Jane Odiwe: Willoughby's Return

Marianne was struck once more by the uncanny likeness. “She is like my mirror image,” she thought, “and yet, Eliza looks taller, more statuesque, and I must admit, more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. Is her daughter such a vision of loveliness also, I wonder?”

Eliza's eyes seemed to gaze back at her in return as if telling her that she would only be capable of bearing a divine child. In Marianne's imagination she saw the two women, Eliza Brandon and her daughter Eliza Williams, looking down at her with the same glittering eyes, both bound to William with a hold she felt incapable of challenging or surmounting.

“But what of little Lizzy?” she asked herself about the child whose very existence caused Marianne's heart to ache. Did she favour her mother and grandmother before her? Did she have the same dark grey eyes or was there a stronger resemblance in a pair of black eyes of her own, to match those of her father, John Willoughby?

The journey to Barton was accomplished in good time; there being fine weather, a good toll road, and an enthusiastic coachman, making it all the more possible. Marianne spent her travelling time gazing out at the fast flying scenery, lost in her thoughts. The lush green valleys and chalky hillsides of the neighbouring villages soon gave way to the drama of the rugged Devonshire countryside that she knew so well. It was strange to think that she had now lived at Delaford longer than she had lived at Barton, and she could not immediately account for the intense feelings of nostalgia that overcame her as they neared their destination. Marianne began to think about her days at Barton living with her mother and sisters, reminiscing about the carefree girl she had once been, when she had had no responsibilities or worries about husbands and their duties.

Her journey was nearing its end, the horses and the moving landscape slowed as they turned into the familiar lane. With her head held high and a smile in place, she looked eagerly for her mother and Margaret as the carriage drew up outside the small green court and wicket gate of Barton Cottage.

“Marianne, my dearest, how good it is to see you,” cried Mrs Dashwood, running out to greet her with open arms. “Come inside and tell me all your news. How are the Colonel and my dear grandchild? What a pity you could not bring James with you.”

“I will bring him soon, Mama, I promise, but this trip is all for Margaret's benefit. I wish to take my sister in hand and prepare her for the ball with care. That will take time and considerable effort on all our parts if we are to make the most of her attractions.”

“Goodness me, Marianne, you had best not let Margaret hear you run on so. She will never allow such an intervention. Do be careful how you proceed. If she imagines for one moment half of your designs for her, she will not submit, I am certain.”

“Where is she? I thought she would be waiting with impatience for my arrival.”

“She is eager to go shopping, believe me,” answered Mrs Dashwood, her voice dropping to a low whisper, “but I think anxious not to appear as if her life depends upon the outcome of it.”

Margaret rose to greet her sister as mother and daughter entered the sitting room. “Marianne, it is so kind of you to take me shopping. You are not too fatigued, I hope, after your journey. Mama has a little nuncheon prepared and then we shall make haste to town.”

Marianne hugged Margaret, exclaiming after her good looks, and took a seat upon the sofa. She looked round the room, at all the familiar objects: the bookcase with their old volumes of poetry; Elinor's drawings, elegantly framed and fixed to the walls; and lastly, at her old pianoforte, still occupying the corner of the room. Of course, she had a much finer instrument at Delaford Park, a Broadwood Grand, and volumes of printed sheet music that William had purchased when they were courting. But she looked fondly at the place where she had sat for many an hour, in raptures and in melancholy. Margaret's sheet music lay propped above the keys. There was no sign of the manuscripts that had once been written out for her. She was sure her mother would have burned any music copied out by Willoughby's hand, long ago.

The tea things were brought in by Betsy, who made such a fuss on seeing Marianne at last, that she felt quite distraught at not remembering to bring her a small gift. There was a pot of tea with cake and scones, piled high on a plate of her mother's best china.

“We are to dine at the Park this evening, Marianne,” Margaret continued. “Mrs Jennings arrived yesterday to stay with Sir John and Lady Middleton and they are all anxious to see you.”

“Oh no, please, Mama, say it is not so,” groaned Marianne, helping herself to a scone and jam. “Can we not have a nice, quiet evening here all by ourselves? It is so long since I have seen you.”

“I thought we had agreed not to say anything on the matter yet, at least until Marianne had got back her breath after her journey,” Mrs Dashwood admonished, casting a frown in Margaret's direction as she poured tea from a steaming silver pot. “Mrs Jennings called early this morning with Sir John and they were most insistent. Oh, you know how it is, Marianne. They would brook no refusal.”

Marianne could not help but feel pity for her mother whom she was sure still felt indebted to Sir John for his kindness to them. When the Dashwoods had been forced to leave their ancestral home at Norland in Sussex on the occasion of their stepbrother's inheritance, Sir John Middleton, Mrs Dashwood's cousin, had stepped in and offered them a cottage on his Barton estate. Marianne was certain that her mother wished she were in a position to decline their invitations more often but felt obliged to accept them. As a dependent relative, her own desires were not taken into consideration.

“I suppose we have no choice, but Mrs Jennings will have me worn out before the evening is begun,” sighed Marianne.

“Do not be so unkind,” her mother answered. “Remember that old lady has been immensely good to us in more ways than I can ever repay.”

Mrs Dashwood referred, Marianne knew, to the time after her great disappointment with Willoughby when Mrs Jennings had nursed and looked after Marianne as if she were her own child. Mrs Dashwood was eternally grateful to the lady, though the reasons for that gratitude were hardly ever mentioned now or discussed at Barton Cottage. The unspoken words hung in the air above their heads like grey spectres, together with the recollections of all that had passed to make her former love's name an anathema. John Willoughby's crimes were never discussed.

Margaret had excused herself shortly after this exchange to make ready for their expedition, returning moments later in a blue kerseymere pelisse with a bonnet of the same, trimmed with ribbon. She made a pleasing picture. Margaret was not as dark as her elder sister; she had a fair complexion and light brown curls to frame her countenance. Her eyes were the blue of April forget-me-nots but still there was something of her sister's spirit in them. The contrast, however, was like ice and fire: against the black gypsy eyes of Marianne, Margaret's were frozen shards of sapphire.

“My little sister, you are growing into a fine young lady!” Marianne exclaimed at the sight of her. “Come, we must hasten to the chaise or there shall not be a decent muslin left in all of Exeter.”

“Do take care, my darlings,” cried Mrs Dashwood as she waved them off at the door. She could not help but be pleased and proud as she watched the carriage bowl away, the sight of her pretty daughters enough to produce a lump in her throat and a tear in her eye.