whether she wished to read of gothic horrors or maiden's fortunes in love. She opted for the former, a tale of terror bound in leather, as the prospect of happy endings filled her with more dread than the most ghostly tale. Determined to find a seat where she would not be disturbed or observed, Margaret worked her way past several
rows of bookshelves until at last at the very back of the library in a quiet, but dimly illuminated spot from the lack of natural light, she found an unoccupied chair set against a tall but empty bookcase. The chair was a comfortable-looking seat so she sat down, convinced that the lack of any reading matter at hand would mean that she would be left alone. Closing her eyes, she tried to blot out the thoughts that persisted in haunting her. Everywhere was quiet, only the clock ticking on the wall and the occasional scrape of a chair leg or a person coughing could be heard. As Margaret tried to relax, to clear her head of unwelcome thoughts, her ear was caught by the low voices of a couple, a man and woman, talking in whispers, quite intimately on the other side of the high shelving. It was impossible to see them but her attention was duly fixed when the agitation and accent of the lady rose to a pitch, making her curious to hear more. There was no mistake. The possessor of the genteel voice, which kept lapsing into French, was a lady. Margaret held her breath, longing to hear the answering speech of the gentleman. His voice was deeper and it was more difficult to hear him. But she could hardly believe her ears nor stop the trembling, not only of her hands, which shook so much that she feared she would drop her book, but also of her entire being. For his was a voice she knew and she could not hear it without emotion. Henry Lawrence's mellow tones were detected and from her quiet spot on the other side, she was petrified and riveted all at once. Margaret clasped her hand over her mouth as Mademoiselle de Fontenay started to speak again.

“But how is it to be accomplished, Henry? I dare not hope that we will be together at last,” cried Mademoiselle de Fontenay. Her voice was strained and anxious. “If anyone were to see us, all will be undone!”

“You must not worry,” Henry replied in a soothing manner. “True love always finds a way; you must believe me, Antoinette, my dear girl. Have I ever let you down yet? I promise I will not fail you.”

“If I could only feel that what we are to undertake will not be seen as folly or despicable behaviour. I do not wish to upset my mother, but I cannot see what else we are to do. Our happiness is at stake.”

“I have told you, Antoinette, my dearest one, I will think of a way and with luck, all will be resolved in time. I have a plan. All I ask is that you trust me.”

“Oh, Henry, of course I do. I trust you with my life; I always have, ever since those days, so long ago in France, when we were only playmates. If we had known then how the fates would join us…”

Margaret involuntarily and audibly drew in her breath. A moment of terrified suspense followed, there were scuffling noises and fretful whispering on the other side, as the couple recognised that they might have been overheard. Seconds later, as Margaret hardly dared to let go her breath for fear of discovery, she heard their footsteps retreating, until they were distinguished no more. Her own emotions still kept her fixed to the spot. She had much to recover from before she could move, she had heard a great deal to disturb her. What on earth could they be planning and why were they being forced to act with such secrecy? The more she thought on the matter, the more she puzzled on a conclusion. It didn’t make any sense.

As soon as she could, she went after Marianne, and having found, and walked back with her to their carriage, felt some consolation in being together. London was as crowded and noisy
as ever. People thronged the streets in profusion. But despite the comforting reassurance of her sister's company, Margaret had never felt quite so lonely or dispirited.

Marianne had once thought that she never wished to see London again. Her discovery of Willoughby's duplicity and consequent marriage to Miss Grey with her fifty thousand pounds, several years ago in this very town, had been quite enough to resolve upon a disinclination for the metropolis. However, marrying William had changed this perception. London had been a splendid backdrop to their mutual discovery and blossoming love for one another. So, it was with some surprise that she found some of her old feelings of agitation and apprehension returning as she stared out of the carriage window at the familiar streets. Her disappointment for Margaret was partly to blame, her heart ached for her sister as she recollected those emotions which loomed out of the past, lingering like the swirling fog which rose from the river, cloaking the city. But most importantly, her beloved William seemed aloof and distant. Since her outburst, there had been no further dispute or disagreement between them. On the surface, everything appeared to be perfectly fine, but Marianne felt the want of intimacy, which prevented them from being as close as was usual. She knew in her heart that she should apologise to Brandon for speaking so ill of his sister, but she also felt she had been right to do so. Marianne could not bring herself to say sorry, but also knew that in order to feel at peace with the world, the situation must be dealt with sooner or later.

On their return from Hookham's they discovered that Mr Carey had called in their absence and that they had received an invitation from a lady who was a complete stranger to them all.
Marianne did not recognise the name of Lady Denham and was just informing Margaret that they had been invited to this lady's house for a ball, when Brandon walked in.

“Lady Denham is a friend of the Comtesse,” he explained. “I believe they were neighbours for a time in Paris. Mademoiselle de Fontenay called again this afternoon when you were out, to bring the invitation on Lady Denham's behalf. It is a pity that you were out this morning and were not able to receive her and her mother.”

Marianne felt herself turn crimson under the Colonel's scrutiny. He did not have to say anything for her to know that he was completely aware that she had been here in the house. Margaret got up and went to study the scene out of the drawing room window, in the hope that Brandon could not observe her flaming cheeks.

“That is very kind of the Comtesse to use her influence to procure an invitation, but I am not sure if we can accept,” said Marianne, immediately thinking how painful it would be for her sister to have to witness Henry and Antoinette dancing together.

“I am afraid it would be seen as a great slight if we do not attend,” answered Brandon. “I understand that you might not wish to go, Margaret, and if that be the case, we can easily think of a reason why you are not able to accompany us.”

Marianne smiled. There was no man as understanding or so thoughtful as her husband when he needed to be, she thought. He had obviously been considering Margaret's position.

Margaret thought over the matter for only a moment. Perhaps if Henry saw her again at a ball, as he had in Delaford, she might persuade him that he was making a dreadful mistake by her charms alone. “I would like to go,” said Margaret, turning
from the window, wearing her bravest expression. “I’m sure a dance would be the very activity to cheer me up. I have always longed to attend a ball in London after hearing Marianne's glittering descriptions. When is it to be?”

“On Friday, so there is enough time for you and Marianne to buy every satin in London town for the occasion.”

“That is already done,” Marianne announced with a laugh, relieved that William's mood was so jovial and that Margaret appeared to have rallied so quickly. Perhaps everything would be fine after all.

ON REACHING GROSVENOR SQUARE and Lady Denham's residence, the size and importance of the whole event was brought home as they saw carriages queuing around the whole of the square, three abreast, blocking the easy progress of any oncoming traffic and causing a complete jam.

Torches lit up the edifice of the great house, and an army of footmen guided their steps to a grand ballroom, where the guests were assembling, already wilting in the heat caused by the glow of wax candles and the close proximity to their numerous, fellow human beings. Such splendour and magnificence was enough to make all the party more than a little subdued, as they looked around in search of a familiar face. Margaret, who had tried to equip herself with a firm resolve not to be upset by anything that could possibly happen, was still unprepared for the intense feeling in the pit of her stomach when first she encountered Henry and Mademoiselle de Fontenay standing together with an air of complete intimacy. The entire room seemed to be plumed by tall feathers of ostrich and egret waving above the ladies’
heads; but none were more splendid or profuse as those combined into a coronet on Mademoiselle de Fontenay's gleaming coiffure. Her slender frame was swathed in sheerest muslin, set with sewn pearls in motifs, graduating in size toward an embellished hem. Margaret thought her rival looked like a princess and though delighted by her own appearance in a simple, tamboured muslin, felt she must appear as a country bumpkin in comparison.

Henry and Antoinette were chatting with Sir Edgar, Lady Lawrence, and the Comtesse. A meeting was unavoidable, so Margaret steeled herself as best as she could, taking deep breaths as she weaved her way through the braying crowd who were all talking in such loud tones as to make the strongest constitution take on an immediate headache.

Marianne and William were soon absorbed in conversation with the elders of the party, which left Henry, Antoinette, and Margaret all looking at one another.

“I have never seen such a splendid ballroom,” Margaret began, wishing to say something to cover the silence that ensued. “And so many people in one place, parties in Devonshire are such small gatherings by comparison.”

“It is very beautiful,” agreed Mademoiselle Antoinette, regarding the room about her. “Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Dashwood? We both love to dance, don’t we, Henry?”

Margaret felt her cheeks flush. “Yes, I do enjoy a dance very much. At home I love going to the assemblies above everything else. I particularly enjoyed a ball my sister gave a few months ago at Delaford. Mr Lawrence was there also.”

“Charles Carey and his friend have been included in the invitation,” interrupted Henry, “I expect they will be here in a moment. I hope that is to your liking.”

Margaret looked at Henry's countenance. He was staring at her with such a blank expression that she wondered how she could ever have thought there was anything more between them than polite civility. “It will be pleasant to see Mr Carey and Mr Mortimer again,” she answered, looking down at the floor. She wanted to move away, the silences subsisting seemed to be growing ever longer.

“Here you are at last!” cried a voice behind them and for once, Margaret was pleased to see Mrs Jennings, though not so thrilled to observe her companions, Mr and Mrs Robert Ferrars and Anne Steele.

“Are Mr Mortimer and Mr Carey anywhere to be seen yet? I should not say it, but I know those gentlemen will be on the lookout for us if they are in the vicinity,” said Anne to Margaret, as she giggled behind her hand. “Mr Mortimer is so brazen in his addresses that Lucy's teasing is mortifying, but I know Mr Carey is very particular about you, Miss Dashwood.” She turned toward Henry and his companion. “Do you not think so, Mr Lawrence? Have you noticed how much Mr Carey seems to enjoy Miss Dashwood's company?”

Margaret could have died, especially when she felt Henry's eyes on her countenance. How could Anne have said such a thing to Henry, above all people? She instantly blushed and looked down; she could not meet his eyes. Fortunately, Mr and Mrs Ferrars now took over the conversation and in the ensuing exchange of gossip, where Margaret could not bring herself to utter a single word; she managed to manoeuvre herself away from Henry and his companion, to place herself between Marianne and the Colonel. Everyone was talking at once, Henry and Antoinette seeming to have eyes only for one another. Therefore, she was quite relieved when a tap on her shoulder and a friendly hello
announced Mr Carey and Mr Mortimer. Margaret was made the centre of attention, which was quite enough to restore her spirits a little, especially when she noticed Henry looking over.