Marianne could not believe her eyes. Margaret, Mr Lawrence, and a man who could not be mistaken for any other but Mr Willoughby were engaged in animated conversation. They were walking toward her but as yet she was sure they had not seen her. Like a captive bird whose wings are clipped, she felt powerless to move. Mr Willoughby, she could see, was dressed for the country in a chocolate brown coat, with buckskin breeches moulded to his legs, encased in expensive tan boots to match his gloves and his waistcoat. His air of confidence and self-assurance struck Marianne once more. Fortunately, he was so engaged with her sister that she was certain she had not been spotted by any of them.
“Is anything amiss, madam? You look quite affrighted,” the old pedlar asked.
Marianne recovered herself enough to speak. “I am well, thank you,” she responded.
Turning on her heel and heading off in the opposite direction, Marianne decided it was time to see if she could latch onto the safety of a larger party. Seeing Mr Willoughby again had been a shock, but she was sure she would feel better if her own mother were at hand. The play started in earnest. Huge numbers flocked toward the makeshift stage, which made it doubly difficult to forge ahead. Looking into every face and turning at the sight of a bonnet or cloak of the same hue as that belonging to Mrs Dashwood, Marianne began to despair that she would ever meet up with her mama again. But just as she thought she would have no choice but to turn again, she caught sight of Sir Edgar, Mrs Dashwood, and Mrs Jennings coming out of the refreshment tent.
“We are all going to see the play,” said Mrs Jennings as Marianne approached. “I daresay we shall catch up with the others. The Middletons were here just a moment ago; I do not know where they have gone now. It is so easy to lose one another in this sort of crush. Where are Miss Margaret and her beau? Have you seen them, Mrs Brandon?”
“No, I have not,” Marianne quickly lied.
“I expect we will see them, by and bye,” chuckled Sir Edgar.
“I should not count on it, if I were you,” Mrs Jennings smirked, “I do not think our pretty pair will be so interested in a village play as the rest of us.”
Marianne bit her tongue, though she would have liked to tell Mrs Jennings that she was being a little too easy with her imagination. It was fairly certain that Margaret and Henry liked one another, but she alone knew what sort of damage idle gossip could do. She did not want Margaret to be subject to the sort of speculation that she herself had been all those years ago when Willoughby had courted her. Perhaps she ought to warn her sister. Had she been wrong to encourage Margaret to spend time unchaperoned with Mr Lawrence? What would Elinor do if she were here?
Mrs Dashwood, who was listening to this exchange, expressed her concern to Marianne in a low voice as Mrs Jennings continued to spout forth on the subject of courting lovers. “Will you go and look for her, Marianne? I think I have been unwise to let her out of my sight for so long.”
Marianne hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to have a conversation with Mr Willoughby.
“Please hurry, Marianne,” her mother entreated, “I will feel much better if she is here with us. I have given her too much of a free rein, I think.”
Smiling reassuringly at her mother, but with a sinking heart, Mrs Brandon sallied forth, determining to find levels of courage she felt she did not possess. Heading in the direction where she recalled seeing Margaret last, Marianne did not know whether to feel relief or alarm when it was clear that her sister was not in the immediate vicinity. Easing her way through the rapt audience, who were cheering and booing by turns at a figure with a painted red face, she could see nothing of Margaret's blue bonnet or Henry's tall black hat. Working back toward Mrs Dashwood, Marianne realised it was a fruitless task; they could be anywhere, the assembled throng was larger than ever. Reluctant to return without her sister, she decided to circumnavigate the outer boundary of spectators, tiptoeing as she went, looking high over their heads. And then she saw them. Margaret and Henry were together and alone, she observed with some relief. However, this feeling soon gave way to one of apprehension. The pair appeared to be in a hurry, fairly running along away from the crowds across the green in the opposite direction. Marianne made up her mind to follow them, or at least be certain of where they were going. They moved with such urgent intent it was clear they had some purpose. She was almost running to keep them in view, but stopped suddenly with a sense of defeat, when she saw exactly where they were headed. Sighing with frustration, she saw Mr Lawrence hand Margaret into his father's phaeton, before seating himself beside her on the seat. He took up the reins and with a crack of the whip, she saw the carriage lurch into motion and set off at speed.
What would her mother say, and even worse, what would Mrs Jennings have to say on the matter? Marianne shook her head and emitted a long sigh.
“Let them be, Mrs Brandon, I beg you.”
Marianne had no need to turn in order to identify the voice that nonetheless had her reeling round with a look of astonishment. “I beg your pardon, Mr Willoughby.” It was a rebuke, not an apology.
He bowed. “Please do not be severe upon them. They are young and Henry is a good fellow.”
Marianne lifted her chin and found her strength. “I do not know how or why this should concern you, Mr Willoughby. I will decide what is to be done and I should be very glad if you would now excuse me.”
Turning abruptly from him, she started to walk away, but an arresting hand on her arm prevented her progress.
“Wait, please, I beg you, Mrs Brandon… Marianne,” he continued. “Forgive me, but I entreat you to allow me to speak.”
Marianne could not move nor utter a word. His manner was calm, very gentleman-like, and though she wished to be on the other side of the country at this moment, she knew she ought to hear what he had to say. Indeed, a part of her could not deny that she wished very much to hear him out.
“Now that I have your attention and the power to talk to you at last, I find it difficult to express my most sincere feelings,” said Mr Willoughby, looking into her eyes, with his own dark pupils like pools of black ink fixed on hers. “But I will come to the point, Mrs Brandon.” He paused and Marianne saw him swallow hard. “I have never had the opportunity to offer my most heartfelt apology to you for my past conduct and…”
Marianne could not bear for him to go on. “Mr Willoughby, this is neither the time nor the place. There is nothing to be gained by bringing back the past and I, for one, would prefer that it remains that way. Please forgive me, but I must return to my mother, who will be worrying about what has happened to Margaret and me.”
All his quiet reserve slipped away. He snatched her hand, pleading with her to listen a moment longer. “I cannot live in this world knowing that you despise me. All I ask is your forgiveness; I want nothing else and I promise I will never bother you again. Only, please tell me there is a chance that you might in your heart acquit me of my crimes, my follies, the greatest mistake I ever made!”
Marianne could not listen without compassion. His expressions, his sentiments seemed sincere. All that he had ever been to her and all the feelings she had ever possessed in his favour came rushing forth in a wave of nostalgia. He had meant the sun and the moon to her, he had been her reason for being, and though such feelings had been replaced with something deeper, the great love she bore for her husband, she could not deny all that he had once been.
“Mr Willoughby, please do not worry that I feel injured or have been made unhappy enough by you to bear a grudge.” Marianne returned his beseeching expression with a weak smile. “I am very happy with my husband and my child who love me. My life is complete. You have had my forgiveness since the night you saw my sister Elinor and there is an end on it. I thank you for your apology, I mean that most sincerely, but I must go now. Excuse me, sir.”
Marianne curtseyed and left before he had a chance to stop her again, hoping that perhaps finally, this nonsense, the unfinished business with Mr Willoughby was over for good. Her spirits felt crushed, her nerves brittle as broken glass, but she forced herself to rally. Elinor would have been proud of her.
Joining the rest of the party, she managed to communicate to her mother that she had seen both Henry and Margaret, and that they were quite well, assuring her that they would be joining them in a little while. Marianne did not want to acknowledge the reason why she told such a lie, though in her heart she recognised the truth, recalling past memories and those precious, snatched moments between lovers who are otherwise closely chaperoned.
Thankfully, within the half hour Margaret and Henry were returned and reunited with the party. Although they had managed to escape being found out, they did not manage to evade Mrs Jennings's tongue. She teased and taunted till Margaret thought she might lose all her resolve by being downright rude to the old lady.
Marianne took her to one side. “I see what you are thinking, Margaret, but you will suffer your punishment unless you want me to tell her what you have been up to with Mr Lawrence. I saw you.”
Margaret's eyes were round. “I did not think anyone had seen us and we were only gone for a few minutes. It was such fun, though Henry drives like a madman, but perhaps I should not be telling you that! Do not look like that at me, Marianne, I remember when you were considerably younger than I am now how you liked nothing better than riding about the countryside for hours on end with a certain beau!”
Off she flounced before Marianne had chance to utter another word. “But in any case,” she pondered, “what on earth could I have said?”