“I cannot go any further,” she cried. “I will stop awhile and watch if you will excuse me.”
“Then I will sit with you,” added Margaret, holding onto her sister's arm.
“That is quite unnecessary,” Marianne insisted. “You go on or the others will disappear. I am quite happy to sit on this bench until you have exhausted yourselves. Go and have fun!”
Marianne sat down, watching her breath in little puffs on the cold air gradually slow to a normal rhythm. Margaret disappeared from view. It was very gratifying to see her laugh again, thought Marianne. Miss Carey and Miss Mortimer were clearly intent on making her feel most welcome into their circle. Skating had lifted her spirits, too. It was only now that she began to wonder about Brandon again. There had been no more post since last week, but she knew that the weather was responsible for that.
“Will you take a turn with me, Aunt Brandon?”
Henry Lawrence's voice brought Marianne out of her reverie. She looked up to see not only Mr Lawrence standing before her grinning from ear to ear, but also Mr Willoughby at his side, regarding her with an air of study.
“Good afternoon Mr Lawrence, Mr Willoughby,” Marianne managed to say. She was shocked enough to see Henry here at all, but the recollection of Willoughby's gift was enough to emblazon her cheeks the same hue as the setting sun. But she was cross with Henry. How dare he stand there as though he had nothing to be reproached for, as if his behaviour had not been reprehensible?
Henry held out his hand. “Please, Aunt Brandon. I wish to speak to you on an urgent matter.”
Marianne saw that the laughter had died from his eyes and that he was in earnest. “Very well,” she replied, rising unsteadily, “but I warn you, skating is not my forte.”
He took her arm and, leading her around the edge of the lake, they moved slowly along hardly skating at all.
“I must say, Henry,” Marianne began, “that I can hardly bring myself to speak to you at all. I am sorry to say this when I am aware that I should be congratulating you on your forthcoming engagement, but I believe you have behaved very badly toward my sister. I am quite astonished that you appear to have no remorse or that you can address me in such a manner that belies any sense of guilt. There, I have said what I think on the matter and am not in the least sorry for it. Perhaps you would rather find someone else to go skating with than an aunt who expresses such displeasure in your company.”
All this was said before Henry managed to utter a word. He stopped. “How is Margaret? I see that she is very happy in the company of other friends and in one gentleman in particular.”
“Margaret is happy, but it is no thanks to you.”
“Anne Steele says Margaret is on the verge of becoming engaged. Is it certain that Charles Carey has proposed?”
“I have no idea,” Marianne replied. “It is true that Mr Carey is very attentive, and I believe he may make her an offer but whether she will accept, I cannot say.”
“Then she is not in love with him?”
Something in Henry's expression made Marianne wish to tell the truth, however angry she was with him. “No, I do not believe Margaret is in love with Mr Carey. Unfortunately, some other scoundrel has stolen her heart, someone most unworthy!”
“Please believe me when I say that I have never wished to cause any suffering to your sister. I would like the opportunity to explain myself. May I gain your permission to call on Margaret the day after tomorrow?”
“I do not know that your calling on Margaret to explain yourself will make matters any better. Indeed, I am certain it will not be of any help at all.” Marianne remembered the effect Willoughby's calling on her sister Elinor had made all those years ago when he had tried to explain why he had married for money. Should Margaret have to suffer knowing those same reasons?
“Please, Aunt Brandon, I beg you.”
Marianne hesitated. What good could come of it? Margaret would only be made more upset. “I don’t think it is a good idea, Henry,” she said at last. “I’m sorry, but I think it would be better if you left Margaret well alone.” They had turned in the course of their conversation and were now moving back towards the bench. Mr Willoughby rose from his seat to acknowledge them.
“I have to go now, Aunt Brandon,” said Henry. “I have a matter of the greatest urgency to attend, an assignation which I cannot be late attending. Forgive me, I must go, but I will leave you in the very capable hands of my friend here, Mr Willoughby.”
Before Marianne could protest Henry was gone, skating at great speed, weaving his way through the throng. She watched him until he was almost out of sight, coming to an abrupt halt before a young girl. It was impossible to see exactly whom the creature was that he took into his arms, but she thought she could guess. Mademoiselle de Fontenay linked her arm into his before they disappeared completely from view.
Marianne did not know what to say to Willoughby. She felt embarrassed, especially when she remembered the gift of poetry that he had sent and the sentiments behind the winter nosegay.
Mr Willoughby spoke first. “Forgive me, Mrs Brandon, but I hope that the book did not cause you distress. I wanted to express my heartfelt thanks. I think I see by your expression that my gift was not welcome. Perhaps it was, after all, a silly idea on my part. I am sorry.”
“No, Mr Willoughby, do not apologise. I should be the one to say sorry for not thanking you immediately for your thoughtful present. But nevertheless, I do not think I should accept it, however sincere your motives.”
“I quite understand; it was wrong of me to put you in such a position. Return it to me at your leisure, Mrs Brandon.”
“I must rejoin my party,” Marianne entreated, hardly wanting to meet his eyes, which had never left hers from the moment they met.
She took a few tentative steps on the ice, anxious to leave him yet aware that her sister and friends were nowhere to be seen.
“Here, let me help you,” Mr Willoughby said, skating with precision to her side in a second.
“No, no, I assure you, I am well able to skate on my own, thank you,” Marianne stated as convincingly as she was able as she tottered uneasily on the ice. He caught her arm and as he did so the sharp lemon scent of his fragrance assailed her senses with an onslaught of memories.
Shrugging away his arm, she staggered for a few steps more, but as she began to feel more confident took longer strides, sliding out across the polished surface as skillful as any dancer. She looked back momentarily to wave before the inevitable happened. Without quite knowing how she became entangled with another skater, the collision was one of great force, her feet skidding on the glacial surface until she fell with great indignity to her pride, humiliated that Mr Willoughby had witnessed her fall.
The pain that seared through her foot was immense. Mr Willoughby rapidly skated to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her ankle had been twisted in the fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. Marianne could hardly look him in the eye as he offered his services. Too many were the memories and the feelings that rushed in upon her as he loosened her boot before taking her up into his arms without further delay. There was little choice but to drape her arms about his neck and allow him to take charge. Marianne shut her eyes in agony for the pain was unbearable. She didn’t open them again until she was aware that she had been seated in an unfamiliar carriage. Mr Willoughby closed the door behind them and bade Marianne not to distress herself as she started to protest.
“I think you might have a break,” he said, unlacing her boot and easing it from her foot with careful fingers. His touch was very gentle though Marianne winced with every pressure she felt. It was with some relief that she heard on his greater inspection that her ankle was only twisted, there were no bones broken. He would bind her foot and arrange to take her home. A glass of hot mulled wine was instantly procured, which she was made to drink, being assured all the while of its medicinal properties.
“My sister,” whispered Marianne through her suffering, “Margaret will wonder what has become of me.”
“Do not worry,” he replied, “I have sent word already. I will take you home and have the doctor sent for immediately.”
Unwinding the stock about his throat, she watched him wrap the fabric around her swelling ankle. His expression was serious, his bottom lip bitten in concentration. Her eyes wandered to the gaping neckline of his shirt, where the pulse throbbed in his neck. He looked up suddenly as if he felt her contemplation, catching her expression. He smiled, looking deeply into her eyes.
