“I cannot tell you,” Margaret insisted. “It was so thoughtless of me to have mentioned him at all. You will think me a perfect dolt.”
“Well, in that case, I think a spotted muslin will do after all,” snapped Marianne, but she looked sideways at her sister and Margaret noted the amusement in her eyes.
“Very well,” cried Margaret, determined to get his name out before very much more time had elapsed. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “John Willoughby is his name.”
“John Willoughby!” cried Marianne out loud. “You were in love with John Willoughby!”
Marianne had never learnt the art of being discreet; she spoke as she found and whatever happened to be in her head popped out of her mouth with little reserve. As Marianne cried out in amazement, the whole shop seemed to quieten and everyone turned to gaze at the woman who had mentioned a gentleman who was known by name to many in the vicinity. For not only had she shouted out his name but she had linked it with a word that was guaranteed to excite universal interest. There were not many other words capable of arousing such a reaction as that of love, especially when it connected itself to a married man. Margaret instantly reddened, realising not for the first time the great stupidity in relating such an ill-timed confidence. The entire shop was agog and none more so than the lady in grey before them who turned to stare with more than a hostile glance.
Marianne blushed as scarlet as her cloak as the woman in front looked her up and down. A flicker of recognition passed across the lady's countenance and trembled in the lilac plumes waving above her bonnet, to vanish just as quickly in the next second. Marianne took in the features of the handsome, well-dressed woman who stood looking down at her as though confronted by a vagrant. She lost the power of speech, her heart hammered, and all she could think about was getting herself and Margaret as far away from the place as possible.
“Will that be all, Mrs Willoughby?” demanded the shopkeeper of his customer, anxious to regain her attention and move on to the next awaiting person. “I will have the carrier deliver immediately. Southernhay is the address, you say?”
Mrs Willoughby, dressed to match her former name, turned to the counter once more, as reserved and calm as she had been moments ago, to confirm that she was residing in that most fashionable of districts.
Marianne grabbed Margaret's arm to march her outside. “We cannot stay here. Come, we must go!”
Her sister protested vehemently, declaring that she would never take Marianne into her confidence again. As she was steered down the street at a pace, she caught her foot on a pyramid of pumpkins, scattering them across the path of everyone who passed by, sending them rolling into the gutter. A woman bundled in shawls shouted and raised her fist, before running off after the golden globes as they trundled down the street.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” shouted Margaret as she limped along. “Are you ill?”
“We must go home,” cried Marianne. “She cannot be here on her own. I do not want to bump into him.”
“Who cannot be here on her own? Whom are you talking about?” Margaret was losing patience with her sister.
“Did you not hear? That lady, the one so beautifully dressed and looking as elegant as ever, was Mrs John Willoughby,” cried Marianne. “Sophia Grey as was. Did you not recognise her?”
“I have never seen Mrs Willoughby in my life before,” exclaimed Margaret. “I would not know her if I fell over her in the street. Besides, I was only thinking about what I had said and was afraid you would be cross with me. Oh, Marianne, I am so sorry, I should never have said a word.”
“It was not your fault. I shouted out his name. How could I have done it?” Marianne's eyes welled and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.
“It is over now, it does not matter,” Margaret pleaded, producing a pocket-handkerchief just in time and dabbing Marianne's face. “We shall not see her again. Let us go home, you are so upset. Mama will have tea prepared and make you better.”
Marianne stopped. She stood still, leaning on Margaret's arm as her breath slowly steadied itself. They could not go home. Mrs Dashwood would have to be told about what had happened, and Marianne did not want to relate the sorry tale to another soul, least of all her mother. She was determined they would return home with their shopping spoils as intended. “No, we will not go home,” she affirmed, taking the kerchief and blowing her nose. “I have promised you a new gown and even if we should run into an entire neighbourhood of Willoughbys, I will not be swayed. The shock disturbed me, but I am well now. We will enter the shop again in a quarter of an hour, by which time anyone who witnessed the little scene will have left.”
“But are you quite sure, Marianne? You do look most ill.”
“Of course, I was so silly to react in that schoolgirl manner. I am quite composed now. Come, we will partake of some refreshment in the coffee house just over there by the Guildhall. I do not want to go any lower into the town, if I can help it.”
“You look as though you were in shock still,” said Margaret as they took their seats at a table inside.
“Oh, do not worry about me,” Marianne assured her sister, ordering strong coffee and a dish of sweetmeats to be brought immediately. “I am well enough.”
“Have you not seen Mr and Mrs Willoughby since they married?” ventured Margaret, unconvinced by Marianne's protestations.
Marianne looked out through the window. The rain had started in drips and drops and soon gathered pace running in large, wet rivulets, down the windowpane. She watched two raindrops slide down the glass, one chasing the other but never quite catching up. “I did see them once,” she replied in a quiet voice. “The Colonel and I were just married and had gone to London for the season. We spent the entire time together of course, but on one particular day, William had some business in town, of a nature that I was not to be a party to, and so it was arranged that we should meet in Berkeley Square, at Gunter's tea shop.”
“How romantic! Are the ices as wonderful as they say?” demanded Margaret, taking a bite from a marzipan sweet, modelled like a cherry.
Marianne smiled. “They are, though I have to admit that on that occasion I was not to taste them. I had decided to walk to the tea shop; it was a fine day and even in London I prefer to walk about on foot. I knew William would be bound to be there before me, so I should not have to worry about being unescorted for long. But I could see no sign of him as I approached, though I looked everywhere, and then my attention was caught by the sight of a couple I recognised, seated in an open carriage underneath the maple trees. The autumnal day was very fine; the sun was shining and dappled light fell in golden shafts, like the colour of the turning leaves. Sophia Willoughby looked very happy swathed in sunshine with her husband at her side.”
“Did she see you?” asked Margaret, hardly daring to interrupt in case Marianne ended her tale too soon.
“I think she did, enough at least to wonder who I was. She stared long and hard until his curiosity was aroused. He looked round, Mr Willoughby raised his hat I remember, but I pretended I had not seen them and as soon as I could I turned the corner. William soon came alongside in the carriage; he had been going round and round looking for me. He had observed them from the window and very fortunately guessed I had taken a turn elsewhere.”
“How did you feel?” asked Margaret. She was very curious about the whole business between her sister and Mr Willoughby. She was very fond of Marianne's husband, but her childish sensibility tended to dwell on the romanticism of the lovelorn, rather than on any pragmatic consideration. She had never been convinced that Marianne's love for the Colonel was the same as it had been for Mr Willoughby and was impassioned by what she considered to be the tragedy of their situation. How could Marianne ever recover? She was sure she could not. And as for herself, she still felt a pang whenever she remembered Willoughby.
Marianne looked at her sister and immediately changed the subject. “You have not yet explained yourself. Whatever did you mean when you said you were in love with John Willoughby?”
Margaret stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “I do not suppose it was real love. I was very young, I know. But from the very first time we met him on High-Church Down, I was smitten. All my childish fantasies involved being carried aloft in John Willoughby's arms. I am surprised you did not notice. I did not make such a nuisance of myself to be your chaperone, you know. I hung on his every word and when he looked in my direction or spoke to me, I thought I should die.”
Marianne sighed. “He certainly had an effect on every lady who came into contact with him. On some more than others,” she added ruefully.
“How is Miss Williams?” Margaret asked. She was aware of the history shared by the Colonel's ward and Mr Willoughby, that they had run away together from Bath and of how he had abandoned her. She knew that Brandon had challenged Willoughby to a duel, though both had escaped the ordeal unscathed. And Margaret was fascinated
