Sophia Grey watched Willoughby come into her guardian’s house with keen pleasure. He was a very fine man. She loved to look at him and if she was to look at anyone for the rest of her life, it might as well be the finest specimen of male beauty that money could buy. The Ellisons thought she was a fool, but Sophia already had all the wealth and rank she could desire. She wanted something that might have been difficult to find if she had reached any higher in marriage: she wanted control.
Mr. Ellison had invited Willoughby that very morning to present the wedding articles and Sophia was glowing with pleasure. She had fifty thousand pounds, nearly 2500 a year in income. As a married woman, her pin money was to a thousand pounds per year, another five hundred pounds must be reinvested, only the remaining portion would be available to Willoughby. The entirety of her fortune was to be held in trust and he only had a life’s interest in it. It was only to pass down through the heirs of her body. It would have been insulting, if he had more than two pence to rub together, but he had nothing. Less than nothing. He was going to agree after a paltry attempt at negotiation.
The mail arrived moments after he had. Willoughby was focused on the documents and perhaps his breakfast, “I will see to them in a moment,” he said without lifting his eyes from the papers before him.
Sophia laughed and taking the letters said, “I can be safely authorized my love, let me look at them.” Willoughby looked up, and seeing among the packet a particular letter he reached for it, but Sophia slapped his hand away with affected playfulness. “Do not worry dear Willoughby, they are only letters of business I am sure, how dull.”
She quickly sorted through them; most were indeed demanding payment. She came upon the one her fiancé had tried to recover; it was certainly written in a woman’s hand. She opened it and read it through.
“Might I have a moment alone,” Sophia asked the Ellisons, Mr. Ellison took up the legal documents and they left the young couple in the breakfast room. Willoughby already looked annoyed, but Sophia spoke calmly, “You know dear, I cannot have another Eliza Williams, not when it may affect my reputation and invitations. You know I quite insist upon it. Find yourself some actress, not a gentlewoman. And not a servant either, I don’t need to be replacing my ladies’ maid every few months, how tiresome.”
“There will not be another Eliza,” he said, charmingly. Sophia was not satisfied.
“So who is this Marianne? Is she the woman from the ball?” Sophia shook her head, “She is poor I am sure, but not an acceptable mistress. The Middletons are an important connection that I think you have already near ruined. Write her back and end it.”
“You know nothing of the matter,” said Willoughby, and he seemed ready to begin a long speech, but Sophia knew him by now, it was never a good idea to let him talk.
“I know a great deal,” Sophia said pleasantly, “Now shall I dictate it for you or will you write sensibly on your own?”
He cringed and glanced towards his pocketbook near the door. Sophia got up, and nearly skipping to the door, she took up his precious possession. “And what is in here?” she said gaily. She opened it and found it nearly stuffed with papers. She brought it back to the table and dumped everything out.
Sophia found the letters from Marianne without much difficulty, as she could recognize the paper and the hand. But there were more letters, “Who is Louisa? Charlotte? Anne?” she said.
He made no sound.
She rang for writing implements and paper, “You will have a busy morning. Now I think it best if you send the same message to all of them. I shall write it out once and you can copy it.”
Then she found the hair, wrapped in paper. There were six locks in total, three dark brown, two blonde, and one dark red, “What a collection!” she laughed, laying them before him, “Now who is who?”
Willoughby scowled, the hair was unmarked and he was trying to contrive some excuse to keep every one.
“Marianne, if I recall, was very dark. It is one of these three. Which one is dearest Marianne?”
He pointed and she placed the hair with Marianne’s letters. She saw him begin to reach out for it again, but she shook her head and he stopped. He needed her; he had no choice. Sophia would not allow these women to be his dupe any longer.
“Now tell me the rest, we shall send all of these women nice letters,” she said as if the letter were invitations to the finest ball of the season instead of crushingly cruel. They needed to be cruel, Willoughby could talk his way out of anything else. Willoughby identified Louisa, Charlotte, and Anne. That left two.
“The other dark one is Eliza,” he said. Sophia took the lock directly and threw it into the fire. There was a foul smell for a moment and then it was gone. There would be no good in contacting Eliza again, it would only be painful for the poor girl. Sophia had already sent her a good sum of money and some clothes for the baby.
“And the last?”
“That is my late mother’s hair,” he said.
Sophia wondered if she believed him, but the colour was so similar to his own and he looked so miserable already that she let it pass. Let him keep the hair, at least he would not have the letters. Sophia made four neat piles and bound them together with the copied letters that Willoughby sat and wrote like a punished schoolboy. He was angry and more than once he tried to convince her to change her mind, but Sophia was far beyond his tricks. She knew the real Willoughby. The real Willoughby was a greedy coward.
Sophia saw them all posted herself, “You are welcome, Marianne, I hope you find someone better” she said to herself as she handed them off to their man. Then she walked back to her husband-to-be.
“You know I have no regard for you, Sophia,” he said coldly.
She laughed and kissed him on the cheek, “Do not you feel better, now that such a disagreeable task is behind us?”
He glared at her, “You are a loathsome, scheming, vile woman.”
Sophia only smiled.
“I cannot understand why you are agreeing to this. I do not love you; I will never love you!”
“How unfortunate!” Sophia said, “But I have never been a romantic woman. It is near impossible to tell apart the fortune hunters from those who might feel real affection. I would know, I tried for years. The only thing I want is to know that when you run through your ample income,” she moved closer to him and dropped her voice to a near whisper, “you will have to come to me and say please.”
“I can call off the engagement and ruin you!” he cried.
Sophia did not have to force herself to laugh this time, her glee was real, “My reputation? I have fifty thousand pounds! I could walk naked through Covent Garden and marry the next day. As for you, I do not think there is any chance Marianne will suffer you to darken her doorway, not after the letter you sent her. Or any of the others.”
He was angry, Sophia could see it in his eyes, but she had no fear. There was nothing he could do to her without hurting himself. He needed her money now and he would need it tomorrow and she suspected he would never learn to live within his income. He was going to have to keep her happy or at least in good humour.
“This is an excellent time for you to cultivate a nice, expensive hobby my dear,” Sophia said lovingly, “but you are done with collecting hair.”
Willoughby left soon after, but not before he had signed the marriage articles. It was all settled. Sophia went out on her balcony and looked over the bustling grandeur of London, “I have defeated one of them, dear gentlewomen,” she said, inaudible to the passing people below, “best of luck with the rest!”
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For more short stories, go here
For my Mansfield Park variation, here Unfairly Caught
For my crossover romance, and a better ending for poor Caroline, check out Prideful & Persuaded