The Late Mrs. Willoughby

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 seriously 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 should imagine.