on her fan, knowing that Mr Willoughby was staring at her countenance. Indeed, he had not taken his eyes off her since she had entered the room and this was only adding to her sense of unease.
“Well now,” proclaimed Sir Edgar, “it must be time for dinner!”
He rose, proffering an arm each to Mrs Dashwood and his wife respectively. Marianne could see Henry making a beeline for her sister, which meant there was only one person who could accompany her into dinner. Mr Willoughby was at her side in a moment. Though Marianne hesitated, she knew she had no option. Slipping her hand through his arm, she allowed herself to be escorted, though she felt the impropriety very much. It felt very strange to feel the expensive cloth of his coat underneath her fingers and impossible not to feel the strength of his arm however lightly she took it. Despite purposefully leaning as far away from him as she was able, she could not help but be aware of his nearness, and of his smell, emanating like an elixir from a bygone age, mingled into a potpourri of fragrant images from the past. Taking her seat at the dining table between him and Sir Edgar at the head, she knew that it would be impossible to completely ignore him. With her host completely engaged with her mother on the other side and with everyone else talking nineteen to the dozen, she could only turn her attention to Mr Willoughby when he spoke.
Chapter 19
“Forgive me, Mrs Brandon,” he started in a quiet voice, “I know this situation must be one of great difficulty for you, but if I had known that you were to be invited today, I should never have come. Please believe me when I say I have no wish to distress you; Sir Edgar informed me that it was to be a quiet family dinner.”
Marianne had to smile. “We were all misinformed, Mr Willoughby.”
“But I must say that I am glad to have been given another opportunity to speak with you,” he began again, “though I assure you that the subject on which we last spoke is closed forever. I wonder if I might ask you about another matter altogether, though in its own way it is one of a most delicate nature.”
Marianne looked up at him enquiringly, with a suspicion that she might have an idea at what he hinted.
“What are you whispering in my aunt's ear, Willoughby?” shouted Henry from across the table. “Let us all have a share in the conversation. Do be careful, Aunt Brandon, Mr Willoughby can never resist telling tales if he thinks he has the attention of a beautiful woman.”
The entire table stopped to stare until Marianne spoke with a levity she did not truly feel. “Mr Willoughby was telling me of the plans for Allenham Court, and I must say Mrs Willoughby's schemes for new decoration sound admirable. How delightful it must be to newly furnish a home.”
“There is nothing finer to my mind,” joined Lady Lawrence. “It is a pity that dear Mrs Willoughby is away visiting friends at present. I should so much like to have heard all about it—a lady with such similar tastes as my own. I have enjoyed giving her the benefit of my own knowledge, which she was most thankful to accept. I was lucky, of course, to have had the advantage of being schooled by the French, who are unsurpassed decorators of elegance. Mrs Dashwood, you must come and see my new scenic wallpaper. You shall be transported to a tropical isle if you will just sit in my petit salon for five minutes!”
Marianne and Margaret caught the other's eye and for a moment it was all they could do to stop from bursting out laughing. Henry did not help matters.
“’Tis too true, ma’am,” he enthused, simultaneously mopping his brow with a kerchief and slapping his arms at imaginary insects, “I swear you’ll come over in a heat rash and find yourself swatting poisonous flies after a mere five minutes!”
“Oh, Henry,” his mother laughed, “you are such a tease.”
Marianne was pleased that her companion did not attempt to speak on any other subject for the rest of the dinner. The magnificent spread of white soup, roasted goose with prunes, salmon pie, and apple puffs was attacked with abandon by the rest but wasted on Mrs Brandon, who picked at her food. Her nerves had the better of her and she was unable to do her meal true justice.
She was relieved when they retired to the “petit salon” to imagine themselves in foreign climes. A wallpaper frieze adorned with palm trees dripping with coconuts, and a landscape peopled with exotically robed figures, ran round the length and breadth of the room. Coupled with a hand painted ceiling of a blue sky, with scattered clouds edged in sunset pink, Marianne was inclined to think it all rather too fanciful for her taste, so she was pleased when her mother made all the right noises.
“Lady Lawrence, I declare I have never seen anything quite like it,” Mrs Dashwood assured her hostess.
Marianne was quite certain her mother never had and made a long perusal of a tropical plant as another fit of mirth threatened to overcome her.
“No, indeed,” Hannah Lawrence prattled on, “I am happy to tell you that I am the very first, proud owner of such a device in all the West Country.”
“As you may imagine,” Marianne heard Henry whisper to Margaret, “we are hated by our neighbours, who are consumed with envy.”
Margaret stifled a giggle but it was too late. Not for the first time did Marianne see Lady Lawrence look at her sister disapprovingly.
Sir Edgar, who was keen to have Margaret shown off to her best advantage, immediately diverted the conversation by inviting her to play for them. Everyone took their seats; Marianne was relieved to be at a distant and quite opposite seat from Mr Willoughby. A lover of any romantic song, Margaret sat at the pianoforte in the corner and with the help of Henry chose a song. They sang together, an Irish melody of sweet remembrances that was not only familiar to Marianne but had once been dear to her heart.
Glancing across at Willoughby, Marianne was unable to resist seeing if any recognition of a song they had sung so often together was detectable in his countenance.
As their eyes met across the room, Marianne scolded herself for her stupidity. The last thing she wished was for Willoughby to think that she still had any attachment to either the libretto or the tune. She turned to stare into the fire, with the instant realisation that she had made yet another mistake.
Turning her eyes from the fire, Marianne studied the performers with unvarying scrutiny. The fact that Mr
