What if Sophia Grey had not intercepted and dictated Willoughby’s letter to Marianne?
What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.
M.D. (directly quoted from Sense & Sensibility, what follows is new)
Dearest Marianne,
Please do not think so poorly of my behaviour last night, it was as painful an encounter for me as it must have been for you. I have been pressured by my family, most disagreeably, to form an alliance with Miss Grey. She is the woman with whom I was speaking last night. Mrs. Smith makes it a condition of my inheritance and there was some previous attention which engages my honour or I am told it does. I will tell you plainly, I have never felt anything near the affection I have for you with Miss Grey. She is nothing to me but an attachment that I cannot be rid of. It is you I have thought of every day since leaving Barton cottage and you whom I have dreamt of every night.
I have avoided you, thinking it may spare your feelings from the disappointment I knew was to come. It may have been wrong of me, but to see you in distress, even last night, it was almost the end of me. I cannot live in a world where you are unhappy. I am nearly persuaded to break this loveless arrangement and beg you to marry me. How can I remember those sweet days last autumn and not wish to be with you again? If it is possible, remain home tomorrow morning and I will tell you everything. This pen is insufficient.
Yours forever,
John Willoughby
Marianne thought herself lucky to have received the letter late in the evening and without the notice of anyone else. Elinor had been engaged in writing a letter of her own and Mrs. Jennings with some business about the house. She read it over twice, with mixed feelings of pleasure and despair, and then tucked it next to her heart. Marianne did not think it would be any difficulty to stay home tomorrow and she cared so little about what Mrs. Jennings would say if she knew a man had visited that she gave little consideration to the servants.
When the morning came, Marianne denied being equal to visiting. Elinor seemed unsure of what to do, but Mrs. Jennings said, “You may well stay here Marianne and Elinor can accompany me. We are to visit the Middletons but I will bring your excuses.”
Elinor complied and soon they were away in Mrs. Jennings carriage. It was not five minutes later when Marianne heard a rap at the door and he was there. He was shown into the drawing room by the girl. It was Willoughby.
“Marianne,” he said, and then in a low voice he added, “are you here alone?”
“Yes, except for Sarah. Mrs. Jennings and my sister are out on calls,” said Marianne, hearing the footsteps of the only remaining maid leading back to the kitchen. Cartwright, she knew, was out on some business for Mrs. Jennings and the cook would not leave the kitchen.
“Marianne,” he said again, and took her hand and brought it to his lips, “Could I have spoken to you properly when we met, but I was overcome. I only wanted to take your hand, to be near you again and hear your beautiful voice.”
“But you are engaged?”
“It is not yet absolutely settled,” he moved closer to her, and in a near whisper said, “I have not been able to fully commit, when I think of you. When I think of everything I stand to lose.”
Marianne was in such a state of hope and confusion, near despair and total joy, that her rational mind, already too often ignored, was overcome. She gave way to her happier feelings and throwing her arms around him, said, “I knew you loved me.”
He held her tightly, his hand stroking her unbound hair. He whispered to her, “You are everything I had ever imagined in a woman, but never thought I would find.” He drew back slightly and looked into her eyes, glowing with joy, and kissed her. Marianne was surprised, but he had told her that he loved her, he was here, and she was certain it felt right. Were they not engaged now? She gave herself wholly to the pleasure of being with him.
“Have you told her, Miss Grey?” Marianne whispered, as they paused for a moment.
“It will take some time,” he said, “it is a delicate matter. She will agree, when she knows how much I care for another.”
Marianne nodded, she trusted him completely. She did not know that he had been watching the house, that he had calculated how long Mrs. Jennings would be away and what list of tasks took the other servants out. He knew there was enough time for what he wanted and what Marianne would be slowly, gently, and tenderly caressed and convinced into giving. Twenty minutes later, Marianne walked in a daze up the stairs to attend to her appearance and Willoughby left the house without anyone remembering that he had come, slipping a letter into his pocket.
———–
That evening Marianne could not find the letter from Willoughby. She thought little of it, had it not still been in with her, near her heart? She could not remember. She looked again at the direction she was holding. It was nearby, only two blocks away. She did not think anyone would oppose her going for an early morning walk.
It was unopposed. Elinor was pleased that Marianne agreed to go out with them after her ramble. Mrs. Jennings thought the neighbourhood full safe enough if she would not go very far. She set out and walked to the address. It took no more than five minutes. She was admitted by a maid. Willoughby was already there.
“My dear Marianne,” he said. He kissed her again and she melted into his touch.
“When will we tell my mother?” she asked, “She will be delighted.”
“Soon Marianne, I promise. When everything is settled.”
“I love you,” she said.
He kissed her again. Then he picked her up, just as he had done when he rescued her on the hill and he brought her to a comfortable bed and showed her just how much he loved her.
————
Elinor tried to tell her sister about Eliza Williams after Colonel Brandon visited, but Marianne would not listen. She had been happy the last two weeks. It was a happiness that her sister could not explain. Everyone spoke of Willoughby’s engagement to Miss Grey but Marianne seemed not to hear it. She went on her morning walks, visited with them as if nothing weighed on her heart, and was as she ever was during the evenings. As Elinor could make no real complaint, she was forced to only watch and wonder at Marianne’s heart.
After another fortnight passed, Elinor came downstairs and told Marianne the news, “Willoughby is married.”
Marianne shook her head, “No, he cannot be,” she said mildly.
Elinor placed the paper before her sister, “He is, it is here in the paper.”
Marianne glanced at it, but made no response. Her sister did not know what to do, but she did not feel equal to pressing the matter. Marianne finished her meal and went for her morning walk. Willoughby was there as usual.
“I need to go away for a few weeks,” he said, when they had finished and were lying beside each other.
“Why must you?” said Marianne, her voice shook.
“I must go to Combe Magna,” he said, “I have business.”
“My sister said,” Marianne paused, it was impossible, here he was with her, “she said you are married.”
“Marianne, what we have is a meeting of souls, there is nothing that can separate us now,” he said.
For the first time in nearly a month, Marianne doubted, “But you are no longer engaged to Miss Grey?”
“No, I am not engaged.”
“You have not married her?”
“It does not matter; you have my heart.”
Marianne suddenly understood. She froze in terror. What had she been doing? She had walked blindly where she never ought to have tread. “You are married!” she whispered in dread.
“I will come to you, Marianne, wherever you are. We can be together always,” he was taking her hands, he was speaking to her in that voice that took away her senses, but Marianne could not ignore what she finally knew to be the truth.
She fled.
——–
The plan was no one’s preference, but they were far beyond preference. As the carriage approached, they saw Fanny, her skirts noticeably altered by a growing condition. Marianne’s own gown was designed to hide the same. Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood ushered her into the house, followed by Margaret. Edward saw the horses to the stable. Everything was in place.
John Dashwood was not completely without feeling and he feared nothing more than disgrace. The pregnancy had come at a time when it was particularly welcome. Mrs. Lucy Ferrars had recently delivered a baby girl and Mrs. Ferrars was so completely taken with the child. Little Harry was getting too old to be admired in such a fashion and it had been long enough that the Dashwoods had given up hope. When they heard about Marianne, they proposed the only solution.
Fanny would pretend to carry a child, Marianne would visit. No one would question family visiting for three or four months. Mrs. Dashwood did what she could, ensured as far as she was able that the child would not be abandoned after it served Fanny’s purpose, but she was forced to admit that towards her son at least, Fanny was everything amiable. They had no other choice.
Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars were already forgiven, though they might not have been welcome if Elinor’s purpose was not to care for Marianne. Fanny had no interest in the mother. Marianne was, after all, a shadow of her former self. Her condition gave her no bloom or brilliancy, she ate only for the child, walked only when her sister urged her, and cared only enough about her appearance to hid the truth.
Elinor could do nothing for Marianne’s real comfort. Her sister had been destroyed. First by Willoughby’s betrayal and then by the knowledge of her condition. That the child would be raised in such a household was the final blow. She hardly spoke during their visit to anyone. The child was born, a beautiful baby girl. The child and mother lived and six weeks later, the same carriage took Marianne, Margaret and Mrs. Dashwood back to Barton. Elinor and Edward left for Delaford and wondered what would come.
———
Colonel Brandon loved her, and he would have accepted even this, but Marianne had no heart left to give. She lived with her mother until her mother passed on and then she lived with Elinor and Edward and their happy brood of children. And sometimes she saw him, yet unmarried, with his grave air and knew that she never could have restored what he had lost when she had never managed to restore herself.
Fanny, who had once scorned her sister’s half-blood, loved the beautiful little Frances more than she loved anyone but herself, Harry, and her husband. Time will only tell if Frances would become like her adopted mother, or somehow, through either strength of character or happenstance, escape unscathed like her uncle Edward.
And what of Willoughby…
But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on—for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
For more short stories, go here
For my crossover romance, check out Prideful & Persuaded
For my Mansfield Park variation, here Unfairly Caught