Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

HANOVER-SQUARE

C olonel Brandon stood in the Palmer's drawing room doorway, his tall hat in hand, staring at the tableau before him. Marianne had pulled free of Willoughby's grasp immediately, but the harm had been done. The two men stood, eyeing each other, the one his hat already on, ready to depart, the other with so much astonishment and disappointment that Marianne's heart bled for the horror of seeing it etched on the face of the man she loved so tenderly.

Willoughby cast a desperate glance at Marianne, who only had eyes for Brandon, while Brandon looked to them both twice, his countenance pale with disbelief. Willoughby was the first to speak, his countenance, too, white as a sheet, and so overspread with a look of guilt that Marianne flinched for them both. But his words were so brief as to merely wish them both a good morning, as if nothing but the commonest civility of a call had been made, and then he was gone away and the servant with him.

When he had gone, the Colonel stood staring at Marianne, until she finally found her voice. ‘For God's sake, Brandon! Do not look at me like that!' She reached for him.

But Brandon was already turning away from her. He shook her off. ‘Never once, never once, did I suppose that—Willoughby, of all people! I cannot even bring myself to ask you what he was thinking in visiting you here—in front of everyone, and the Palmers, and Mrs Jennings, whom you know to be a gossip of the finest degree! I cannot even speak to you, Marianne. You will forgive me, but I cannot stay a moment longer!'

She was tormented by both joy and despair. ‘Philip! You came to me! You came here to see me! I am so happy! But you surely cannot go away again so soon without speaking to me!'

‘I did come,' replied Brandon heavily, ‘because your letter moved me—I was ready to come with an apology and explanation for my behaviour these past weeks—I have not been myself—and now there has been some news—but it is obvious to me that I have wasted my time coming here.'

‘You have not wasted your time. Please, just stay a moment and hear me! You must tell me what you wished to say—whatever it is, I don't care, I only care for you! I have been waiting for you to come to me, waiting every day!'

‘Then I am pleased you have found a— diversion —in town to amuse you while you awaited my coming here.'

His bitterness was palpable to her and she flinched. ‘It is not what you think—I care only for you, you must believe me!'

‘Then what, pray, could account for this visit of your former lover? I am all ears, Marianne.'

She yearned to tell him what Willoughby had asked of her, but she could not. She was torn between wishing to relate everything to him so that he would understand, and yet, to admit that she had confirmed for Willoughby that William was his son might tear her and Brandon apart irrecoverably.

Brandon laughed bitterly at her hesitation. ‘Tell me, did Willoughby come here by your design?'

‘I had no idea of his coming here, I assure you!'

‘If you had no idea, how did he know you were here, unless you have communicated with him. Tell me Marianne, how long have you been on terms with him?'

‘I don't know how he knew where to find me,' replied Marianne miserably. ‘He must have enquired at Delaford. And we are not on terms—that is, I—he came to speak with me at Delaford, two weeks ago. That is the first time I have seen him since—since…'

‘Ah,' interjected her husband, deeply offended to hear it, ‘I heard that he had lately been seen near Delaford, but I never thought he would have the audacity to enter a place where he surely must feel himself so entirely unwanted. Marianne, I do not accuse you of indecency, as much as what I have seen here today might indicate it, for I know you are too good in your character to carry out such an evil. But I confess I understand nothing in your behaviour at present. Admitting Willoughby here was indelicate, at the very least. Do you have anything to say to me which can alleviate this intolerable situation?'

She opened her mouth but found herself without the power of speech.

‘If Willoughby has imposed upon you, and your behaviour has been faultless, then say so now and I will hear you.'

His tone was grave but his anger had dissipated, and she found a renewed confidence. She must tell him of the true reason for Willoughby's calling on her, or she would lose her husband forever. ‘I—he—you must not forget that Mr Willoughby has suffered a great deal with the loss of his son—he came to me in grief at Delaford, and still I believe he is not in his right mind. '

‘And this is your excuse?' replied Brandon in disbelief. ‘Yes, he has lost a child, and his suffering, perhaps, is more than even he deserves, but on this account you allow him entry to this house? What feeble justification is this, Marianne? Have relations between us deteriorated so much that you must look to the man whom I most detest, on account of the suffering he brought to two women I have held dear, to invite his confidence and not mine? This is how you repay my loyalty, my devotion to you?'

‘Your devotion?' cried Marianne. ‘While you stayed away at Whitwell, do you mean? While I suffered and thought you did not love me anymore?' Her calm now gave way to distress, and she could not help the resentment which flowed from her lips. ‘I have yearned for your good favour, and you have withheld any real feeling for me for months now!'

‘Yes, my devotion!' Brandon's tone was low and angry. ‘Besides this one time, have I ever been less of a husband to you than you would wish? We, who have shared everything together—I, who nursed you to health five years ago, until you were strong enough to accept my proposal, and live in my house, and eat my food and share my bed? And you question my devotion? You turn instead to Willoughby, whose name is one I wished never to utter again! What did he want with you, if you did not ask him here?'

Ashen-faced, she reached for him. ‘Philip! It is not as you think! Willoughby wishes—he knows that William is his son. He wishes to take him as his own.'

Brandon was startled. ‘What do you mean? How could he know such a thing? From what source did he hear it?'

She coloured. ‘I believe he guessed it was so. He asked me to confirm that it was true. I felt—I felt pity for him, for he was in the deepest grief. I am afraid I—I told him it was true.'

Brandon was silent. His face, to Marianne, was stone. Presently, he began to speak in the lowest tones, and with such gravity as Marianne had never heard him speak before. ‘You have, by permitting a meeting, by speaking with him, even by merely permitting his entry here, and certainly by failing to disclose to me that he had met with you on previous occasions, behaved in an unpardonable manner. But in telling Willoughby that William is his son, you have betrayed me, our marriage, our children, and indeed, the boy himself, whose future life depended upon your secrecy. You! You whom I have trusted as my own heart. You, who are kindness itself to all others, even to strangers! Even to such as Willoughby, you have been kinder to him than to me! In this regard I have been treated worse than a stranger! Your behaviour in keeping this from me is unpardonable, Marianne!'

‘Then I beg your pardon, most sincerely!' she replied, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears. ‘He was suffering so dreadfully, and besides, he had already guessed the truth. I did no more than confirm for him what he had been told. At Delaford, when he approached me, he wanted to meet William, but I told him he could not even contemplate such a meeting, that you would never permit it. But he came to me again today, wishing me to press his request with you most urgently.'

Brandon was astonished. ‘In thinking I would allow such a meeting, I cannot but think him removed from his own senses! What good would such a meeting do, for the boy, for Willoughby's relations with his wife—to bring harm upon many, for the sake of his own selfish cravings! You have done very ill in allowing him to think I might countenance such a meeting! Let alone allow him to receive the boy at Combe Magna as his own son!'

Marianne was so full of mortification that she could hardly speak. When she did it was to placate her husband. ‘If I have done wrong, it was out of feeling for his situation, not for whom he is!'

‘Yes, Marianne, that is very good of you—more kindness than he deserves—but what about me? What of my feelings, my situation? Where is your sensibility for me ?' His words were low and bitter.

‘You find me wanting in compassion?' she cried warmly. ‘Can you not find any compassion for a man who has just lost his only child? He says he doesn't care for his own happiness anymore, that he wants to be a father to William—he was so very moved, so very contrite that I verily believe he means to make a better man of himself, even if he was unpardonably wrong in coming here.'

‘And you approbate his request! This is beyond anything!'

‘No! That is—if you spoke to him, as he asks, perhaps you might see differently!'

‘I desire to neither to speak to him,' replied Brandon coldly, ‘nor to see his face again. And for the present, Marianne, I have nothing more to say to you, either. At present my— our —troubles are such that I cannot—but that is nothing to the point now. Perhaps it is well that you remain in London for another week or two. I shall not be returning to Delaford just yet, for I may have to go abroad to France.'

‘France?' cried Marianne, ‘but why?'

‘I cannot say more yet. But our troubles, Marianne, at present, are great.' He turned and strode toward the door.

Marianne was in agonies. ‘What trouble? You must explain! Is that why you were so long coming to me? I beg of you! Brandon! Philip!'

But Brandon was gone already, and she was speaking to the closed door. Overcome with shock, she sunk to the floor and had to be carried back to the drawing room by the footmen, where she was given salts and sherry.

‘Would you like me to send for Mr and Mrs Palmer, Madam?' asked the maid servant anxiously, who had revived her. ‘I can send Peters—did the master not go in the direction of the park?'

‘No, I pray, I am quite well, thank you Foster. Please leave me alone! '

It could not have been any worse, she thought despairingly as the servant quietly closed the door behind her. Her folly, her giving in to Willoughby's demand for the truth, had cost her the very last of Brandon's regard. If only she had refused to speak with Willoughby, refused to allow him to detain her that day at Delaford, and today, in the drawing room. If only! She could not have been more mistaken in allowing Willoughby entry, in not sending him away at once!

And yet she was not entirely without reason, without suffering, and feeling deeply the unjust demands of what had become a lonely marriage, she had allowed herself to feel justified in hearing Willoughby, although she had rejected his requests to see his son. Was she entirely to blame? She did not think so, and yet now she may not have a second chance to beg her cause and justify herself before her husband. And what had Brandon meant by alluding to troubles, and what business would take him abroad without an explanation? It must have something to do with Mary Perville, or with Whitwell, surely?

She yearned to have him come back and explain, and yet she knew he would not. Now she must await his letter, and be invited back to her own home! It was unjust indeed, and her heart broke again to think of it. But a few minutes was all Marianne had to wallow in her suffering, however, for the Palmers and Mrs Jennings were now coming back from their walk and they entered the drawing room through one door just as Marianne was tempted to flee it from the other. She did not have time to escape gracefully however, and they found her upon the sofa, wiping her eyes hurriedly, and blushing in vexation. She could only be glad that they could not have heard her own final words to her husband. But had he met them on their way out? Had he said anything to them? She could not bear to explain herself if they asked!

She discovered, however, that on their coming up the street toward the house, they had seen Colonel Brandon entering his carriage and going away before they had even had time to hail him. Mrs Palmer and her mother were very astonished at his not remaining, and questioned her most powerfully over it. But it was to no avail, for Marianne was reticent and would say little, which they put down to her disappointment that her husband could not stay.

After tea was taken Mrs Palmer tried again, and still they could get no reason from a pale and quiet Marianne, although they tried mightily, until Mrs Jennings said with a delighted laugh to her daughter, ‘Oh, never mind Charlotte, you can see it is no good, for Mrs Brandon is determined not to tell her secrets, tonight at any rate! I shall wangle it out of her in the morning, for there is nothing like a cup of tea to invite intimacy among we womenfolk. I daresay the Colonel went away hurriedly on business, for that is always his way, you know! I hold he will call here again before long. What a pity he would not stay, however! I shall scold him and tell him so, too, when he calls tomorrow!'

Marianne, in her private misery, did not make a reply to this presumptuousness, but once again thought Mrs Jennings the most officious and vulgar woman she had been obliged to be on terms with, and wondered how she would remain civil for the remainder of her stay in town.