Willoughby

Prologue 1806, Combe Magna Where did my fall begin? To unravel my descent is not a simple task. Like the hydra, I lop off one head only to see two take its place. Foolishly, I had led my life as if my inheritance were already in my possession. Although Mrs. Smith rarely journeyed beyond the borders of Devonshire, she was kept abreast of my activities and never failed to tell me what a disappointment I was to her and would have been to my parents had they not already died. Even so, I had been confident that I would manage to live within my means once I came into my full inheritance. Who would have informed Mrs. Smith of the affair in Bath? Unfortunately, any number of acquaintances might have done so. The particular turn of events—the birth of the child—must have spurred one of them to sit and write to Mrs. Smith. How difficult it must have been to tell the tale of my scandal. Did this person understand the effects such an accusation might have upon a woman who valued her pride and reputation more than the bonds of blood or affection? Had that person foreseen the consequences of such a revelation? My elderly relative’s judgment was summary. No doubt she felt it her righteous duty to pass sentence on me. Subsequent mercies matter little, for they came too late to be of service to me. The punishment, in effect, continues to this day. Having lost my inheritance and hounded on all sides by my debtors, the need of a good marriage was no longer hypothetical. An alliance to end my financial woes and to stave off dishonor to my family was imperative. A dissolute youth had ill prepared me for a worthy life. My virtues—had I had any—were unpracticed and atrophied by neglect. I made a choice. Admitting now that I made the wrong one does not change my circumstances or ease the sorrow. I am weary of painful memories. I ignore their insistent demand. And yet I recall that day, the day that I took my farewell of Marianne, as if it split my life in twain. It was not the unfortunate incident in Bath that led me to this moment of regret. It was the day that I broke faith with Marianne, the day that I turned my back on love. It was more than seven years ago now, the day that I met Mrs. Dashwood and her three daughters. To think that I held Marianne Dashwood in my arms before I even knew her name. Part I Barton Cottage October 1798 Is love a fancy, or a feeling? No. It is immortal as immaculate Truth, 'Tis not a blossom shed as soon as youth, Drops from the stem of life--for it will grow, In barren regions, where no waters flow, Nor rays of promise cheats the pensive gloom. Sonnet VII Hartley Coleridge Willoughby The morning sky was blue, the air crisp, a breeze wafted across hillocks and fields, refreshing and stirring the blood. Willoughby had donned his hunting jacket, and Artemis and Athena, two of the finest pointers he had ever bred, gamboled at his feet as they struck off across the park. A distant cousin on his father’s side, Mrs. Smith rarely entertained, and her lands were varied and fertile. Game was plentiful. Artemis whined pathetically as she awaited Willoughby’s signal in vain, for he didn’t raise his gun to the skies when several partridges startled and took flight. For some unfathomable reason he lingered and contemplated the landscape as if searching for some unknown presence. He was drawn to the valley and to the hillocks beyond. The moment was heavy with portent. One foot trod forward and then the next, without any thought but the urge to see what awaited him over the crest of the next promontory. He was vaguely aware that he had walked some distance from Allenham Court and was now far closer to Barton Park, the property of Mrs. Smith’s nearest neighbor, Sir John Middleton. Artemis and Athena sniffed something in the air, which Willoughby, too, sensed. A tingling along the back of his neck warned him to look up toward the sky. Gathering over them, the dark, heavy belly of storm clouds blocked the sun. Just as Willoughby thought to turn back, the skies opened and a torrent of rain poured down. Within minutes his hair was drenched and the fabric of his coat weighed heavy on his shoulders. A cold trickle of rain made its way under his collar and down his back. He was walking along High-church Downs, intending to return to Allenham, when he heard a voice over the clamorous gusts of the deluge. Blinking the moisture from his eyes, he saw a young girl, just a child, rushing towards him up the slope of the hill. She waved and called out for him to come. “Please, sir, my sister has fallen. I fear she’s broken an ankle.” Looking past the child, Willoughby noticed a figure seated, half-reclined, on the steep grade of the slope. The young woman’s dress pooled about her like a garden of wild flowers on the damp grass along the incline of the hill. Wasting no time, Willoughby urged the girl—she couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve—to lead the way. Artemis and Athena barked and scurried ahead. In his enthusiasm to come to her sister’s aid, he disregarded the irregular ground which in all likelihood had been the cause of the young woman’s unfortunate spill. As he approached the young woman, he didn’t notice anything especially remarkable about her. He had come in response to the child’s urgent plea for help, thinking only of assisting her sister, giving no thought to the consequences of this encounter. But when the young woman lifted her face and he saw her features, his tongue fixed itself to the roof of his mouth and he could not for the moment understand what he was doing or where he was. The rain ceased to chill him even though the outburst had not yet spent its force. As his heart raced, in spite of the damp and the cold, a curious sensation of warmth coursed through his body. At his side, the child was speaking. But he didn’t hear her words until she nearly came to a breathless halt. She repeated something about a race, the uneven ground, the steep grade of the hillock. Willoughby smiled, the spell broken. Once again he was capable of action, swept along by the pleasure of his fortunate role. One might assume that he played the Good Samaritan, coming to the aid of a distressed neighbor. But Willoughby knew better. That initial selfless inspiration to act had been overwhelmed by another. A beautiful young woman lay helpless at his feet. Her upturned eyes, large with worry, at his approach, brightened with hope. Transformed into the gallant young hero, Willoughby sank to one knee. “Can you stand?” he asked. Immediately he knew the answer and felt foolish for having asked the question. “Where are you injured?” “She’s broken her ankle.” It was the child who spoke. Her tone wavered between concern and excitement. “She stepped into one of those rabbit holes and fell head over heels down the hill and landed on her foot.” “Sir, I’m sure that Margaret can find the assistance I need at the cottage.” The young woman raised her hand over her brow to shield her eyes from the steady rain. “Please, don’t concern yourself.” The blush in her cheeks only served to mark the beauty of her complexion. Willoughby ignored her embarrassment and asked, “May I touch your ankle? I would like to see if the bone is broken.” He waited for her permission. It came as a slight nod of the head and a tentative glance his way which gave him the pleasure of admiring the deep brown of her eyes. They were framed by thick, dark lashes, and he was struck by the intensity of her gaze whenever she peered up towards him. His hands hovered over her ankle as he tried to retain the impression of those eyes. As he suspected, rotating the ankle, he found no indication of a break. Even so, the tissue around the joint had already darkened and was noticeably swollen. “No permanent harm has been done. It’s merely a sprain.” Her relief was evident in the deep sigh she expelled and the hint of a smile on her lips.