The Late Mrs. Willoughby

Book 2: MR. DARCY & MISS TILNEY MYSTERY

by Claudia Gray

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Historical Romance

Synopsis

The suspenseful sequel to The Murder of Mr. Wickham, which sees Jonathan Darcy and Juliet Tilney reunited, and with another mystery to solve: the dreadful poisoning of the scoundrel Willoughby's new wife.

“An absolute page-turner full of well-plotted mystery and hints of simmering romance.... More of the Jane Austen characters we love (as well as those we love to hate).” —Mia P. Manansala, author of Arsenic and Adobo

Catherine and Henry Tilney of Northanger Abbey are not entirely pleased to be sending their eligible young daughter Juliet out into the world again: the last house party she attended, at the home of the Knightleys, involved a murder—which Juliet helped solve. Particularly concerning is that she intends to visit her new friend Marianne Brandon, who's returned home to Devonshire shrouded in fresh scandal—made more potent by the news that her former suitor, the rakish Mr. Willoughby, intends to take up residence at his local estate with his new bride.

Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley are thrilled that their eldest son, Jonathan—who, like his father, has not always been the most socially adept—has been invited to stay with his former schoolmate, John Willoughby. Jonathan himself is decidedly less taken with the notion of having to spend extended time under the roof of his old bully, but that all changes when he finds himself reunited with his fellow amateur sleuth, the radiant Miss Tilney. And when shortly thereafter, Willoughby's new wife—whom he married for her fortune—dies horribly at the party meant to welcome her to town.

With rumors flying and Marianne—known to be both unstable and previously jilted by the dead woman's newly made widower—under increased suspicion, Jonathan and Juliet must team up once more to uncover the murderer. But as they collect clues and close in on suspects, eerie incidents suggest that the killer may strike again, and that the pair are in far graver danger than they or their families could imagine.

A VINTAGE ORIGINAL.

Release date: May 16, 2023

Publisher: Vintage

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One

October 1820

Mr. Jonathan Darcy of Pemberley had, to his parents’ delight, been invited to visit some highly suitable friends in Devonshire. The friends in question had been deemed by them “highly suitable,” a judgment that would have been shared by nearly all of society. They were young men of good breeding and fortune, all of whom had known Jonathan at school, gathering at the recently inherited estate of the eldest among them.

To Jonathan, they were not suitable in the slightest. He was not certain that the young men even fulfilled any proper definition of friendship. But the invitation had so pleased his mother and father—who had, for so long, been deeply concerned about his social connections, or rather by their nonexistence—that Jonathan had not had the heart to refuse it. Thus to Devonshire he must go.

“How good it is that you are able to see more of the country,” enthused his mother, Elizabeth, who was looking over the clothing the valet had set out for packing. “There is life in England beyond Hertfordshire, Derbyshire, and London, loath though Londoners are to admit it. First Surrey, then Devonshire.”

“I hardly think the Surrey trip should be counted,” said Jonathan’s father, Fitzwilliam, who stood in the doorway of his son’s room. “Given the unfortunate event that transpired there, the entire journey would be as well forgotten.”

“I cannot agree,” Jonathan ventured. “Regardless of what happened, I did see Surrey.”

Father did not quite smile, but he came close. “Quite so. I stand corrected.”

In truth, Jonathan would have argued with the entirety of his father’s statement; he had no wish to forget that trip, given how interesting it had proved, and the true friendship he had forged there with one Miss Juliet Tilney. But young men could not speak of friendship with young women without exciting parental thoughts of matrimony, and he had no desire to either enthrall his mother or dismay his father by making such a premature suggestion.

And the “unfortunate event” in question had been the murder of Jonathan’s uncle George Wickham. Although Jonathan felt no strong grief for his uncle—a man both dishonest and discourteous—it would be extremely improper to admit as such, even to his mother and father, who had yet stronger reasons for disliking Mr. Wickham. A great deal of propriety seemed to be rooted in not admitting things everyone knew to be true.

The great pleasure of his journey to Surrey had been investigating the murder alongside Miss Tilney. Learning more about the other houseguests—their suspects—had sometimes been difficult, and perhaps impolite, but it had been undeniably fascinating. Furthermore, their investigation had prevented a great injustice from being done. It was both the most interesting and, to Jonathan’s mind, worthwhile experience of his life.

Unfortunately, his parents had insisted it would be improper for him ever to speak of it.

“You will need more than this, surely.” Mother frowned as she counted his coats yet again. “Will you not stay the month? You were invited for that duration.”

“I had thought to return after two weeks or so,” Jonathan said. He had privately calculated that one week and four days could be honestly described as two weeks or so. “There is no cause for me to stay so long.”

“Nor any cause for you to return so early.” Father shook his head

. “One cannot cut one’s visit short without a worthy excuse, and you have none.”

Never before had Jonathan had cause to regret matriculating at Oxford early. Had he not done so, he would be returning to his college at this time of year. There, he could avoid most social situations by holing up at the Bodleian. But earning his degree had cost him that sanctuary.

His mother, more sensitive to Jonathan’s character, gave him a reassuring smile. “If you absolutely despise it there, you may write us to that effect, and we will invent an excuse so impeccable even your father could not object.” Father looked as though he wished to object immediately, but he kept his peace as Mother continued, “Yet I dare to hope that you will find it more pleasurable than you now fear.”

Jonathan knew full well that he would not, but he had no socially valid reasons for refusal. If this trip had to be endured, so be it.

Miss Juliet Tilney of Gloucestershire had, to her parents’ dismay, been invited to visit a highly unsuitable friend in Devonshire.

Her father, Henry Tilney, shook his head as his daughter held up that gown and this, choosing favorites to take on the journey. “I mean no disrespect to Mrs. Brandon, but it must be acknowledged that the woman is a murderess.”

“You cannot be afraid for me,” Juliet protested, frowning at the pale green dress she had liked so much more just days before. “It is not as though Marianne Brandon goes about slaughtering people wherever she may wander.”

“Do not be impertinent.” Henry Tilney was in fact quite fond of impertinence—both his own and that of others, if phrased with enough justice and wit—but was stricter with his daughter in this regard. “No, I have no fear for your person. Your reputation, however, could be in greater danger.”

This won him a censorious look from Juliet’s mother, Catherine. As an authoress, she could be more imaginative than most and could put herself in the place of another more easily. “Society should not punish Mrs. Brandon for her action. She only did what she was forced to in order to escape”—she paused, searching for phrasing that could be spoken aloud in front of her daughter—“an act of terrible brutality. The law found her behavior to be fully justified.”

“Rightly so,” her father concurred. “However, one cannot expect society to be equally generous.”

“Society should be.” Her mother put her hands on her hips. “Just as we should pattern our actions on what we know to be right and just, not on what the small-minded among us may say.”

To anyone who did not know him well, Juliet’s father’s expression would have appeared very stern indeed. “Which one of us is the clergyman?”

“Based on our words alone, I am sure nobody would know.” Her mother had begun to smile.

Juliet liked that her parents teased each other so often and so gently. Whereas some husbands and wives she had observed used such jokes to disconcert or even discredit their spouses, her parents employed wit where others stooped to anger. Despite Juliet’s youth and inexperience, she had seen enough of life to be glad that she came from such a happy home.

Not everyone had the luxury of such happiness, which was exactly why it was so important that she make this journey.

“Marianne Brandon is gravely distressed by her circumstances,” Juliet said. “This is when she needs friendship the most. Had she not

invited me there, I would have asked to invite her here.”

“I see I am quite outclassed in Christian charity by the women of the household.” Her father shook his head, more exasperated with himself than with Juliet or Catherine. “Very well, then, go and visit your friend. But this time—should there be any hint of trouble—you will write us immediately, without addressing the letter so poorly that it takes three weeks to arrive.”

Juliet’s cheeks pinked at the memory of her stratagem. Rather than admit to it, she simply said, “I promise.”

Juliet’s mother laughed as she patted her husband’s arm. “Really, Henry, you are so devoted to imagining trouble where none will be. If I am to take up the pulpit, you can become the novelist of the household.” 

Marianne Brandon had been heartily glad to leave Surrey. Who could not wish to depart from a place with such terrible memories? Kind as Mr. and Mrs. Knightley had been throughout her stay, she would be grateful if she never saw their house again. All she had wanted at the time was to return home, where she would be able to put the terrible event out of mind.

She had been home now for seven weeks, long enough to know that a murder is not so easily left behind.

At night she had dreams in which Mr. Wickham again menaced her: sometimes at Donwell Abbey, sometimes in her home at Delaford, once even at the great house where she had spent her childhood. Nightmares, ghastly as they were, Marianne could accept as the price of what she had done.

Yet memory and menace did not only haunt her slumber; they claimed her waking hours as well, and in a fashion she could neither govern nor understand. If one of the servants appeared unexpectedly in a hallway, in that first instant of motion—before the person and his purpose had been recognized—Marianne was thunderstruck with terror, so much so that she paled and grew dizzy. Any sudden loud noise could make her cower or even shriek. The same symptoms happened at other moments, too, in response to anything, everything, she knew not what. She might go days without a single instance, and believe herself improving; then the next day would fell her two, three, four times, sometimes even more.

Worst of all were the moments where her vision went almost black and Marianne believed herself—for but an instant—to be back at Donwell Abbey. The fear that gripped her then was every bit as piercing as it had been at the moment of extremity; it could take several minutes for sense and truth to again penetrate her thoughts.

Marianne wondered at times if she was going mad. Her husband and family all assured her she was not, but she could tell that they spoke to comfort her, not from a thorough consideration of her condition. They hoped for her improvement, and so she was determined to have hope as well.

Her husband of less than one year, Colonel Christopher Brandon, was on that morning readying himself for a journey into the village of Barton. Marianne knew he wished for her to join him but would not urge her to do so before she felt ready. He was taking unusually long with his preparations, to give her time to summon her courage. She would need more time than this.

I must go into Barton eventually, she thought. No one could hide within Delaford forever. (Marianne had considered this s

eriously enough to have determined its utter impossibility.)

Thus far, she had kept to her home, or to the parsonage inhabited by her sister Elinor and her husband, Edward Ferrars, or to Barton Cottage, where her mother and younger sister, Margaret, dwelled. Marianne had entertained visits from their neighbor, Sir John Middleton, and his lively mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings…but had only once been invited to their home; and when she had mustered the courage to accept, had been welcomed by Sir John’s wife, Lady Middleton, with the bare minimum of civility. If that was the reception she could expect among friends, what could she anticipate from the rest of the village?

Beyond all that—what if one of her spells came upon her in public, when all could observe her? The townspeople would certainly consider her a madwoman forever after, and Marianne could not swear they would be wrong.

Brandon finally spoke. “I shall not be long. Miss Williams has not entirely settled into her new establishment; she will not wish to entertain guests.”

How long Marianne had wished to be introduced to Beth! It now seemed likely that introduction might never take place. Beth Williams had long been Brandon’s ward, and popular supposition in the neighborhood held that she was Brandon’s illegitimate child. Marianne knew the truth of the matter. Beth’s mother was, indeed, Brandon’s long-dead, long-lost love, Eliza. However, he was not her father; he had undertaken Beth’s care as the natural extension of his love for Eliza, the fulfillment of the promise he had made to her upon her deathbed. He had done all except give Beth the family name, which, had he done so, would have given strength to the few scurrilous rumors that claimed her to be his natural child. Instead, he had bestowed upon the little girl her mother’s maiden name—one more way in which he could honor the late Eliza.

No, Beth’s father had been revealed as the late George Wickham—the man Marianne had murdered.

She thought, Etiquette has nothing to say about such an introduction as that, I sh

ould imagine.

---

On the other side of the village, at Barton Cottage, that murder, and the fate of she who had committed it, was indeed being discussed—but with more compassion than Marianne had granted herself. No less could be expected from her mother and sisters.

“Wicked!” Mrs. Dashwood insisted as she stabbed at her embroidery such that her needle seemed a weapon. “It is nothing short of wickedness to condemn a woman for defending her virtue against such a man.”

Elinor Dashwood Ferrars sat with some discomfort on the settee nearest her mother. This was no judgment upon the settee; Elinor expected to become a mother within but a few weeks, and this condition could not be made comfortable by any seat in Christendom. “No one has condemned Marianne, Mama. People are curious, and though their curiosity is undeniably morbid, it is also understandable

.”

“If people are unkind to her, I do not know how Marianne shall bear it,” Mrs. Dashwood insisted. “She endures so much already. How the memory pains her!”

“Marianne never used to care what anybody thought,” said the youngest Dashwood sister, Margaret, who was struggling to knit a tiny shoe for her niece- or nephew-to-be. “She said small minds were worth no notice.”

“Indeed they are not,” Elinor said, “but none of us can entirely divorce ourselves from the society in which we live. One cannot let one’s actions be dictated by the cruelest and most foolish among us, but one must equally accept that our reputations precede us, whether just or unjust.”

Mrs. Dashwood shook her head in wonder. “Your rationality sometimes takes you beyond normal feeling, Elinor.”

“Not so, Mama. I feel Marianne’s plight most keenly. Yet what any of us feels will not change the realities of the situation.”

“Then how are we to help her?” Margaret asked. “We must do something.”

“We will speak the truth to all who will hear,” said Mrs. Dashwood.

Elinor privately thought that a great many would wish to hear, though their interest would be more a matter of gossip than justice. But if the former could serve the latter, so be it.

---

The village of Barton had been Marianne’s home for less than three years. She had spent all her earlier life at Norland Park, the great house in Sussex where she and her sisters had been born. In accordance with law and custom, they had been forced to leave after their father’s death in order to make way for John—their elder brother, product of her father’s first marriage—and his wife, Fanny. John and Fanny had been wealthy even before the laws of inheritance, which so favored sons above daughters, delivered Norland into their keeping.

Would it have been easier, facing people I had known all my life? Marianne wondered as she stood at the window of her sitting room, which looked out upon the grounds and, at the very distance, the turnpike road. People who had more experience to judge me by, rather than only these past few years—most of which I spent making a fool of myself for the sake of John Willoughby.

Willoughby had swept into her life the very image of a romantic hero, courting her with all the spirit and emotion a young woman of sensibility could have wished. Everyone had assumed the two of them to be destined for the altar, to the point that Marianne had already begun daydreaming about the furnishings she would buy for Allenham, the greater of the two houses Willoughby would own.

Then he had left her with almost no explanation. His vagueness spurred her hopes more than her caution, for Marianne’s trust in Willoughby had been complete. So it had been all the crueler when she discovered that he had abandoned her to marry a Miss Sophia Grey, who had a dowry of fifty thousand pounds.

Worst of all: he had felt compelled to do so because his aunt had threatened to disinherit him after learning that he had dallied with a young girl of the village and left her expecting his child.

That girl was none other than Beth Williams. Brandon had taken the insult to his ward gravely. There was no telling which of the three of them wanted to see Willoughby the least.

But Miss Tilney would arrive in three days’ time. Then Marianne would have the consolation of friendship, and with someone who had been at Donwell and truly understood. Until then, she would have to endure.

Yet fate rarely contents itself with giving us but one burden to bear at any given mom

ent. Usually, it is far more generous. So it was with Marianne, for as she watched the turnpike road, she glimpsed a carriage she recognized—a fine one, finer than any other in the village of Barton. Once it had belonged to Mrs. Smith, Willoughby’s aunt and the owner of the Allenham estate not so very far away.

Five weeks ago, not long after the Brandons’ return from Surrey, Mrs. Smith had passed away. All that she had ever owned now belonged to John Willoughby.

He and his wife have come to claim the estate, Marianne thought, her heart sinking further. Willoughby has returned.

---

The village of Barton was filled with its usual clatter-clamor—rattling carriage wheels, clopping hooves, the squeak and splash of a water pump, a fiddle’s tune floating down from the rooms above a woodworker’s shop. Colonel Brandon noted that all the persons he passed met his eye, acknowledged his presence, even smiled as they generally did…but a sense of distance marked every interaction. It would take more time yet for the villagers to accept the truth of what his wife had been forced to do.

His destination was a small but well-appointed house not far from the village square. As Colonel Brandon approached on horseback, one of the new-hired servants emerged, a widow of the parish who had an excellent reputation as a nursemaid. This was fortunate, as many respectable servants might have declined work in a household that was not quite respectable itself.

In her arms was a little boy, not yet two years old, whose fair wispy hair ruffled in the breeze as he blinked up at Brandon.

“He’s having a lovely day today,” the nursemaid confirmed as Brandon dismounted. “Our mouser had kittens a few weeks ago, and how our little Georgie loves to watch them. Soon they’ll be able to play with him, though I don’t like to think what will happen if he gets scratched.”

Brandon smiled down at the boy, who smiled back. “He will learn to take care. How is Miss Williams?”

The nursemaid’s enthusiasm dimmed very slightly. “She’s in one of her moods. Keeping to her tasks, mind you, and spending time with her wee baby, but…well, you’ll see for yourself.”

Beth was so like her mother, Eliza, in both good ways and bad. When Brandon entered the house, he found her sitting not in the parlor but in the kitchen, wearing an old calico dress appropriate only for working in the home. She leaned upon the broad table with floury hands, 

taring at what appeared to be a bowlful of dough, covered with cloth, in hopes that it would rise.

Although she did not stand to meet him, her mouth quirked in what was almost a smile. “Did you come to warn me, Colonel? Or to console me after I heard the crushing news?”

“I know not to what you refer.”

“Why, Mr. John Willoughby of Allenham has returned to Barton at last—quite some time since he promised he would return, and, as it happens, he returns with his new wife. She is reported to be lovely and elegant, and very unlikely to be found baking bread in a kitchen.”

Her humor would have reassured most. Brandon knew Beth well enough to understand that, for her, wit was often a way to conceal feelings she did not wish to express. Yet to press her further upon the subject would only put an end to the wit while deepening the concealment. “Has your cook left you? I can recommend another, or the bakery across town—”

“You mean, I should be sitting on a refined chair, doing some refined embroidery, thinking only of refined things, as I have become a young woman of property. Society claims that gaining respectability is more than a matter of wealth, but it appears that wealth assists greatly in the endeavor.” Beth was, indeed, in one of her moods—but it appeared her future troubled her as much as her past. “When I lived in a farmhouse, I wished to be a fashionable creature who lived in a town and had little to do. I have realized these ambitions, and what do I find I actually wish to do? I wish to bake bread.”

“You are an excellent baker.” Brandon had enjoyed her rolls, pies, and the like since she first began baking as a child. How often she had delighted in making treats for him on his visits! The role of ward had ever had its complications, but when Beth had been smaller, the task had been easier—and, in truth, one of the great joys of his life. Since her misadventure with Mr. Willoughby, all had become less forthright, more fraught.

She said, “That explains it, then. I like baking because it is a skill I have acquired. I do not like dressing up in my finery and being elegant because those are skills I have not yet so much as begun to acquire.”

“It will come to you in time.” He had arrived at the point of his errand, and as surely as he believed he was doing something for the benefit of both those involved, he found it difficult to speak the words. “I have long intended to ask you—would you welcome an introduction to my wife? She would be an excellent model in all such things, and Mrs. Brandon has been very eager to make your acquaintance.”

Brandon hoped such an introduction would distract Marianne and engage her interest. He was proud of his wife’s fair-minded nature, and while friendship between the two women would be impossible, given their different spheres, he knew neither Beth’s own illegitimacy nor that of her child would be held against her by Marianne, even though most women in polite society shunned Beth.

But she did not respond with eagerness; instead, she immediately acquired a far greater interest in cleaning the floury table. “I would not think of imposing.”

“It is no imposition.”

“It would be, and she cannot be properly entertained here. No, it is impossible at present.”

Her tone of voice told him that he should not ask why.

Beth did not wish

to meet Marianne. Did she blame his wife for what she had been forced to do to Mr. Wickham? As incomprehensible as Brandon found this, Beth was clearly in no mood to be argued with, and—for the moment—her refusal must be accepted. 

Pemberley had horses and carriages enough for each member of the family to travel independently. Jonathan was grateful for that, as traveling by post coach would involve extra hours, all of which would be spent in close proximity to strangers, and the opportunity for any number of unforeseen situations. Jonathan liked order and predictability; he did not care for strangers, particularly ones who tried to look him in the eye.

But even strangers seemed preferable to the acquaintances he would encounter at the end of his journey.

Three of them had been invited. Jonathan himself—chosen for reasons he could scarcely guess, given how little liked he had been by his schoolmates.

Next came Ralph Bamber, of a wealthy family in Dorset, one year Jonathan’s elder. His ginger hair and freckles had made him a victim of teasing nearly as vicious as that faced by Jonathan himself. They also came in at the top of their classes in marks together; that ought to have made them allies. When they were alone, in fact, Bamber was always fair, even cordial. Yet when others tormented and ridiculed Jonathan, Bamber never failed to laugh.

Then there was Laurence Follett, a proud Londoner a couple of years older than Bamber. His family was not as wealthy as many of those whose sons attended the school, but the deficiency was not enough to hold him back socially, given his dark good looks and ready wit. This wit had often been employed in finding creative new insults to hurl at Jonathan, and once or twice, when they were younger, the punishments had been physical as well as verbal. No one had thought the less of Follett for it; if anything, mocking Jonathan had further enhanced Follett’s standing.

Follett, however, had not been the worst of those who bullied Jonathan. That distinguisher belonged to the eldest of the four men coming together for this party, their host, who said he wished for them to help him celebrate the new house he had just inherited, a fine estate in Devonshire known as Allenham.

Jonathan could not help wondering yet again: What can John Willoughby want with me?

 

Chapter Two

In his letter of invitation, Willoughby had told Jonathan Darcy only that his aunt had very recently died, leaving him a great house named Allenham; the gathering of old school friends was to celebrate this inheritance. To Jonathan this seemed remarkably like celebrating his aunt’s death, which went against both propriety and Christian feeling. Usually, when individuals behaved in ways that seemed to defy society’s rules, Jonathan attempted to puzzle out why. In this case, however, he could not wonder at it. Willoughby had lacked all proper feeling as a boy, so it was hardly surprising that this remained true in his adulthood.

“Almost there, sir!” the driver called. Jonathan thumped on the carriage door to indicate that he had heard and understood. He looked at the view beyond the window, mildly curious to see Allenham itself, but as yet the carriage was still traveling through gentle, rolling countryside. The road was unusually rough, and Jonathan felt a moment’s gratitude that he was able to make the journey in his family’s own comfortable carriage. How wretched the trip would be by post coach, he could only guess.

---

 

“Ow!” Juliet Tilney winced as her head knocked against the door. “Will they not go any slower?”

One of her fellow passengers in the stagecoach—a woman carrying two clucking hens within a crate—chuckled at her. “ ’Twould only put them even further behind than they already are.”

Juliet’s stomach turned over treacherously. She had been jostled from one side to another, back and forth and up and down, for many hours at this point. The small watch she wore pinned to her pelisse suggested that she still had at least an hour to go before reaching Delaford. If they ran into another muddy stretch or a flock of obstinate sheep, salvation and stillness might be even further away.

Her father said that prayer should be a testament to devotion, not mere begging. But Juliet could not help the inward voice that said, Please, O Lord, let the coach arrive as soon as possible.

The stagecoach bumped again, to the groans of the passengers and the cackling of the hens. Musty brown feathers fluttered though the air, and one caught on Juliet’s skirt.

And please help me to arrive before I look to have been tarred and feathered.

---

Delaford, like some other great estates of such considerable age, was enclosed by a wall; between wall and house had been planted a multitude of trees to provide ample shade, fruits and nuts in season, and a sort of respite between the tumult of the outer world and the occasional tumult of the inner. Brandon had always been glad of this place, and from boyhood had been drawn to it whenever his spirits were troubled—as they could not fail to be, upon his learning of Willoughby’s return.

Brandon and Willoughby had last met on a dueling field. Both men emerged with their lives, but Brandon had passionately hoped never to see the man again. This desire was held both for the sake of the woman for whose honor he had fought—the unfortunate Miss Williams—and for the woman whom he and Willoughby both loved.

Whom Brandon had married, whom Willoughby might love still.

During the tumultuous days at Donwell Abbey—when Brandon had all but known of his wife’s guilt, and it had seemed as though a noose were being drawn tight around them both—he had accidentally found a letter from Willoughby among Marianne’s things. Although he did not stoop to reading its entire contents, the mere existence of such a letter indicated Willoughby’s claim of an enduring passion for Marianne, as well as his strong desire to be alone with her once again.

Brandon had left the letter where it was and had never mentioned it to Marianne. They had been bearing far heavier burdens at that time, and there had been no point in increasing them through such a discussion. Besides, he knew his wife’s character well enough to be assured that she had never so much as contemplated writing a reply.

What he did not know was how she would react once she and Willoughby were reunited.

What I believed Willoughby to be, you truly are, Marianne had said to him, professing her love for her husband in warmer, more heartfelt words than he had ever dreamed he might hear. Yet who could say how being with Willoughby again would influence her? Even if she had come to love Brandon—did it necessarily follow that she could not still love Willoughby as well? Brandon carried in his heart both his true affection for Marianne and the embers of feeling for his long-dead Eliza, so he knew better than most that the spirit can contain more than one passion and that those passions could contradict without ever overcoming each other.

Demanding answers

of Marianne would do no good, as he suspected her confusion in the matter rivaled his own. There was nothing to be done upon Willoughby’s return but to wait, and watch, and see.

---

Allenham was an imposing house, one of the largest in the vicinity, handsomely situated atop a hill. Most observers were greatly struck with its size and beauty; some were intimidated, as evidence of wealth introduces an element of fear into human relationships—one which is difficult to acknowledge, and speaks well neither of wealth nor humanity, but cannot be denied.

This did not affect Jonathan Darcy, who, as a lifelong resident of Pemberley, was unlikely to be overawed by any structure save for a palace. His sanguine appraisal of the house did little to assuage his fears of the visit to follow. Nor did the appearance of John Willoughby striding across the lawn to greet Jonathan, with both Ralph Bamber and Laurence Follett behind him. The smiles on their faces were too familiar for the wrong reasons.

“Thumps! Here you are at last!” Willoughby slapped Jonathan’s shoulder by way of greeting, and only with great difficulty did Jonathan manage not to cringe from the unexpected, unwelcome touch or from the nickname he so disliked. “About time you arrived.”

“This is the hour I indicated in my letter,” Jonathan pointed out.

The three men all laughed; he had been funny without meaning to be, again. Jonathan despised this circumstance, which was unfortunate, as he found himself in it quite often. ...

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