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Story VIII
- Combe Magna
(Author's Note:
There are those who think that the dashing John Willoughby wasn't
all that bad, and that Marianne Dashwood could have been happy
married to him. Certainly, she would have a more passionate marriage
than with Colonel Brandon. But passion isn't always peace. In
this Sense & Sensibility variation, Marianne marries
Willoughby.)
Mr. John Willoughby,
dressed in his hunting attire, strode down the hall of Combe
Magna, his home in the county of Somersetshire, the morning sun
shining through the windows.
The house, like
the estate and its master, was neither grand nor affluent. The
rents generated from Combe Magna's fields were modest compared
with other estates in the county. The house boasted a very small
staff -- half of what would normally be expected. Everywhere
was signs of economy and even retrenchment.
But not in the dress
of Mr. Willoughby. His hunting costume was of the latest style,
and the fowling piece awaiting his attention in his carriage
was less than eight months old. Anyone familiar with the details
of Mr. Willoughby's situation would know that the gentleman dressed
and purported in a manner of a country squire with twice his
income. There was no economy or retrenchment when
it came to sport or any of Mr. Willoughby's other entertainments.
Some would call
that sort of behavior imprudent, but not Mr. Willoughby. He had
expectations.
Mr. Willoughby sought
out a footman. "Where is Mrs. Willoughby?" he asked
the short young man dressed in livery that had seen better days.
Told that the mistress of the house was in her study, Mr. Willoughby
made his way there directly.
"My dear, how
do you do this morning?" he cried as he swept though the
door without knocking; the Master of Combe Magna knocked on no
door in his house.
Mrs. Willoughby,
at her desk writing a letter, put down her pen and tilted her
cheek for the expected kiss. "I am very well this morning,
Willoughby," she assured her husband after he straightened.
"Did you sleep well? You are up early."
Mr. Willoughby gazed
at his wife with proud satisfaction. The former Marianne Dashwood,
only a few months past her twentieth birthday, was in the fullness
of her beauty, something her slightly worn morning dress could
never diminish.
"I slept very
well, Marianne," said he. "I come to take my leave
of you -- I am off to hunt with Sir John Middleton at Barton
Park."
"Oh,"
said she, a little of the light fading in her countenance. "I
see you are all prepared. Shall you be gone long?"
"Not too long.
I shall be back tomorrow." At her frown, he continued, "Marianne,
while Barton is no long distance, we shall be hunting until the
late afternoon. Surely, you do not want me to risk traveling
by moonlight. I told you this last night at dinner."
His wife's eyes
flashed. "You did not, sir."
"I am certain
I did."
"And I
am certain that you did not."
"Dash it all,
I must have forgotten. I am sorry, Marianne, but there is no
reason to get upset over a little mistake."
Mrs. Willoughby
eyes flashed a message that told her husband that this was not
the first "little mistake," but she kept silent for
amicability's sake.
Mr. Willoughby changed
the subject. "You are writing a letter, I see."
"I am. Perhaps
you may do me a service and deliver these. It would save us the
postage."
"Then they
are to Dorsetshire. Your mother or sister?"
Mrs. Willoughby
gestured to a closed envelope before her. "I actually have
letters to both. My mother's is finished, and I am almost done
with Elinor's, if I may have five minutes."
"Take all the
time you need, my dear," he said magnanimously. Mr. Willoughby
took his ease in a chair by his wife's desk and idly watched
as she returned to her writing. He was absently playing with
his watch fob when a piece of paper caught his eye. Curious,
he rose and retrieved it. What he read upset him.
"Marianne!"
he said sharply. "What is this?"
Mrs. Willoughby
saw what he held accusingly in his hand and flushed guiltily.
A moment later, all mortification gone, she narrowed both eyes
and lips.
"It is a banknote,
Willoughby."
"I can see
that! This is made out to Elizabeth Williams! What is the meaning
of this?"
"I think it
should be perfectly clear. As I cannot give money directly to
your child, I send it to the mother."
"For ten pounds?"
She returned to
Elinor's letter. "It is what I usually send."
"Usually
send? Marianne, speak plainly!"
She looked again
at her husband, but this time without affection. "It is
the monthly stipend for your child. I send it by way of Elinor."
Willoughby threw
the paper onto the desk. "You send one hundred twenty
pounds of my money a year to a bastard?"
Mrs. Willoughby
flew to her feet. "Your bastard, Willoughby!"
"You take great
interest in the affairs of another woman's child, madam! I would
look to your own!"
She shook in her
fury. "How dare you! Do you claim I am a negligent mother
to Henry? Tell me, sir, how I have failed in my duty to your
heir!"
In spite of his
anger, Mr. Willoughby saw that he had gone too far. "You
twist my words, Marianne. You have been absolutely devoted to
Henry. This," he pointed to the banknote, "is
not your concern."
"It should
be yours, Willoughby," Mrs. Willoughby shot back,
"but you will not attend. Therefore, it falls to me. Besides,
it is not your money."
"What do you
mean?"
She looked at him
coolly. "Some of it comes from funds sent to me by Mrs.
Smith. The balance is from my pin money."
"Damn my aunt!
She takes too much upon herself!"
"Someone must,
since you will not do your duty."
Mr. Willoughby flinched
at the verbal slap. He glared at his wife, helplessly. John Willoughby
had never raised a hand to a woman in anger in all his life and
never would -- particularly to the woman he loved. Besides, he
owed his situation to Marianne. Not only had she brightened his
days and warmed his nights, she had provided him with a fine,
healthy son. She managed the estate finances with an iron grip,
installing economy were she could and retrenchment
where she must, allowing Mr. Willoughby to indulge in his breeding
of horses and dogs, and in sport of every kind.
Besides, Marianne
was the saving of all his expectations. He was the heir to Mrs.
Smith and all her money and property, including Allenham Court
in Devonshire. She was an exacting woman, and she was beside
herself when she learned of his dalliance with Eliza Williams,
ward of Colonel Brandon of Delaford. She would have disinherited
him over the chit and her brat if not for her affection for Marianne
Willoughby. It was only on her account, Mrs. Smith had told him,
that Mr. Willoughby was still her heir.
Mr. Willoughby stewed
for a minute, staring out of the window, to avoid his wife's
accusing glare. "I suppose I should be happy that the child
is being well looked after," he allowed.
"Yes, thanks
to the generosity of Colonel Brandon," said Mrs. Willoughby.
Mr. Willoughby's
anger flared at the mention of that hated name. He could not
forget how the man brought him low -- embarrassed him before
his friends -- by making him admit his fault with Eliza Williams
in that duel in London, at the threat of bodily harm. Mr. Willoughby
tried to tell himself that Brandon had been lucky -- that he
had slipped -- but it was a lie. Colonel Brandon was the better
swordsman and he only lived because of Brandon's honor.
It was not the only
reason Mr. Willoughby hated Colonel Brandon. He knew that the
colonel fancied Marianne. How much of that came into play when
Colonel Brandon offered mercy to him, he strove not to think
about.
"Yes, you are
quite right," he bit out, cheeks flushed red in resentment.
His wife turned
away. "Oh Willoughby, let us not argue."
"It is not
my wish." Mr. Willoughby kept is voice flat, so as not to
further offend.
Mrs. Willoughby
looked at the surface of her desk. "You will be leaving
soon?"
"As soon as
you finish your letter."
Her fine, lovely
eyes glanced up, catching his. "Thank you."
He bowed. "I
shall leave you to your writing, my dear. I will have a word
with the steward and await you by the carriage."
She nodded and returned
to her seat. For his part, he bowed again and quietly made his
way out the study.
A quarter-hour later,
Mr. Willoughby received the letters from his wife's hand as he
had one foot on the carriage's running board. He gave her hand
a kiss, climbed aboard, and was off to Dorsetshire. Mrs. Willoughby
stood and waved until he was around the bend of the driveway.
She then returned to the house.
Both went their
separate ways, both just a little less in love with the other
than they were when they awoke that morning.
The End
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