By the middle of the week the snow had stopped falling, and grey skies were replaced by bright blue, making everywhere glitter in the sunshine. Visitors started to call again. Mrs Jennings and Sir Edgar visited as soon as their carriages could be dug out of the snow. Marianne did not feel equal to such gadding about herself, but received all her guests with cordiality. Mr Carey and his sister came with an invitation for Margaret to go skating with them in Hyde Park on Thursday. The Serpentine had frozen to a solid thickness, they reported, adding that Mr Mortimer and his sister were to be of the party also. Their excitement at the scheme soon infected Margaret with the idea that this venture might be as fun as it was proclaimed and so she accepted.
The following afternoon, as good as their word, the party called. Marianne greeted them in the hallway as they arrived.
“I do hope that you will consider joining us, Mrs Brandon,” pronounced Charles.
“Oh, Mr Carey, that is very kind of you,” Marianne answered, “but I am sure you young people won’t need me to chaperone you.”
“Marianne, please come,” entreated Margaret, who thought the change of scene would do her sister good. Moreover, she considered that another person added to the party could only be of benefit, although she was glad to see that Charles spent all his time observing Caroline Mortimer when he thought no one was looking. Indeed, his behaviour toward that young lady was becoming very particular, she surmised.
Everyone declared how much they would all enjoy Mrs Brandon's company. Before she could make any further protest against their entreaties, Margaret summoned a warm pelisse and fur muff for Marianne to face the chill outside.
The main roads were quite clear so that the carriages made steady progress, arriving at Hyde Park in a very short while. All were astonished to see the great crowds of people intent on trudging through the snow for their amusement. Children with sledges slid down any likely hump in the landscape, their faces bright with laughter. Snow figures lined the roadways and a crowd of rowdy youths pelted one another with snowballs. As they approached the frozen lake, Margaret craned her neck to see the wintry scene. She had heard of famous frost fairs in London when the great River Thames had frozen over, but nothing had prepared her for the sight of the Serpentine Lake fringed with glowing lanterns in the dim afternoon light, the branches of trees dipping their lacy fingers into the polished, black ice. Crossing and re-crossing the vast expanse skated a myriad of figures in a stately ballet, silhouetted against ribbon streams of sunshine in tints of rosy pink to gild the clouds. There were icemen sweeping and burnishing the lagoon to a gleaming finish, hiring out skates for those intrepid enough to try them. Several booths had been set up from which hot ginger wine, ale, or brandy could be purloined. The costermongers were setting up shop by selling fruit, their wives tempting weary skaters with oysters and hot meat pies. The noise of people shouting, cheering, and laughing echoed in the still air to the accompaniment of cracking ice, loud as a firing musket.
They soon had their skates on and were taking their first cautious steps upon the ice. The frozen water was very thick; leaves imprisoned in layers within the depths gleamed like amber jewels in Venetian glass. Margaret linked arms with her sister and before long Miss Carey and Miss Mortimer joined them. They kept up a swift pace to skate behind the gentleman and were soon out of breath, Marianne begging them to stop so that she could rest for a while.
“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.
Tears misted her eyes as she winced again. Willoughby held the cup of warm liquid to her lips and she drank the remainder of the spiced wine. Fetching out his pocket handkerchief, he handed it to Marianne. Dabbing at her eyes, his perfume and the images of a hundred autumn days threatened to overpower her.
Marianne returned his smile as Willoughby took the seat next to hers.
“I hope you feel more comfortable,” he said. Marianne could no longer look into his eyes and turned to regard the world outside. Her head felt woozy from the wine, but she felt a glow of warmth within. The sun was setting, a huge crimson ball of fire reflected in slivers of rose and silver across the lake. Outside the gaiety continued in noisy effervescence. Torches were being lit against the dimming light. It was growing dark and the carriage was filling with velvet shadows creeping over her like a mantle.
Marianne suddenly sensed that it might be dangerous to turn her head to look at Willoughby. The tension in the air was great and the only sound was their breathing, rapid with emotion.
“Marianne,” started Mr Willoughby in a low voice.
“Yes, Mr Willoughby,” Marianne answered, turning her head slowly. Her heart was beating so fast that she thought he must hear it.
He was staring at her mouth. His eyes penetrated hers with such a look of intent that she knew he wanted to express his desire. She felt lost in the depths of those dark pools, which drew her in with such a power that she knew she would need all her strength to thwart it. He moved in silence, carefully tucking the blanket he had provided around her. Too aware of his close proximity, his breath stirring the curls around her face, she felt the quiet strength of his hands and was ashamed when she acknowledged to herself that she wished to feel those fingers on her skin. Forcing herself to turn away again, she gazed out at the torchlit procession.
“Marianne…” Willoughby softly persisted.
Marianne knew before she turned her head again that something was going to happen, and though she wished she could prevent it, knew as her eyes met his once more, the certainty of the moment.
Willoughby leaned over her in the darkness. Everything was blotted out as his lips brushed hers. As if propelled by attracting forces, their lips sought one another. Willoughby's touch was as gentle as she remembered, his kiss awakening the ardour of a time she thought long over. For a moment Marianne felt her mouth disobey her inner commands and her lips seek his as hungrily as he sought hers.
“Please God, Marianne, forgive me,” Willoughby cried when she pulled away in some distress, “I could not help myself.”
Marianne was trembling, partly with the feelings of aroused passions she could not control, but also with the knowledge that she had behaved just as badly as he. For in that split second when she might have turned her face away from his, she had decided to meet him on equal terms. She had known that he was going to kiss her and she had acted accordingly. Just once more she had wanted to feel his desire, acknowledge her yearning for lost love with a craving to feel alive again. If Brandon didn’t want her, then why shouldn’t she satisfy her longing for affection, she had reasoned in a split second. In her moment of madness Marianne had believed that she was the wronged wife and was thus justified in her conduct. She collapsed into a fit of sobbing, averting her countenance and indeed her whole body away from Willoughby, who frozen into inaction by his own misdeeds, sat helpless and remorseful.
“Please, Mr Willoughby,” she managed to say at last, “will you take me home?”
Willoughby instructed his coachman to fetch the servant as soon as they reached Manchester Square and left as soon as Marianne had been carefully removed from the carriage. The doctor soon arrived to make her comfortable, swiftly followed by Margaret, who could see from her sister's countenance that she was in no mood to discuss her escapade. As Marianne lay back upon her propped pillows, her foot throbbing with pain, she tried with little success to blot out the memory of Willoughby's kiss, refusing to acknowledge her own part in the fatal conspiracy. Willoughby alone was to blame, she decided at last. He had taken advantage of a situation where, completely powerless against him, she had surrendered. Having trusted him again, he had ruthlessly broken her faith. Marianne cried for Brandon, weeping for the man she felt lost to her forever. What a fool she had been to let Willoughby kiss her and kiss him in return. But wishing that nothing had happened was not going to alter the fact that it had. Marianne knew she would have to live with this truth and with the consequences, whatever they may be.
When Margaret questioned her about the accident the following day, Marianne could hardly meet her eyes, relating the briefest details of Willoughby's rescue, choosing instead to turn the conversation round to that of her sister's recollections of the day. Marianne's own thoughts on the matter had shifted slightly. She did not blame John but acknowledged that her own part, fuelled by unhappiness and Brandon's neglect, had been partly responsible. The combination of so many factors had led to her disgrace. Finding herself in so intimate a situation with Willoughby had brought back so many emotions from the past. Acting instinctively by following her heart had led to a second of selfish desire. It had been a gross mistake but she could not pretend that Willoughby was entirely to blame. Marianne could not think about what she should do but knew beyond a doubt that she would never allow such a dreadful episode to happen again. But for now, in order to preserve her sanity, Marianne decided to put the whole affair out of her head.