Willoughby

Copyright © 2013 Sadie Montgomery.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9890-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9891-7 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 8/2/2013

Contents

Prologue

Part I

Willoughby

Marianne

Willoughby

Marianne

Willoughby

Part II

Willoughby

Miss Sophia Grey

Willoughby

Marianne

Willoughby

Part III

Marianne

Willoughby

Marianne

Willoughby

Part IV

Sophia

Willoughby

Marianne

Willoughby

Sophia

Willoughby

Sophia

Willoughby

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Part IX

To Doug, Zach, Betty, and Mom

For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

The Fairie Queen, Edmund Spenser

Prologue

1805, Combe Magna

W HERE DID MY FALL BEGIN? To unravel my descent is not a simple task. Like the hydra, I lop off one head only to see two take its place.

Foolishly, I had led my life as if my inheritance were already in my possession. Although Mrs. Smith rarely journeyed beyond the borders of Devonshire, she was kept abreast of my activities and never failed to tell me what a disappointment I was to her and would have been to my parents had they not already died. Even so, I had been confident that I would manage to live within my means once I came into my full inheritance.

Who would have informed Mrs. Smith of the affair in Bath?

Unfortunately, any number of acquaintances might have done so. The particular turn of events—the birth of the child—must have spurred one of them to sit and write to Mrs. Smith.

How difficult it must have been to tell the tale of my scandal. Did this person understand the effects such an accusation might have upon a woman who valued her pride and reputation more than the bonds of blood or affection? Had that person foreseen the consequences of such a revelation?

My elderly relative’s judgment was summary. No doubt she felt it her righteous duty to pass sentence on me. Subsequent mercies matter little, for they came too late to be of service to me. The punishment, in effect, continues to this day.

Having lost my inheritance and hounded on all sides by my debtors, the need of a good marriage was no longer hypothetical. An alliance to end my financial woes and to stave off dishonor to my family was imperative. A dissolute youth had ill prepared me for a worthy life. My virtues—had I had any—were unpracticed and atrophied by neglect.

I made a choice. Admitting now that I made the wrong one does not change my circumstances or ease the sorrow.

I am weary of painful memories. I ignore their insistent demand. And yet I recall that day, the day that I took my farewell of Marianne, as if it split my life in twain. It was not the unfortunate incident in Bath that led me to this moment of regret. It was the day that I broke faith with Marianne, the day that I turned my back on love.

It was more than seven years ago now, the day that I met Mrs. Dashwood and her three daughters. To think that I held Marianne Dashwood in my arms before I even knew her name.

Part I

Barton Cottage

October 1798

Is love a fancy, or a feeling? No.

It is immortal as immaculate Truth,

‘Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth,

Drops from the stem of life—for it will grow,

In barren regions, where no waters flow,

Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom.

Sonnet VII Hartley Coleridge

Willoughby

T HE MORNING SKY WAS BLUE, the air crisp, a breeze wafted across hillocks and fields, refreshing and stirring the blood. Willoughby had donned his hunting jacket, and Artemis and Athena, two of the finest pointers he had ever bred, gamboled at his feet as they struck off across the park. A distant cousin on his father’s side, Mrs. Smith rarely entertained, and her lands were varied and fertile. Game was plentiful. Artemis whined pathetically as she awaited Willoughby’s signal in vain, for he didn’t raise his gun to the skies when several partridges startled and took flight. For some unfathomable reason he lingered and contemplated the landscape as if searching for some unknown presence. He was drawn to the valley and to the hillocks beyond. The moment was heavy with portent. One foot trod forward and then the next, without any thought but the urge to see what awaited him over the crest of the next promontory.

He was vaguely aware that he had walked some distance from Allenham Court and was now far closer to Barton Park, the property of Mrs. Smith’s nearest neighbor, Sir John Middleton. Artemis and Athena sniffed something in the air, which Willoughby, too, sensed. A tingling along the back of his neck warned him to look up toward the sky. Gathering over them, the dark, heavy belly of storm clouds blocked the sun. Just as Willoughby thought to turn back, the skies opened and a torrent of rain poured down.

Within minutes his hair was drenched and the fabric of his coat weighed heavy on his shoulders. A cold trickle of rain made its way under his collar and down his back. He was walking along High-church Downs, intending to return to Allenham, when he heard a voice over the clamorous gusts of the deluge. Blinking the moisture from his eyes, he saw a young girl, just a child, rushing towards him up the slope of the hill. She waved and called out for him to come.

Please, sir, my sister has fallen. I fear she’s broken an ankle.

Looking past the child, Willoughby noticed a figure seated, half-reclined, on the steep grade of the slope. The young woman’s dress pooled about her like a garden of wild flowers on the damp grass along the incline of the hill.

Wasting no time, Willoughby urged the girl—she couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve—to lead the way. Artemis and Athena barked and scurried ahead. In his enthusiasm to come to her sister’s aid, he disregarded the irregular ground which in all likelihood had been the cause of the young woman’s unfortunate spill.

As he approached the young woman, he didn’t notice anything especially remarkable about her. He had come in response to the child’s urgent plea for help, thinking only of assisting her sister, giving no thought to the consequences of this encounter. But when the young woman lifted her face and he saw her features, his tongue fixed itself to the roof of his mouth and he could not for the moment understand what he was doing or where he was. The rain ceased to chill him even though the outburst had not yet spent its force. As his heart raced, in spite of the damp and the cold, a curious sensation of warmth coursed through his body.

At his side, the child was speaking. But he didn’t hear her words until she nearly came to a breathless halt. She repeated something about a race, the uneven ground, the steep grade of the hillock. Willoughby smiled, the spell broken. Once again he was capable of action, swept along by the pleasure of his fortunate role. One might assume that he played the Good Samaritan, coming to the aid of a distressed neighbor. But Willoughby knew better. That initial selfless inspiration to act had been overwhelmed by another. A beautiful young woman lay helpless at his feet. Her upturned eyes, large with worry, at his approach, brightened with hope. Transformed into the gallant young hero, Willoughby sank to one knee.

Can you stand? he asked. Immediately he knew the answer and felt foolish for having asked the question. Where are you injured?

She’s broken her ankle. It was the child who spoke. Her tone wavered between concern and excitement. She stepped into one of those rabbit holes and fell head over heels down the hill and landed on her foot.

Sir, I’m sure that Margaret can find the assistance I need at the cottage. The young woman raised her hand over her brow to shield her eyes from the steady rain. Please, don’t concern yourself. The blush in her cheeks only served to mark the beauty of her complexion.

Willoughby ignored her embarrassment and asked, May I touch your ankle? I would like to see if the bone is broken.

He waited for her permission. It came as a slight nod of the head and a tentative glance his way which gave him the pleasure of admiring the deep brown of her eyes. They were framed by thick, dark lashes, and he was struck by the intensity of her gaze whenever she peered up towards him. His hands hovered over her ankle as he tried to retain the impression of those eyes.

As he suspected, rotating the ankle, he found no indication of a break. Even so, the tissue around the joint had already darkened and was noticeably swollen.

No permanent harm has been done. It’s merely a sprain.

Her relief was evident in the deep sigh she expelled and the hint of a smile on her lips. Unexpectedly, Willoughby’s own mouth stretched into a broad grin. Gladness spread its warmth through his chest and imbued him with surprising strength and determination in spite of the chill damp of the rain.

Let’s get you warm inside before you catch your death, he muttered before she could protest. He wedged one of his arms under her knees and the other across the narrow of her back. She weighed nothing—or so it seemed.

Abruptly the ferocity of the downpour abated. A gentle drizzle took its place.

As Willoughby carried the young woman down the steep grade of the hill—taking care that his steps were firmly grounded—toward the small cottage at the edge of Barton Park, he was vividly aware of the solidity of her form, the strength with which her arms locked around his shoulders and neck, the soft promise of her body under the sodden fabric of her gown.

He felt emboldened by her faith in him. Medieval ballads and Homeric verses from epic accounts of ancient wars ran amok through his mind as he carried the injured girl to safety.

The child, her sister Margaret, filled her sister’s silence and distracted him from his fancies of heroic adventure. From her, Willoughby learned that they were the Dashwoods, the widow and three daughters recently installed in the cottage. Only a few mornings past, as he tried to convince Willoughby to part with one of his prized pointers, Sir John Middleton had mentioned their arrival. Without boasting of his charity, Sir John had given an account of his cousins’ plight and of his generous offer of sanctuary. Margaret completed the picture that Sir John had painted in broad strokes. Instead of the child’s garrulous chatter, Willoughby longed to hear her sister’s voice. As they breached the garden gate and started up the path to the cottage door, Margaret ran ahead to warn her mother and her oldest sister Elinor of the accident and of their approach.

Alone with his prize and before he could say a word, Willoughby saw the color blaze in Miss Dashwood’s cheeks.

Are you in much pain? he asked, slowing his pace so as to prolong the moment.

Again those dark brown eyes met his only to slip away. She gave a slight shake of the head. Perhaps it occurred to her then that such a niggardly response to the man who was serving as her champion was ungrateful.

It’s not so bad, she whispered.

Willoughby couldn’t help but notice that streams of rain water had dropped from his unprotected face onto the bodice of her gown. The white chiffon insert at her bosom was soaked and a pale glimpse of pink flesh stirred his blood. In a gallant gesture, he averted his gaze, but he retained the memory.

You must be chilled and weary to have carried me in the rain. Brows lowered, she finally looked at her hero.

I haven’t noticed the cold, and I could walk for miles. You are no burden, Miss Dashwood.

They spoke no more, for they had crossed the threshold of her humble home. It was as if Willoughby had stepped into an enchanted cottage. The rooms were warm and softly lit by candle against the storm’s gloom. Her mother ushered them into the small parlor off the narrow entrance hall. Another young woman stood beside the divan, having prepared it for her sister. With some regret, Willoughby gently set his charge on the cushion and stepped away. While her family attended to her, introductions were made. The names Margaret had mentioned were now assigned a face.

How can we thank you, Mr. Willoughby, for your kindness? the young lady’s mother asked.

Willoughby said something inconsequential, for he was distracted by the pleasure of watching the women fuss over Marianne. The embarrassment that had plagued the young lady had disappeared. As if he were not present, except for the occasional glance his way, she recounted how he had come out of the mists to her rescue, how easily he had carried her down the treacherous slope, how chivalrous he had been. Willoughby listened with rapt attention to her account, barely recognizing himself in the gallant character she had drawn. It should have made him blush, but he was mesmerized by the sparkle in her eye and the lovely cadence of her voice.

Would you please sit, Mr. Willoughby? Let us serve you some tea to warm you. Mrs. Dashwood drew a chair close to the divan and cupped her daughter’s hand. A silent glance toward Miss Elinor Dashwood set the oldest daughter into motion. Before she could ask the servant to bring tea, Willoughby protested.

Thank you, but I must be off. Don’t trouble yourself on my account. He stared down into Marianne’s face and saw the expectation that he had hoped to find there. But may I return tomorrow to see how our patient fares?

By all means, Mrs. Dashwood answered. Then she rose from her place and accompanied him to the door.

Anxious to begin the day, Willoughby rose early, for he intended to pay his respects once more at Barton Cottage.

Mrs. Smith, his father’s distant cousin, was his closest living relative, and it was long acknowledged that he was her heir. It was duty, not affection, which brought him to Allenham Court each year. Mrs. Smith was elderly and infirm, but her character had always been dour, critical, and unforgiving.

But this particular morning, nothing could dampen his spirits. He was glad to be related to Mrs. Smith, delighted to have come to Devonshire, and was determined to be pleasant and cheerful.

As was her custom, Mrs. Smith was at her breakfast in the parlor. When Willoughby entered, she arched one eyebrow and made a strange airy sound deep in her throat, her usual response to the rare event that surprised her.

Good morning, Mrs. Smith, he said as he served himself from the buffet of rashers of bacon and hard crusted bread. He sat at the small round table near the floor to ceiling windows that looked out upon the bowling-green and began to eat with pleasure.

Humph, the elderly woman repeated.

Willoughby was accustomed to her morning silence. She had never been overly interested in him or his affairs. Nor could he say that he found much to discuss with her. She rarely strayed from Allenham. There was no need. A few select neighbors and friends came regularly to visit her, bringing the gossip of the county with them. As her guests regaled her with their tidbits of news, Willoughby had observed her listening and studying them with a baleful eye. Silence inevitably encouraged her visitors to reveal more and more details, making the minor transgression a glaring scandal, the meanest occurrence a tragedy worthy of Marlowe.

I imagine you’re wondering why I’m up so early, he said. If a conversation was to be had, he would have to carry the burden of it. I am off to visit my patient.

Mrs. Smith glanced at the young man and scowled.

I had a rather adventurous day yesterday, he added. He could see that she was listening even as she picked the hard bits of crust from her roll and dipped them into her cup of buttermilk. It was during that downpour we had. I rescued a young lady who had fallen and turned her ankle. She’s one of Mrs. Dashwood’s three lovely daughters.

Barton Cottage, she said by way of response.

Yes. Willoughby paused, expecting her to say more, but she dipped another piece of hard bread into her buttermilk and slipped the sodden morsel into her mouth.

His former excitement to share his encounter flagged. He watched the loose skin of her sunken cheeks flutter as she gummed the soaked bread. For several moments, they ate in silence. Anxious to bolster his enthusiasm, he struggled to find a way to engage his relation in the conversation.

The cottage is rather small for the four of them, but it’s quite charming in its own way.

Church mice, Mrs. Smith said.

Sorry? Willoughby wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly.

Half-brother inherited the estate, everything, turned the second wife and her children out with barely enough to put food on the table.

How horrible, he muttered under his breath, as if he had not already heard the basic details of the story. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn. The elderly lady’s depiction of the Dashwoods did not capture their grace or their spirit. Sir John Middleton is a generous man, Willoughby said by way of bringing to an end the discussion of the Dashwoods’ economic situation.

An idiot, she remarked and took a sip of her buttermilk.

Mrs. Smith held a number of strong opinions about her neighbors. Sir John was as happy as she was dour. They mixed liked oil and water.

I’m off to visit Miss Marianne Dashwood. Willoughby was determined to retain the enthusiastic optimism that his morning resolve had inspired. He wiped his mouth and fingers on a napkin and laid it to the side of his plate.

Whatever for?

For the first time that morning, Mrs. Smith looked at the young man directly and waited to hear his response. Her dismissive tone and sudden attention put him on guard.

They are neighbors, he said, no longer willing to share more than he had to. Mrs. Smith continued to stare at him as if he had not yet answered her question. As usual, her silence made his almost impossible to bear. I told her mother that I would come by to check on Miss Marianne’s recovery.

Humph.

Mrs. Dashwood received Mr. Willoughby with more than politeness. She showed him to the room off the modest entry hall, the same room where the day before he had brought her daughter.

He couldn’t help but think that the three daughters had been waiting for him the entire morning, for each had assumed a position in the room that was so elegant, so studied that they appeared to be posing for a painting. Only the youngest, Margaret, broke the illusion. Her hands were clutched tightly together in her lap, and the nervous jiggling of her knee was evident in the constant flutter of her skirts. A perfect portrait of composure, Miss Elinor stood in three-quarter profile at the mantel just to the side of one of two winged chairs. Her delicate complexion and regular features drew the eye. Standing as she was, Willoughby was also able to admire her figure. However, his attention was soon diverted by the presence of Miss Marianne.

A queen waiting to be attended, Miss Marianne reclined against several large pillows on the divan. It would not be an exaggeration to praise her beauty, for Willoughby found her even more handsome than her older sister. Her skin glowed with health. Her complexion was smooth and even. The sun had given her skin the tone of warm cinnamon. Her smile was sweet and attractive, and her eyes, which were a striking dark brown, shone with a light of eager intelligence and vivacity that Willoughby couldn’t help but admire.

He bowed to each of the young women gathered in the small parlor and waited for Miss Dashwood to take her seat next to Miss Margaret. Mrs. Dashwood went to a straight-backed chair next to the window where she could catch the late morning light and sat with her needlework.

Please, Mr. Willoughby, do sit down, Mrs. Dashwood said before she directed her attention to her mending. She turned into the light, leaving him to converse with her daughters.

May I ask how you’re feeling? he said to Miss Marianne, discharging the purported reason for his visit.

In truth, he knew her injury was minor. The ankle was perched on a cushion on the divan, but her foot had been dressed in a simple white stocking and was shod in a low, black slipper. It was evident to the eye that there was no unnatural swelling or distortion.

Miss Marianne’s color deepened for a moment, and Willoughby realized that she was embarrassed by the allusion to their encounter.

My ankle is somewhat sore, but the physician says that there’s no permanent damage. Mama demands that I rest it for the next few days.

Here Willoughby heard a touch of annoyance in her tone. He regarded a brief exchange of glances between Mrs. Dashwood and her daughter.

Mama is only thinking of your welfare, Marianne, remarked Miss Elinor. Something in her tone suggested that they had already had this conversation. Willoughby restrained his smile.

I’m sure you’ll be up and about soon, he said by way of consolation.

For the next several minutes, the Dashwoods and their guest spoke of the neighborhood, Sir John Middleton’s penchant for hunting, various features of the landscape, activities in the county and the nearby village that might be of interest.

Marianne never seems in want of activity, said Miss Elinor. As long as she has a good book and can sit outside, she’s perfectly content to disappear inside a story for hours on end.

Is that true? Willoughby asked. Somehow he hadn’t imagined Miss Marianne, her nose in a book for hours at a time.

Marianne looked at him with some surprise. Her eyebrows rose, and she seemed to be studying him. Puzzled Willoughby waited for her response.

I know that many men prefer to kill animals rather than to spend an evening reading, she said.

Marianne, came the general gasp from both Mrs. and Miss Dashwood.

Willoughby was not offended. He chuckled good-naturedly. It was his own fault for having brought up the subject of hunting with Sir John.

I confess that I do enjoy hunting, mostly quail and grouse, which are abundant. At least my prey contributes to the dining table. But you seem to think that I wouldn’t enjoy reading.

Well? Do you?

Marianne, chided her mother softly. But Willoughby didn’t mind her direct tone. In every aspect Marianne showed herself to be remarkable, so different from the young ladies that he had met.

Let me see, he said. He closed his eyes to improve his recall of a recent passage that he had read and committed to memory.

Delia, the unkindest girl on earth,

When I besought the fair,

That favour of intrinsic worth

A ringlet of her hair…

Marianne’s agitation broke Willoughby’s concentration, interrupting his dramatic delivery. She had pushed herself up against the cushions and leaned forward with her hand raised toward him. To his delight, she began to recite from the same poem by Cowper,

When you behold it still as sleek,

As lovely to the view,

As when it left thy snowy neck,

That Eden where it grew,

Then shall my Delia’s self declare

That I professed the truth,

And have preserved my little share

In everlasting youth.

She nodded and smiled as if expecting applause. Willoughby grinned at her in amazement that they had both committed to memory stanzas from the same poem.

Do you know others? she rushed to ask him.

I once determined to memorize a poem a day.

How many do you know?

I confess they began to jumble after a while. I do recall vivid lines from certain poems. When I was a lad, I boasted that I would memorize all of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

My favorite one of his is…

At that moment, the servant entered with tea. The spell was broken. Miss Dashwood rose from her seat to assist.

Would you consider staying for our midday meal, Mr. Willoughby? Mrs. Dashwood asked as Miss Elinor poured the tea.

Willoughby glanced at Marianne. Her eyes were wide with pleasure.

How could he refuse?

Marianne fidgeted in her place on the divan and flexed her ankle up and down on the pillow her mother insisted she use.

I can’t bear it another minute, Mama. Tell her, Willoughby. Marianne stared, eyes wide, at the young man.

Willoughby had come to visit Miss Marianne and her family every day since their first encounter, and each visit grew longer than the last. Well over an hour ago, he had appeared on their doorstep, a bouquet of wild flowers in his hand for the mistress of the cottage. Delighted by his thoughtfulness, Mrs. Dashwood had ushered him to his favorite chair and charged him with her daughter’s entertainment. Obediently, Willoughby had found a deck of cards, and Marianne and he had spent some time testing each other’s skill.

I’m sure your mother has only your welfare at heart, Miss Marianne, he began to explain as he put the deck of cards away in a small drawer of the corner table, but Marianne gave a great sigh of frustration.

It’s already been more than three days. I’ve been cooped up inside all this time, and the rain stopped ages ago and the sun is glorious.

Willoughby could see that Mrs. Dashwood was embarrassed by her daughter’s complaint and was about to reproach her. But before she could, her oldest daughter, who was as aware as Willoughby of the situation, addressed the impatient patient.

Marianne, our guest will think that we’ve been keeping you imprisoned. Just this morning, Thomas set you in the chaise longue.

For an hour, that was all. Marianne was not to be satisfied. And the chaise longue is just outside the cottage and under the eaves of the roof and the sun had barely touched my face when he brought me inside again.

Thomas does have other chores to do, Marianne. Miss Elinor looked to Willoughby as if to ask his pardon. Willoughby felt compelled to come to her assistance.

"While I am a man of leisure with nothing to do and looking for employment. I can imagine nothing better than to be your transport, Miss Marianne, if you’ll allow me."

Before Mrs. Dashwood could raise an objection, Willoughby stood and went to the divan. Without warning, he lifted Marianne in his arms. How delighted he was to be able to repeat the gesture of their first encounter.

Marianne’s face was only inches from his, and his heart swelled to see the surprise and delight sparkle in her dark eyes. She grasped him firmly round the neck as Willoughby made his way from the parlor, to the front door of the cottage, and out into the bright sunshine.

Behind him, he could hear the mild protests of Mrs. Dashwood, but he had come to know the Dashwoods well enough to understand that they were only mindful of the imposition upon him. Just as he thought, Miss Elinor slipped past him and went to steady the chaise longue for her sister’s arrival. However, Willoughby had other plans. Marianne secure in his arms, he strode past the chaise longue and Miss Elinor and down the path toward the garden gate.

Next to his ear, Marianne whispered, Willoughby, where are you taking me?

He disregarded her question, for they were fast approaching their first challenge—the garden gate was closed.

Margaret, would you be so kind? he called out over his shoulder.

Laughing boisterously, Margaret skipped down the path and opened the gate for them.

I’m in your debt, Miss Margaret. Willoughby bowed his head, smiled, and gave the girl a wink before he stepped to the other side of the gate.

Marianne? Mrs. Dashwood called from the doorway.

Willoughby stopped and turned toward her voice.

Not to worry, Mrs. Dashwood, I will return her after a brief walk along the edge of the field. Under his breath, he said to Marianne, Now poor Thomas can get on with his duties without fear of your sharp tongue.

Sharp? she cried out in mock dismay.

Like a knife. With one word—nay a sigh would suffice—your tongue could slice through bone, my dear. No, there’s no remedy for it. We must have you happy or else bear the wounds.

Marianne threw back her head and let out a deep-throated sound of pure enjoyment. Joining in her laughter, Willoughby twirled her several times in his arms until he felt a slight sensation of vertigo. He pretended to drop her and then, as if she were a sack of potatoes, hoisted her to improve his grasp. Delighting in her surprised cry as she bounced in his arms, they set off along the path that ran the length of the field where late autumn wild flowers bloomed.

After their laugher died away, all they could hear was the heavy tread of his boots on the dirt and stone and their own breathing. Willoughby hit his stride and was amazed by the lightness of his burden. Nothing could feel more natural than the solidity of Marianne in his arms, her body wedged against his chest, her face so close to his that he could feel the warm exhalation of her breath on his skin.

As they angled round a bend in the path, the cottage disappeared behind them. The sun was warm, and within a few minutes Willoughby felt the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, along his collar, and at his armpits. Fortunately, there was a gentle breeze coming off the fields of wild flowers and grasses that cooled him. He breathed in deeply the sharp tang of bitter herbs and the rich smell of damp earth.

Marianne’s hold on his neck had loosened, and she stared out over the field and up into the sky. She lifted one hand to shield her eyes as she studied the clouds that stood out against the sheer blue vault above them. Without warning, she turned her face to look at Willoughby. She caught him staring at her. He swallowed audibly as his eyes, of their own accord, slipped away from hers to admire her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted. He glimpsed the white of the edge of her teeth and inside the hint of the dark promise of her mouth. Moved, he stopped in his tracks. His eyes returned to meet her unflinching gaze. He could not think what to say.

The sound of an approaching carriage broke their concentration and dragged Willoughby back to an awareness of his surroundings. He recognized Sir John Middleton’s carriage well before it drew up beside him and Miss Marianne.

Willoughby, has there been another tumble down a hill? Is Miss Marianne injured yet again?

Willoughby knew the color was high in his face—not from his exertion, but from the sting of awkwardness. Sir John was not alone in the landau carriage. Next to him sat a man who seemed vaguely familiar.

No, Sir John, I’m quite recovered. But my mother insists that I’m an invalid. Mr. Willoughby, in all kindness, saved me from my boredom and has taken me for a stroll of sorts.

My, my, laughed Sir John as he stepped down and approached. Behind him, the other gentleman also alighted from the carriage.

Feeling foolish, Willoughby remarked that perhaps the stroll had done its work, and he should carry Miss Marianne back to the cottage. Disregarding his attempt to depart, Sir John introduced Willoughby to Colonel Brandon, an old friend of his from his short stay in the military.

Brandon’s down from London and on his way to Delaford. I insisted he remain for a proper visit. Sir John smiled at Marianne, but his words were clearly meant for Willoughby. From her regard of both men, Willoughby could tell that Marianne had already been introduced to Col. Brandon. As promised, Miss Marianne, we return in the landau so that we can take you and your mother and sisters to the village this afternoon in proper style.

As comfortable as Willoughby had felt just moments before, secure in the regard that the Dashwoods had of him, he was now vexed by doubts. No one had mentioned the outing. No one had spoken of Sir John and his guest.

Col. Brandon’s deep, calm voice intruded upon Willoughby’s thoughts.

I believe that Miss Marianne might be more comfortable in the carriage, Sir John, he said. Although he spoke to Sir John, he bowed his head to Marianne. Willoughby felt her arm tighten on his shoulders.

Quite right, Brandon. Come, Willoughby, get her settled inside and step in yourself. We were on our way to pay a visit to the Dashwoods.

May I assist you with Miss Marianne? Col. Brandon lifted his arms as if to relieve Willoughby of his burden.

Thank you, but I can manage alone, said Willoughby. Unwilling to release Marianne into Col. Brandon’s custody, Willoughby brushed past him and carried the young lady to the open carriage.

In the landau, Willoughby felt foolish for having whisked Marianne from the cottage as if he were a silly bridegroom. Although he had sensed that the interruption of their stroll had disappointed Marianne, now that she was installed in the carriage among the three men, she seemed not to have minded the change in plans. On the contrary, she sparkled under the attention of so many at her disposal.

Col. Brandon and Willoughby realized in their brief conversation that they had indeed met in town at a gala ball given by the Earl of Sheffield and that they had several acquaintances in common. There were likely other gatherings, too, where they might have coincided. But the subject didn’t seem to interest either of them sufficiently to belabor it.

When the carriage arrived a few minutes later at the cottage, Col. Brandon insisted on carrying Marianne inside, taking as an excuse that Willoughby had already exerted himself in the sun and should avoid further exertion. Neither tired nor grateful for Col. Brandon’s concern, Willoughby clamped his teeth together against a complaint. At that moment, he meant to take his leave, but even as Col. Brandon strode up the path to the doorway, Marianne called back to Willoughby over the colonel’s shoulder to follow. She stretched out her arm toward Willoughby, her open hand beckoning him to come to her. Willoughby would have rushed to take that hand except that he saw the strange look that Sir John gave him. Instead, he restrained his impulse and calmly made his way to the cottage.

The parlor was overwhelmed by the addition of two more men, but room was made. An impeccable hostess, Mrs. Dashwood set everyone at ease. Fortunately, Willoughby found a seat next to Marianne and was relieved to see that, opposite them, Miss Elinor and Col. Brandon had already become involved in a somewhat private conversation. From their expressions, Willoughby took it to be of a serious nature. All that he could glean was that it had something to do with an acquaintance they shared, Mr. Edward Ferrars.

The general conversation among the others had ranged from one topic to another when Sir John brought up the subject of music.

Marianne turned toward Willoughby. In a rush of emotion that seemed out of proportion to her question, she asked if he played.

Play?

Yes, play an instrument, she added in a vexed tone, as if he were a dull schoolboy.

Marianne is quite devoted to the pianoforte, her mother, who sat not far from Marianne and Willoughby, explained. She smiled indulgently at her daughter.

Willoughby was surprised to see a shadow pass over Marianne’s expression. Gone was the passionate excitement that the subject of music had inspired in her. She appeared crestfallen. He cast his eye around the parlor as if he hadn’t spent time here every day since their first meeting. The room was small and quaint. The number in their party quite filled it. Then he realized what was missing. There was no instrument in the room.

His eyes strayed to Marianne’s long, thin fingers. She rubbed the knuckles roughly of one hand, reddening the skin.

The pianoforte in the back room is in bad repair, Marianne said, as if she knew what Willoughby was thinking. We’ve had it tuned, but the sound it makes bears little resemblance to music.

Mrs. Dashwood was unsettled by her daughter’s complaint. She glanced to see if Sir John was offended. However, Sir John appeared to be unaffected. He had spied a remarkably fine chess set the Dashwoods displayed on a small table by the window. Asking who might play, Margaret gave an account of her skill that Sir John suggested they put to the test.

Marianne was lost in her own thoughts. She seemed downcast. Willoughby felt compelled to lift her spirits.

At Allenham Court, Mrs. Smith has a wonderful instrument which she had brought from Austria, he said. Being tone deaf, she does not play and has never encouraged anyone else to do so.

Why on earth did she purchase it? Marianne blurted out.

I imagine she liked the way it looked, Willoughby added candidly.

Oh how could someone own such an instrument and not put it to its proper use? I see it in my mind’s eye—silent, gathering dust, alone, waiting for someone to touch the keys, to play that first note. I can’t bear it, Willoughby. It’s as if she’s stolen its voice.

Marianne, that’s quite enough, scolded Mrs. Dashwood. Fortunately, she appeared to be the only other person in the room aware of their conversation. Miss Elinor and Col. Brandon continued to converse in the far corner of the room while Sir John and Margaret were intently involved in their game of chess. I’m very sorry, Willoughby, she gets carried away with…

Oh, Willoughby, Marianne said, as if her mother had not been speaking. You must rescue the poor dear. Just as you rescued me.

And how may I ask? Although Willoughby spoke to Marianne, he smiled at Mrs. Dashwood to set her mind at ease. He was dimly aware that from time to time Col. Brandon looked in their direction.

You must play it. Marianne left him no room for disagreement.

But how do you know that I play? he teased her, trying to lighten the mood. Willoughby lowered his voice, hoping that Marianne’s would match his.

You must. A soul as passionate as yours must play and play well. She seemed oblivious to the lull in the conversations around them.

Her adamant confidence in his talent made him chuckle, for indeed he did play and quite well.

But surely the poor instrument won’t feel the fullness of its liberation unless someone is present, other than I, to listen to its song. For short of a mute instrument, I can think of nothing sadder than a song that is heard only by the one who plays it.

Although the others still seemed engaged in their quiet activities and conversations, Willoughby sensed someone’s attention was still upon them.

Marianne shook her head so fervently that her light brown curls spun about her cheeks.

You’re wrong on that account. At Norland, I… But Marianne broke off in mid-sentence. A profound sadness had robbed her of her former spirit and made her silent.

Is it yet so painful to recall your life at Norland? Willoughby asked.

How can you doubt it? she whispered. Tears had pooled and threatened to overflow the rims of her dark eyes.

His heart went out to Marianne. She had lost more than the consolation of music. She grieved the loss of a father. Without thinking, he reached out to touch the tender valley below her eye. One tear cascaded over the rim and landed on the tip of his finger. Marianne took in a deep breath and looked up at him. Thick with emotion, the strange stillness around them brought the young man back to his senses before he committed yet another indiscretion.

Willoughby rose abruptly from his chair and took his leave of those present. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marianne’s expression. In that same moment, Miss Elinor left her seat next to Col. Brandon and went to her sister’s side. She took Marianne’s hand firmly in hers, drawing Marianne’s attention away from Willoughby.

As he departed Barton Cottage, Willoughby vowed that one day he would take Marianne to Allenham. Together they would vanquish silence.

Don’t move, Marianne commanded. She huffed in annoyance.

Willoughby restrained the urge to laugh at her intense expression.

She insisted on drawing his silhouette as a study for a portrait that she intended to do. Willoughby sat behind a silk scrim which cast his shadow onto the paper where Marianne traced the outline of his profile. She sat, head tilted over the sheet of paper, brows lowered in a frown, eyes fixed on her task, the tip of her tongue peeking out between her dark red lips in concentration. Willoughby couldn’t resist looking round the edge of the scrim to study her.

Again, she drew back in her seat and scowled at him. I said, don’t move!

Yes, Col. Brandon, he said in military fashion. He returned to his original position, stiffening his posture, his profile fixed and rigid.

He could hear the smile in Marianne’s voice when she spoke again. That’s better, soldier.

Elinor, who had been listening, chided, You really shouldn’t make fun of Col. Brandon. It doesn’t reflect well on either of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park.

That may well be, answered Willoughby, poking his head around the edge of the scrim, "but it’s curious that everyone should be so delighted to see him only to forget his presence and that they speak so highly of him and yet speak not to him."

That’s exactly what I was thinking, said Marianne. She put aside her pencil and momentarily released her subject with a nod. Willoughby leaned back in the chair and waited for Marianne to continue. Col. Brandon doesn’t even attempt to please. I’ve noticed on many an evening that he has barely said more than a few words.

I never see him without taking pains to converse with him, Elinor responded, a slight tone of annoyance creeping into her voice. Col. Brandon is a sensible man. He has seen a great deal of the world, has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. We’ve spoken at length on various subjects, and he has always answered my inquiries with intelligence and good nature.

Marianne raised an eyebrow. She was on the point of answering her sister’s implied rebuke, but Willoughby intervened and spoke instead.

That you esteem him is certainly in his favor, Miss Dashwood. He was glad to see the hint of a smile tease at Elinor’s lips. As for the esteem of the others, it’s a reproach in and of itself. Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings are not known for their discernment.

Marianne didn’t bother to hide her laughter. Elinor cast a disapproving glance in her direction. Willoughby reined in his own broad smile and waited with anticipation for Elinor to scold him roundly for his impudence.

If their admiration for Col. Brandon requires your censure of the gentleman, I might say that your judgment will only encourage my admiration for the man, for they are no more undiscerning than you are prejudiced and unjust.

Willoughby gave a pained grimace as if wounded and bowed in mock defeat.

I am chastised, Miss Dashwood. You have judged me and found me guilty of prejudice, but I don’t dislike Col. Brandon, he argued. On the contrary, I consider him a very respectable man, who has everybody’s good word and nobody’s notice. He has more money than he can spend, and yet if he has two new coats a year, he thinks himself extravagant.

Add to which, said Marianne, an impish grin on her face, that he has no passion or spirit. His feelings show no ardor, and his voice no expression. Did you hear the way he read Pope the other evening?

Willoughby shuddered theatrically.

The two of you are incorrigible. The one incites the other to higher and higher flights of fancy. My commendation, in comparison to your misuse of wit, must seem cold and insipid. I can only say that Col. Brandon is a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart.

If you insist on using reason to disarm me, I will give you three reasons for disliking Col. Brandon. Willoughby paused for effect and was pleased to see Elinor raise a skeptical eyebrow as she waited for him to continue. They are as follows: He threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine, he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. Willoughby found it nearly impossible to keep a straight face. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever.

Elinor dropped her needlework in her lap and looked at Willoughby in kindly exasperation. She shook her head and sighed, but not without some humor. You are cast from the same mold.

Marianne beamed at Willoughby while he could not resist repeating in his mind Elinor’s words—cast from the same mold. How true he felt them to be.

Marianne picked up her pencil and leaned over the sheet of drawing paper on the desk in front of her.

Mr. Willoughby, I insist that you return to your pose, or I will have to enumerate all your faults now that we have successfully listed those of Col. Brandon. Marianne pointed with her pencil to the scrim.

My faults are too numerous for one evening. I wouldn’t want to subject you or your sister to such a tiresome task. He took up his position once more behind the scrim.

He was grateful for the cover the silk mesh afforded. He worried that their playful attack on Col. Brandon had perhaps offended Miss Dashwood. But he confessed that it gladdened his heart to know that Marianne did not step forth to defend the man.

I say, Willoughby, you’ve been a frequent guest at Barton Cottage.

Sir John took the quail from the gentle hold of his pointer and handed it to his man. Willoughby and Sir John had already been out for several hours, and Willoughby had reached his limit. The hunting dogs were sleek with sweat, their tongues lolling from the sides of their bloodied mouths. Artemis stood by her master’s side, alert to his signal. Athena whined and trotted back and forth along the path. If it were up to them, they would continue until there were no more birds to fall from the sky.

As have you, Sir John, Willoughby replied. There has been no end to the activities devised to entertain your new neighbors.

Indeed, I think the addition of the fair ladies at Barton Cottage has made a world of difference to you, my dear young man.

Willoughby turned away from Sir John so that the older man wouldn’t see his expression.

You show no signs of your usual ennui, no agitation, no chomping at the bit to be on your way. Sir John’s smile was as broad as his waist. I’m pleased that our efforts to engage your interest have met with success. But I warrant your fervent devotion to our society has its roots in something other than the card games or the picnics or the balls we’ve arranged.

Willoughby knew that Sir John’s mocking tone was only a manifestation of the genuine friendship the man bore him. But on this subject he could not enjoy the light-hearted goading. He sensed there was something of a serious nature behind the banter.

Is there something you want to say to me, Sir John?

Sir John’s eyebrows rose in tandem over his light blue eyes. But he did not let Willoughby’s tone dampen his humor.

How the devil did you manage to cheat with Palmer at the table last night?

You accuse me…?

Now, now, don’t get yourself worked into a lather. Miss Marianne could not have been more delighted or more amazed to win those hands than my brother-in-law was puzzled to be thwarted by your discards at every turn. He clapped Willoughby on the back to ease his wariness. She’s a bright penny, that one. I don’t blame you in the least, Willoughby.

Had everyone come to the same conclusion? Was it so obvious? How could he doubt it? Marianne and he had given little thought to what might be said of them. Instead they had made no effort to hide their mutual affection.

Why should they?

It had taken Willoughby several days—and many sleepless nights—to confess to himself that Marianne had stolen his heart the moment he came to her assistance, the moment she looked up at him with those dark eyes and he knew that she saw the absolute best in him.

Willoughby had meant to rescue her, but it was she who had rescued him.

I have always been a demonstrative person, Sir John. I find those who hold back their true feelings false. Or perhaps they show so little because they feel so little. I enjoy Miss Marianne’s enthusiasm for life, her spirit, her lack of guile and pretense. Is that so wrong?

No, my dear boy, not in my estimation. I have always been unrestrained in my own nature. But… Sir John let his voice trail off, the thought incomplete. He slowed his pace, and Willoughby followed suit. I do understand, Willoughby. And to be perfectly honest, the two of you seem like two peas in a pod. Watching you has taken several years off my life and buoyed my spirits. But it has not pleased everyone universally.

We care little for what others might think. Willoughby felt the heat rise in his tone. But Sir John placed his palm on his forearm, gently, kindly, and Willoughby bit off the stream of angry words that he might have spoken.

"But I do care. I care for one man’s opinion in this matter because he is a dear friend of mine, a person of worth, and I’m afraid that he’s as smitten as you by Miss Marianne’s charms."

Sir John searched Willoughby’s eyes. Willoughby understood of whom he was speaking.

What are you saying to me? he asked, cautiously.

Saying? Why, nothing you don’t already know, Willoughby. Well, perhaps I might suggest a bit of discretion. Col. Brandon has not had a happy life, and I fear that he’s yet to be disappointed again.

The two men walked the rest of the way in silence. Willoughby went over Sir John’s words again and again. Besides the mild censure, there was an understanding. The assumption was that Willoughby would soon propose to Marianne. If he did