Willoughby's Return (24 page)

“I have to admit there are times I wish I had been born a boy. To be a sailor, a Captain in the Navy, is the most noble of professions. I envy your lot.”

Mrs Jennings appeared at that moment to whisk James away in order to encourage him to make up a table at whist. Charles and Margaret were left alone.

“I, for one, am most grateful that you were not born to be a man, Miss Dashwood,” Charles spoke softly. “It is so good to see you again. You look very well.”

“I am very well, thank you.” Margaret did not know what else to say. Charles was looking at her with the same intensity he had always shown, an expression of adoration that was so difficult to bear. Charles Carey had always been a good friend and she loved him like a brother, but that was all. All the old feelings came flooding back, she felt as trapped as if she were a small caged animal. It was time to join one of the other parties that were forming, she felt. Where was Henry? Why was he not here to rescue her?

Just at that moment, the drawing room doors were flung open to admit Mr Lawrence and a young girl, who appeared to be about Margaret's age. Possessing all the gentility and elegance of her mother, she was blessed with good looks also. Mademoiselle de Fontenay was petite, immaculately dressed in the softest, sheerest muslin that Margaret had ever seen. Her strongest features were her ebony eyes, like polished black orbs of onyx, framed by dark lashes, fluttering against olive skin. Everyone in the room turned to marvel at the beauty before them. Indeed, she was the sort of girl who commanded attention; that everybody felt attracted to and wanted to know. Her natural grace and elegance made Margaret instantly decide that the battle was already lost. How on earth could she possibly compete for Henry's heart with such a stunning opponent? It was obvious that Henry was as drawn to her as she was to him; Margaret observed the way their eyes locked in mutual admiration. “I must not show them that I care,” she thought. “Henry must not see the despair on my countenance. Even now, Mrs Ferrars and Miss Steele are watching me; I must be strong!”

The introductions were performed all round. Henry apologised for their lateness, blaming the extraordinary number of
carriages on Oxford Street that had impeded their progress, before promptly seating himself next to Mademoiselle de Fontenay on a velvet sofa, on which there were so many pads and bolsters, that it would not admit more than two.

Margaret looked across at Henry, who seemed to be unaware of her existence at first.

“Are you very much acquainted with Mr Lawrence and his mademoiselle?” asked Charles earnestly, studying her expression.

“I do know Mr Lawrence quite well,” she answered, blushing crimson at the recollection of all that he meant to her, and could hardly look Mr Carey in the eye. What must he think of her? Margaret managed to stammer that she was unacquainted with Mademoiselle de Fontenay, before she became aware that she was being observed from across the room.

Henry was staring at her. As she looked over to give him her fullest attention with a smile, his eyes moved to that of her partner. He looked him up and down, looked back at Margaret, and nodded. Margaret smiled again but Henry made no such effort to do the same, returning to his partner and resuming their conversation.

Everyone was being encouraged to join or re-form new tables for cards. Margaret did not particularly enjoy cards but she hoped there might be some opportunity for her to join Henry in a game. There they might be able to be converse more easily and she hoped to distract his attention from a certain quarter. Mrs Jennings was doing her best to make sure all her guests were accommodated, steering Sir Edgar and the Comtesse onto a table with Marianne and Robert Ferrars and asking Lucy to join her with Lady Lawrence and Colonel Brandon. Margaret was delighted. Henry had still not sat down, but then it occurred to
Mrs Jennings that her evening party had not been formed with due consideration.

“Dear me, we are fourteen and we have only enough tables to play three games. Never mind, we’ll soon amend that.”

“Do not worry, Mrs Jennings,” Henry spoke up. “I never was much of a card player myself; I would sooner sit out.”

Margaret's heart swelled. Here was a chance to sit with Henry. She opened her mouth to speak.

“I will keep you company, Monsieur Lawrence,” Mademoiselle de Fontenay declared, before Margaret had a chance to utter a word. “Perhaps I could play the pianoforte for our general amusement. If you could turn the pages for me, I would be most grateful.”

Mademoiselle de Fontenay took her seat, made her selection of music, and started to play. Showing no hesitation, Henry soon joined her. His studied contemplation of the manuscript and his full concentration on his companion was evident to all.

“How lovely,” cried Mrs Jennings, “we shall have a musical accompaniment to our games. Now then, Miss Dashwood, Miss Steele, it would seem there are only these two young men left. I’m sure you will not mind entertaining Mr Carey and Mr Mortimer. Indeed, Miss Dashwood, you have already been most helpful in making Mr Carey feel at home here amongst us. Let the games begin!”

At that precise moment, Margaret became aware of Henry's scrutiny again. She tried to give him the benefit of her most winning smile but he simply turned to his partner, speaking so closely into her hair that Margaret could not watch. Charles led her to the table. Sitting down, she perceived the misfortune of placing herself opposite the pianoforte. Mademoiselle
Antoinette was stifling a laugh and giving Henry the benefit of her large sweeping lashes.

“Is anything the matter, Miss Dashwood?” asked Anne Steele. “You look awfully pale and your eyes have turned red.”

This observation led to the gentlemen's close examination of Margaret's countenance. Biting back the tears, she told herself not to be silly, whilst assuring everyone else that she was perfectly fine.

“Oh, it is nothing, I think an eyelash might have lodged itself,” she cried, furiously wiping her eyes.

Mr Carey immediately pulled out a pocket handkerchief and as he was sitting in closest proximity, suggested he might be of assistance. Whilst Anne held a candle as close to Margaret's face as she dared without setting her coiffure on fire, Mr Carey instructed the invalid to drop back her head in order to fully inspect the eyes of his patient. Suddenly, everyone in the whole room had turned to observe them; even the pianoforte was no longer to be heard.

“Mr Carey has such a gentle touch, he would have made an excellent doctor, I think,” declared Miss Steele. “Just look at the way he is holding Miss Dashwood's chin, like a true professional!”

Margaret felt most disturbed by her comments. How it would appear to Henry, she did not want to guess. Mr Carey was being too particular, especially when she caught his returning gaze by accident. She struggled to sit upright, saying that she was sure her eye was feeling much better.

“My dear, I will have some water and linens brought to you,” Mrs Jennings began. “Lord! But your eyes look very sore. Now, come along, Miss Dashwood, I think it best to take you to my chamber and we will see what can be done. I insist!”

There was nothing to do but follow Mrs Jennings out of the room and upstairs. Margaret felt so stupid. Why had she let herself become so upset? For heaven's sake, she scolded; after all, Henry was just being polite. Was she going to react in such a manner every time a young woman spoke to him?

“I have a little ointment which will just do the trick, my dear, sit down there and let me see.”

“My eyes feel much better now, Mrs Jennings, I think whatever it was has washed itself out.”

“I’ll be just a moment, do not fret, I’ll soon have you back at Mr Carey's side, not to worry.” She manoeuvred Margaret along to the chaise longue at the end of her bed and busied herself with a basin of water, all the time talking without a pause. “I am pleased to see that you and he have made friends again. And, from what he's been telling me, he's made a little fortune in the war. He’d make someone a very good husband.”

Margaret held her breath to stop herself from sighing. All she needed was Mrs Jennings to interfere. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her gown and it was all she could do not to say that she couldn’t care less how much money Charles had and that she was in love with Henry.

“I know you have a soft spot for Mr Lawrence,” Mrs Jennings said quietly, as she bathed Margaret's eyes, “but I would hate to see you have your heart broken.”

Margaret was all attention. Her instinct was to sit up, yet she managed to will herself to stay put. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, my dear, perhaps I have said too much already, but I think his family's hopes lie in another direction. It's no good to pretend, I’ve seen the look in your eyes as I once did in your sister's, and I would do anything to spare you the hurt she endured.”

Margaret had heard enough. “Thank you, Mrs Jennings, but you are quite wrong. I do not know where you can have gleaned any ideas about my feelings for any gentleman, let alone those for Mr Lawrence. Thank you very much; my eyes are quite restored. I will return to the drawing room now, I beg you.”

Mrs Jennings had hardly turned to dry her hands, when Margaret excused herself and disappeared. The old lady shook her head. One thing was absolutely certain. Miss Margaret Dashwood was head over heels in love with Mr Henry Lawrence.

AS SHE ENTERED THE room, Margaret saw she was responsible for the card parties having broken up altogether. Everyone expressed their concern and asked how she did; all except the very person she was longing to hear from. Mr Carey soon commandeered her again and before she knew it, she was sharing the sofa previously occupied by Henry and his friend.

Mrs Jennings came rushing through the door, begging forgiveness from them all. “I wonder if we might continue with the delightful musical diversion,” she exclaimed. “Mademoiselle de Fontenay, would you do the honour of leading the young ladies?”

Once more, Margaret was forced to watch Henry attend his friend. The young lady gave a faultless performance to resounding applause.

“How about a duet, Mademoiselle Antoinette? Would you join me in a song for two?” Henry asked, placing the music and clearing his throat.

Antoinette looked up at him adoringly, Margaret noticed, their eyes never leaving the others for a moment as they trilled in perfect harmony. There was rapturous applause at the end.

Colonel Brandon rose to his feet. “May I compliment you, Mademoiselle de Fontenay, on an exquisite recital? I declare I’ve not heard such delightful singing since I was last at Covent Garden.”

“Hear, hear,” all the gentlemen cried with one voice, rising to their feet, as everyone clapped again enthusiastically.

“What a delightful picture you both make, sitting together at the pianoforte,” cried Lady Lawrence, turning for approval to all who looked in her direction. “They played together as babes, you know, Mrs Brandon, and have scarcely ever been apart.”

Margaret saw Marianne glance over, her expression almost enough to have Margaret in tears again. She knew exactly what her sister was thinking. It would not have escaped her notice how Margaret had been ignored by Henry.

“Miss Dashwood,” Mrs Jennings pronounced above the subsiding applause, “shall we hear from you next?”

How she wished the floor would open and swallow her up. The whole room had silenced, as if awaiting her answer. Margaret stood up but she felt quite unsteady on her feet. Taking a deep breath, she ventured a step toward the pianoforte but had to hold onto a chair. Her head felt light and her ears were buzzing. “I’m sorry, Mrs Jennings, but I have a headache and am feeling a little unwell.”

Hardly were her words uttered, when she fell. Charles Carey, anticipating her distress, leapt to his feet and caught her in his arms. Holding her aloft, he carefully laid her on the sofa.

Marianne rushed to her sister's side with smelling salts and decided that now would be a good time to leave. Whilst Mrs Jennings fussed over Margaret once more, with Mrs Ferrars and Anne Steele proffering their advice in the background, Marianne was able to have a word with her husband.

“Dear me, Miss Margaret seems to be of a very sickly constitution,” announced Lady Lawrence. “In one so young, it does not bode well. I remember my school friend, Miss Thackeray, a large girl like Miss Dashwood. She looked as strong as an ox, but went to bed one night and didn’t wake up again.”

“I hope it's nothing serious, perhaps you should take her home, Mrs Brandon,” said Sir Edgar kindly. “I will have the carriage sent round immediately.”

“As I am sure you all know,” his wife went on, “I suffer quite dreadfully myself, but I never knew a single malady in my youth. I do not remember you ever knowing a day's illness, Mademoiselle Antoinette. You are such a delicate-looking girl, yet like myself, you come from good, stalwart stock.”

“’Tis a good thing you were there to catch her, Mr Carey, I saw there wasn’t a minute's hesitation,” murmured Anne, looking on with envy, “and you picked her up as though she were a little doll. If ever I were to faint, I hope I should be caught by some gentleman half as gallant as you. What say you, Mr Mortimer? Are you a valiant catcher of ladies?”