The Three Colonels (23 page)

Delaford

Marianne loved Delaford Manor almost as much as she loved Christopher. One of her favorite places was the extensive gardens. Many hours' pleasure was found walking its fragrant paths, the eye resting agreeably upon the colorful blooms and lush foliage. The gardens were hers, her husband had decreed upon their marriage, and Marianne spared no expense for their care.

It was there this fine May morning that Marianne fled in an attempt to distract herself from missing her husband. Her excursion was not solitary; Mrs. Ferrars had answered her sister's invitation and come up from Delaford Parsonage to join in the meanderings. Marianne kept her eyes away from those things that would remind her of her Christopher, such as the stable and the house, and focused solely on the sweet scent of the roses, sweet pea, and peonies.

She allowed the fineness of the weather and company to transport her back to those halcyon days of her youth at Norland Park. She returned to that magical decade when she and Elinor passed their childhood as young ladies of property should in peace and serenity, when only lessons, dancing, and reading dreadful novels concerned her—before death stole from her first an honored uncle and then a beloved father. She and Elinor were girls again, laughing and traipsing through the flowers of their mother's garden.

Elinor's surprised gasp broke Marianne's daydream. Her eyes flew to hers, and she meant to ask what had alarmed her, but Elinor's expression held her. She was looking at something to the right, behind Marianne, and when she looked, Marianne saw a gentleman and gasped herself.

He had obviously come from the stable, his riding clothes sure evidence of that. She knew him at once, of course. Only death could remove the image of
that
man
from her mind, even after years of bliss with her husband. Marianne was human, and she could not stop the involuntary lurch in her heart.

Time had been kind to him. In height, he had not diminished; in dress he was as he always had been—trim and striking, broad of shoulder and long of leg. In looks, he seemed open, spirited, and affectionate. As always, he was the very model of a young lady's hero right from the pages of a favorite story.

John Willoughby remained a handsome devil.

Willoughby removed his hat, bowing slightly. “Good morning, ladies. I trust you are enjoying the day.” He said this as if he had been expected. He had not lost one iota of his charm and arrogance.

Marianne could not put two words together, so it fell to Elinor to speak, and she did so in a rather sharp manner. “Mr. Willoughby, what brings you to Delaford?”

He replaced his hat, smiling easily. “I had business at Allenham and thought I would come and pay my respects.”

The word
respect
brought another person to Marianne's mind—Eliza Williams, her husband's ward and former victim of Willoughby. She quickly pulled Elinor aside.

“Eliza is expected to join us,” she whispered. “Please go to the house this instant and keep her away.”

Elinor glanced at Willoughby. “But, Marianne—”

“The gardener is nearby. I shall be safe. Eliza must be protected. Please go.” She paused as a thought occurred to her. “And return with Joy.”

“What? Bring Joy? Why?”

“Please do as I ask.”

Indecision warred in Elinor's face, but she bowed to her sister's request. To Willoughby, she said in a loud voice, “You must excuse me, sir. I am needed in the house. Good day to you.” With one last warning glance at Marianne, she swiftly walked back to the manor.

“I am still not her favorite person.” Willoughby grinned as he approached closer. “You look very well, Marianne.”

That lovely, smooth, slightly teasing voice still sent shivers down Marianne's back. Memories of the hours they spent together at Barton Cottage returned to her—the perfection of his opinions, so attuned to her own at the time, and his laughter at her observations, the feeling he displayed while reading aloud prose and poetry. How could a young, romantic, foolish girl of seventeen
not
fall in love with Willoughby?

But
that
girl was no more. Pain, anger, and anguish had crushed that child, leaving in its place a battered yet wiser soul, ready to be filled like an empty glass from a wine bottle. Fortunately for Marianne Dashwood, her vintage was Christopher Brandon.

The totality of her past history with Willoughby flashed through Marianne's mind in an instant.
Oh, Willoughby! You led me on only to abandon me, just like Eliza. How foolish I was! In my despair over you, I nearly died. Thank heaven for Christopher! He gave me the gift of love and faith, not just in others but also in myself!

A calming sensation flowed over her. She was not afraid of him. She knew herself; she was no longer anyone's victim.

“Marianne?” Willoughby asked again, a rather smug grin never leaving his lips.

She assumed a haughty appearance. “I would answer you, sir, should you choose to call me by my name—
Mrs. Brandon
,” she said coolly.

Willoughby, dumbfounded, flinched as if she had struck him. “What do you mean? We have been such good friends, Mari—”

“Sir,” she said sharply, “you no longer have the right to use my Christian name. Be so good as to remember that.”

“Forgive me,” Willoughby returned, clearly taken aback. “I meant no disrespect, truly.”

“Of course not.” Marianne did not believe a word of what he said.

As she gazed at her one-time love, Marianne realized there were many things she no longer believed about John Willoughby. She had come to see there was a great difference between
acting
with feeling and
owning
those feelings. Willoughby seemingly wore his heart on his sleeve. He talked as a man filled with sentiment and passion should. The way he used his voice and body in conversation and in reciting poetry and prose had at one time been enchanting, but now seemed but playacting. For when it came to action, Willoughby was woefully inadequate.

Colonel Brandon, however, said little but did much. He was a man who not only felt deeply but also acted upon his impulses. Christopher did not fill the air with empty words. He did not need to charm the world to earn friends and favor. His deeds spoke volumes. He was the true romantic.

“How is Mrs. Smith?” she asked.

Willoughby chuckled. “My aunt is in revoltingly good health. She will be with us for many more years to come and will have many opportunities to upbraid me. I am, of course, pleased that she is well.”

Marianne was pleased, too. Willoughby's current seat was at Combe Magna in Somerset. Allenham Court was in Devonshire and closer to Delaford, far too close for Marianne's comfort. She certainly did not want him to inherit Mrs. Smith's estate anytime soon.

Still, Marianne was disturbed by Willoughby's answer. He had made a jest of his relation's health, but she did not mistake the undertone of his desire to inherit sooner, rather than later. No, there was still very little love lost between Willoughby and Mrs. Smith. There was a selfishness, a cruelty in Willoughby she had not perceived before.

Which led to another question. Willoughby had made his peace with his demanding and honorable aunt. He had resumed his yearly visits to Allenham, but this was the man's first foray into Dorsetshire since that ill-fated party to Whitwell, the day Christopher received the express about Eliza. Why had Willoughby returned to Delaford now? And with Christopher out of the country? Marianne did not believe in coincidences.

She decided to probe. “Is Mrs. Willoughby at Allenham?”

“No, she remains in Somerset.”

“That is a shame, as we are enjoying the most beautiful weather.”

“Mari—Mrs. Brandon, why ask about her?” Willoughby flashed his most winning smile and began to move closer, picking a rose. “This is a stilted conversation for old friends. I am very happy to see you.”

Marianne stepped back. Her suspicions confirmed, she dropped the empty civilities. “That is as may be, but I cannot return the sentiment.”

Willoughby stopped dead in his tracks. “What? Marianne!”

“Sir, recall your manners! Why are you here?”

It was plain to see that the man expected a different outcome. He gestured with his arms. “To see you! Is that a crime?”

“That remains to be seen.” Fighting her outrage, Marianne spoke as calmly as she could, relieved that the gardener was near and eager for Elinor's return. “You presume much, sir, knowing my husband is out of the country. But understand this—I have my protectors. You shall leave Delaford.”

“What do you mean? Ah, I see it now—I see you are still angry with me over those unfortunate events in London,” Willoughby cried. “Would that I had the chance to do them over again! But you must remember that I was not at fault.”

“Not at fault!”

“Surely your sister told you all? That letter, that terrible letter, was all my wife's doing! She, in her jealous insensibility, could not bear that I possessed even the smallest remembrance of you. The ball, where I was unfortunate to meet you under her observation, was to her character intolerable. She demanded of me that letter.

“I had no choice! My finances were in a wretched state, and I had been dismissed from my aunt's favor. Had any other opportunity offered itself, I swear to you I would have grasped it like a drowning man. But to live, I had to give you up.” Willoughby wore his most pitiful expression. “No, Mrs. Brandon, you need no protection from me!”

Marianne did not care if he was in earnest or not. “I am glad to hear it. However, there are those under our protection who have suffered at your hands, and your presence here is a hardship to them.”

“What? Who do you mean?” His eyebrows shot up. “You speak of Brandon's chit?”

“Willoughby! That innocent you ridicule is my husband's ward and the mother of
your
child
! You have no right to speak ill of her or anyone in my household!”

The gardener started to move closer, obviously alarmed at the tone of the conversation, but Marianne gestured that he stay where he was.

Meanwhile, Willoughby attempted to defend himself. “Innocent! You declare she had nothing to do with her situation. I assure you, madam, that was certainly not the case.”

Marianne grew livid. “For shame, Willoughby! You took advantage of a mere child! I believe my husband schooled you better in manners than that?”

Willoughby's color rose. “He told you of the duel, did he? I should have known!”

“Of course, he did. There are no secrets between us.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure he told you everything! Tell me, were you impressed with his skill with a blade? Did that make you see him in a more favorable light? For there was a time when you thought as little of him as did I.”

Willoughby
is
jealous
of
Christopher!
That fact reassured her; she knew how to revenge herself upon him. “Thank you for reminding me of my foolish youth. As you see, I have learned better. As for matters of my heart, they are none of your concern. But I will say this—I am ashamed of the girl you knew, and I thank our Lord every day that Colonel Brandon took pity on me and gave me an undeserved chance to truly know him. I am a better woman for loving him.”

Willoughby blanched, and for a moment, Marianne thought he was going to be ill. Just then they were joined by Elinor, who held a small bundle in her arms. Right behind her was an irate, cudgel-bearing Mr. McIntosh.

With a thankful smile, Marianne took her daughter Joy from Elinor. “Have you met Miss Joy Brandon, Willoughby?” She stroked the child lovingly about the head, cooing at her for a moment before turning her disdainful eyes to her former suitor. “Look, my love. This is Mr. Willoughby. Mark him well. He is just the sort of man with whom your dear papa and mama do
not
want you to associate.” She smiled at the mortified and angry gentleman, and moved Joy so he could better see her. “Do you not think she has the look of Colonel Brandon about her, sir?”

“I see I have wasted my time here,” growled a humiliated Willoughby. “I had thought, I had hoped… but it is no use. Is it possible I might see my child before I leave?”

“Why? You have never requested it before.”

“She is mine, as you say.”

Marianne shook her head. “Only if you formally acknowledge her as your daughter, sir.”

“You know I cannot do that. Mrs. Willoughby would never allow—” Willoughby bit his lip. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, Mrs. Brandon, Mrs. Ferrars. I meant no harm, no infamy, I assure you.”

“Why
did
you come, Willoughby?”

Gone from Willoughby's face was the façade of
bonhomie
. Instead, it was replaced by longing and regret. “To see you, to renew our acquaintance. I have always regretted you, you know. Ask your sister.”

Marianne sighed sadly. “Oh, Willoughby, you only came because Brandon was not here. You are such a coward. Truly, I do not wish you ill. Look to your own marriage for happiness; you shall find none here.

“Good-bye, Willoughby. I trust we shall not meet again.” With that, she turned and walked towards the house with Joy in her arms and Elinor by her side.

Mr. McIntosh stepped closer to the visitor, his club twisting in his large and rough hands. The gardener joined him, brandishing his trowel. Neither looked the least friendly.

A nervous Willoughby took a reflexive step back. “Here now, none of that.”

McIntosh's eyebrows twitched. “My mistress bade ye leave, sir. We're makin' sure ye do.”

“No need for that,” he said, eyeing the club. “I am leaving directly.”

The steward pointed towards the stable with the cudgel. “You'll find your horse right where ye left 'im. But a wee bit of a word first. My master, Colonel Brandon, charged me to watch out for th' missus, an' that's my sworn duty, afore God. I've marked ye, sir, an' I mean to let th' whole of Delaford know of ye. You're not welcome here, and ye best remember that. Be on your way an' don't come back.”