Who Needs Mr Willoughby? (35 page)

“How is your daughter Lacey, colonel?” Elinor asked in an effort to ease the tension. “Is she joining us?”

“No. She’s not feeling well, unfortunately. I know she regrets missing the opportunity to see you all again.”

There was an awkward silence. Marianne shot Matthew a questioning glance, unsure if Colonel Brandon knew about Lacey’s recent exploits. He inclined his head, very slightly.

“Tell me, Elinor,” Matthew’s father said, and laid his napkin aside and indicated that their plates be removed. “How do you find your stay at Barton Cottage?”

She smiled. “I like it, very much. It’s quiet, and remote, but I confess that both circumstances suit me.”

“Then it seems we have something in common.”

Marianne sipped her wine. Why, she brooded as the conversation went on around her, had she wasted even one minute of time regretting her behaviour at Greensprings last night? Matthew Brandon had deliberately made her feel gauche and self-concious. She refused to feel badly for one minute longer for leading him on – unintentionally or not.

He
deserved
that cold shower he’d mentioned earlier.

A servant returned with a tureen and began to serve the soup, ladling out a steaming, lemon-scented broth with tiny meatballs into each of their bowls.

“Oh, my! Greek wedding soup,” Mrs Holland exclaimed after everyone had been served. “It smells delicious.”

“It is. It was one of my late wife’s favourites,” Brandon replied.

“Oh. And was she Greek, then?”

“She was.” He offered nothing more.

Marianne eyed Matthew, his head bent over his soup bowl, in surreptitious consideration. Greek?
That went some way to explaining his dark hair and temper, no doubt.

So intent was she with her thoughts that a drop of soup tipped from her spoon and plopped onto her dress. “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered, and laid her napkin aside.

“What’s wrong, dear?” her mother asked.

“I’ve spilt soup on my dress.” She glanced up at Colonel Brandon. “Is there somewhere I might go to try and scrub it out?”

“Of course.” He turned to the young man standing by the door. “Show Miss Holland to the powder room, Robert.”

He nodded. “This way, miss.”

She scraped her chair back and, ignoring Matthew’s sardonic grey gaze upon her, followed the footman out of the dining room and into the hallway.

“The bathroom’s here.” He indicated a door just outside a baize door that – she assumed – led to the kitchen. “Shall I wait?”

Marianne blushed. “Lord, no. I think I can manage to find my way back to the dining room on my own. Thank you just the same.”

He bowed and returned to his post in the dining room.

She waited until he’d gone, then went inside the bathroom and closed the door. Although she rubbed at the spot with a dampened hand towel, the stain refused to budge. Her pretty silk dress was a lost cause.

After washing her hands and laying the towel by the sink, Marianne re-emerged. Voices echoed from the other side of the baize door that led to the kitchen, along with the clanging of pots and pans. A variety of delicious scents – beef and roasted pheasant among them – drifted out as well.

“– wedding’s tomorrow, you know. Such a quick affair for a couple who only just met a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes, it makes one wonder, doesn’t it?”

Titters followed the comment.

With a quick glance in the direction of the dining room, Marianne paused outside the door and listened, unabashedly eavesdropping.

“That’s enough gossip, now, girls. Get back to work.”

She recognised Mrs Deane’s voice. Who, she wondered with a frown, was getting married tomorrow? Who was it they spoke of? Curious, she leaned nearer the door.

“I do hope his marriage works out better than poor Mr Matthew’s engagement did,” a young woman said. “He was gutted when Lady Philippa dumped him.”

“He ’ad a near escape, if you ask me,” someone else said with a sniff.

“No one did, Betty,” Mrs Deane retorted. “Now get that beef sliced and laid out on the platter, or I’ll give you the sack, so I will.”

“Who’s he marrying, then?” came another, younger voice.

“Who?”

“What do you mean, ‘who’?” came the impatient reply. “Willoughby, of course. Who’s the lucky bride-to-be?”

Marianne froze.

“Don’t you know anything?” Betty retorted. “He’s marrying Miss Sophia Grey at that posh estate of his, Cum Magna. She’s pretty enough, I suppose, with all of them blonde curls; but full of herself, from what I hear, and not as what
I’d
call properly beautiful.”

“No,” Mrs Deane seconded. “I have to agree with you there, Betty. Still – she’s worth over six hundred thousand pounds. And I daresay that adds considerably to her beauty in Kit Willoughby’s eyes.”

A burst of giggles and guffaws followed her words.

Marianne, the soup stain quite forgotten, stood rooted to the spot in shock. Was it true? Was Kit to be married to someone else, and
tomorrow –
?

No. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t fathom it. She refused to believe it. Yet according to Mrs Deane, he was set to marry Miss Grey.

“She’s worth over six hundred thousand pounds.”

The door opened then as Mrs Deane pushed through, a gravy boat in her hand and a platter of roasted potatoes in the other. She came up short as she caught sight of Marianne.

“Oh. Miss Holland.” She let out a nervous laugh. “You fair gave me a start, standing there.” She eyed the girl and added doubtfully, “Are you all right, miss?”

Blindly, not caring that the skies had darkened and turned nearly black outside, Marianne turned away without replying and hurried across the entrance hall to the front door.

I have to get out of here
, she thought.
I have to get away before I shatter into a million pieces
…

Ignoring Mrs Deane, who called out after her in consternation, she flung the door open – the wind nearly snatched it from her hands – and stumbled down the steps and across the rain-swept lawn, and began, without conscious thought or destination, to walk.

Chapter 50

Marianne’s steps led her eventually to a grassy slope at the eastern end of the property. As she began to climb the hill, the wind rose and caught at her hair, and the first, fat drops of rain fell against her face. She barely noticed. She had no thought for anything but tomorrow’s wedding, or anyone but Willoughby.

“He’s marrying Miss Sophia Grey at Cum Magna.”

Her breath came at an effort as she finally crested the hill. The sky had gone a peculiar shade of green and the thunder she’d heard off in the distance earlier sounded much closer now. Marianne knew she should turn back and seek shelter at Delaford; but she was incapable of moving.

The sight of Willoughby’s estate, Cum Magna, held her rooted to the spot.

Every window in the great house below blazed forth with light. A number of cars and catering vans were parked on the estate; a marquee was erected on the back lawn, and preparations for the wedding ceremony were already underway.

“Leave the rest of the marquees for tomorrow,” she heard a man shout. “The wind’s kicking up too much just now.”

“Aye. Hope the weather improves a bit by then.”

Whatever else they said was torn away by the wind.

So it was true, Marianne realised dazedly. Willoughby was to be married tomorrow. He was to be married to Miss Sophia Grey…

“My sweet Marianne…I adore you.”

Images of the tree house, of embraces and kisses and conversations shared with Willoughby, crowded her thoughts. Memories of the first night they’d met besieged her – his handsome face, dripping with rain, his blue eyes filled only with concern for her; his strong arms lifting her, carrying her as if he held a most delicate and precious thing – and a cry of anguish tore from her throat.

“Kit,” she whispered as she stared, stricken, at the brilliantly lit estate below her, “oh, Kit, why have you done this to me? Why did you leave me? Did I mean so little to you?”

As the rain fell in earnest and lightning seared the sky, Marianne collapsed, and crumpled into an unconscious heap on the breast of the wet, grassy slope.

***

As Mrs Deane brought in a platter bearing slices of beef five minutes later, followed by Betty with the pheasant, Colonel Brandon frowned.

“Is something wrong, sir?” the cook asked as she set the platter down.

“I was wondering what’s become of Miss Holland. She left to get a spot out of her dress, but that was some time ago.”

“Yes, it was,” Mrs Holland agreed, and glanced at the door. “She ought to have returned by now.”

The colonel turned to the footman. “Did you show her to the powder room, Robert?”

“I did, sir. I offered to wait but she told me it wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh, I can tell you exactly where she went,” Mrs Deane said. “When I came out of the kitchen to bring out the gravy boat, the young lady was stood just outside the doorway. She looked upset. I asked her was anything wrong, but she just turned and went out of the front door, real fast like.”

Elinor looked at her, perplexed. “But why would she go outside, and in this weather? There’s a storm coming. Marianne’s terrified of lightning.”

“Did she say anything?” Matthew asked Mrs Deane, and leaned forward. “Did she indicate where she was going?”

She shook her head. “Not a word. I thought she must be going outside to fetch sommat – a wrap, perhaps – from the car. I didn’t realise she’d not come back.”

“It’s at least fifteen minutes since she left,” Mrs Holland fretted. “Oh, dear – now I’m really worried.”

“What were the two of you talking about in the kitchen?” Colonel Brandon asked the cook. “Perhaps Miss Holland overheard something, a bit of conversation that upset her –?”

Mrs Deane’s face went red. “Well, I’m not one to gossip, normally, sir, but…well, Betty and I were talking about Mr Willoughby’s wedding tomorrow. Just amongst ourselves, you understand. But why should news of a country wedding upset the girl –?”

Elinor went pale. “Mr Willoughby’s getting married?”

“Yes, tomorrow, at Cum Magna.” She looked at the girl in surprise. “I thought everyone hereabouts knew that.”

“We seldom go into Endwhistle,” Mrs Holland said. Her face was ashen. “This is quite a shock.”

Matthew thrust his chair back. “That’s where she’s gone,” he said, his words grim as he flung his napkin down. “I’ve no doubt Marianne went to Cum Magna. Don’t wait dinner for me.”

Elinor half rose, her face etched with worry. “Let me go with you. Perhaps I can help.”

“No, Miss Holland,” Matthew said firmly, “it’s too dark and treacherous, and the wind’s kicked up. I’d much prefer it if you’d stay here, where it’s warm, and safe.”

“He’s right,” his father agreed, and moved to get up. “I’ll get a flashlight,” he told his son. “I’m coming along.”

“No. Stay with our guests,” Matthew said over his shoulder as he made his way to the door. “I’ll be back with Marianne as soon as I can,” he promised her mother. “I’ll bring her back safely.”

“Thank you,” she called after him. “Please…be careful out there. And please,” she added, and fought back the fear that rose up in her chest “– please bring my daughter back.”

He didn’t reply, but strode across the entrance hall to the front door and left, leaving the door open behind him.

***

The wind was sharp in his face and rain stung his eyes as Matthew ran to the Land Rover and slid behind the wheel. He knew he’d find Marianne sooner rather than later if he drove straight around to the eastern end of the property. As a jagged streak of lightning cracked across the sky, he shifted into gear with renewed urgency. No one was safe walking across the fields in this weather. Time was of the essence.

The sky was black and the truck’s headlights pierced the darkness, bouncing over hedgerows and tree trunks as he raced down the rutted drive. The windscreen wipers struggled to keep up with the onslaught of rain.

Matthew scowled. Damn Kit Willoughby to hell and back.

This was all his doing, every last bit of it. And if anything should happen to Marianne, he vowed grimly, he’d hold Willoughby personally accountable and make him sorry for ever hurting her.

He’d brought the sheep in for the night, at least. Emily and the rest were safe and warm; there’d be no chasing wayward sheep across the fields on the quad bike tonight. He needed only to find Marianne and bring her back to Delaford unharmed.

Images of her, laughing, glaring at him, crying in her car when she’d lost out on the job at the clinic, troubled him now. Marianne Holland had got under his skin. He didn’t know how it had happened, or when; but her happiness and safekeeping mattered to him now.

The realisation surprised him. He’d not felt an ounce of caring for anyone – or anything, really – since Philippa ended things between them so abruptly.

But he had the clinic, and Emily and the rest of the animals to take care of, and that was enough.

Until Marianne traipsed into his life, walking along the road in those kitten-heeled shoes of hers, and proceeded to turn his life upside down. He enjoyed sparring with her every morning at the clinic. He liked pissing her off by calling her handbag a ‘purse’ and looked forward to their lunches at the pub or in the clinic kitchenette with an anticipation he thought he’d lost forever.

The truck rumbled over the cattle grid as he turned onto the dirt road that divided Cum Magna from Delaford. He jolted the truck to a stop and got out, slamming the door behind him as he made his way up the steep slope that overlooked Willoughby’s estate.

Rain lashed his face as he climbed past outcroppings of rock. He lost his footing several times in the mud, but regained his balance and pushed upwards. His clothing was soaked through and muddy and his breathing came hard and fast, but he scarcely noticed. Nothing mattered but finding Marianne and returning her safely to her mother and sister.

Another crack of lightning lit the sky as he neared the top of the hill. “Marianne!” he shouted.

He saw her then, lying in a heap on the grass, unmoving. Her face was a pale blur, and her hair was matted into a wet tangle.