Beginning, Section II

Chapter 8 -- Resolution

Posted on Saturday, 1 December 2007

September 1807

One autumn day, nearly a year after Willoughby’s death, pretty Mrs Cockrell walked into the shop, accompanied by a girl about nine years old and a small child just learning to walk. The boy was holding on tightly to his mother and his sister. With her mother's help, the girl hoisted the little one onto the shop counter and proudly announced, “Do you know my baby brother, Mr Ellison? His name is Benny!”

When Ellison looked at Mrs Cockrell for confirmation, she nodded slightly and smiled.

Turning back to the girl, he said, “He is a fine baby, Miss Betsy. I see that you are very proud of him, and rightly so! He is big, and is already walking! He looks very much like you, doesn't he?”

“Yes, he does. We had the same father, you know. Of course, our real father is our Papa. I don't know the other one, and Benny doesn't either. Do you know our Papa, Mr Ellison?”

As Betsy chattered away, Robert Cockrell entered the shop with the rest of his family, two girls about fourteen and sixteen, and two small boys. With real pleasure, the two men shook hands.

“It is good to see you, Cockrell," Ellison said. "I rarely have the pleasure of seeing your entire family at one time. They are all handsome, and I am sure they do you great credit. The eldest is already a beauty, and her sister is about to become one as well, I see. Your younger daughter is quite the young mother, isn't she. She has already introduced me to her baby brother. And the two young men -- Master Robby and Master Tommy, I believe -- I see they favour you both in equal measure.”

Robert responded in kind, and thanked him for the compliments to his family.

As Mrs Cockrell and the children browsed the shop’s wares, Ellison dropped his joviality and spoke sincerely in a quieter voice. “I am happy to see that poor Miss Gormley's babe has a home with you and is thriving. What promised to be a tragedy has turned into a blessing for you, the child, and the grandfather. I used to know Gormley quite well, and I know the loss of his daughter was a blow from which he has still never really recovered.”

Robert said, “He comes to visit us on occasion, to play with his grandson. He never says much, but I think it comforts him to know that in a way his girl lives on, in someone else's care.”

That same evening, after the last customer had left, a man walked in alone. Ellison looked up and reached his hand across the counter. “Mr Godfrey. It was you all along, was it not?”

“Yes. When did you realise it?”

“Some time after Delaford church. I realised my tormentor must be a man who had been present at the inquest into Willoughby's death, and also someone connected with Delaford. I saw you in the church that Sunday of the Cain and Abel sermon. I thought little of it at the time, because I knew you were a Delaford man. After what you had recounted to us of your dealings with Willoughby, I was happy to see that you retained sufficient spirit or hope -- or something -- that you preferred coming to church to doing away with yourself over the money.”

“Oh, as to that, Colonel Brandon assisted me with a claim in connexion with the horse, that I was able to pursue successfully against Willoughby's estate,” Godfrey said. “I was able to recoup much of my loss and saved my farm. My wife reconciled with me, and I now consider that the damage that Willoughby did -- that I allowed him to do -- has been repaired. My outlook on life is much more sanguine than when you and I last spoke, and I felt that I owed something.”

“You put Ferrars up to that sermon, didn't you?”

“No, I swear I did not. Of course I knew that the church was in dire need of repainting, but I never mentioned it, nor you, to the parson.

“I will admit I was as surprised as you must have been at his choice of the topic,” Godfrey said. “But Ferrars is an intelligent and insightful person. I have no doubt but that he felt the need to preach about crime and redemption in the aftermath of Willoughby's demise, and that perhaps he even wondered whether it really was misadventure, despite having helped so much to bring about that determination. And you happened to hear that sermon, although it was not particularly intended for you.”

They touched upon Ellison's charity to the widow and the schoolboy.

Godfrey allowed a pregnant pause. “I could still denounce you, of course.”

A smile slowly spread across Ellison's face. “No, Godfrey, you could not. Your opportunity to do that has passed.”

The other man looked his question.

“It is simple," Ellison said. "No one would believe you. You were part of that inquest. You heard me state my grievance against Willoughby and knew the power of my motive for killing him. And although you knew something further against me that would absolutely have sealed my fate and led me to be hanged as a murderer, yet you told no one,” he said emphasising his words. “No one would believe you now, because you said nothing then.

“In fact, they could easily be brought to believe that you did it. True, I did shove and kick him from behind, but I don't know that I left him dead or dying. He might have gotten up and saved himself.

“In fact, you may have made your own contribution to his unfortunate end," Ellison said. "After all, your motive was as strong as mine. He had ruined your life and family, and you held his guarantee, which he most wrongfully refused to honour during his lifetime. After his death, it was a simple thing to put forth your legal claim, and with the Colonel's backing, you must have known that you would not be turned away. Your financial salvation was also the means to reunite your family, as you must have known it would.

“The more I think on it, the more likely it seems that it was you, not I, who killed him.

“So you see, if you accused me, I could simply turn the accusation against you.

“And in such an event I would have a further advantage, much of which I owe to you, Godfrey. Thanks to certain good works, which I have performed modestly and without drawing attention to myself, but which nevertheless are popularly attributed to me, I am very well respected in this town. Those good works were at first compelled by you, although later I came to know the inherent satisfaction of doing good deeds. Among my friends and admirers are the kindly and perspicacious Mr Ferrars and Colonel Brandon of Delaford, the rector of St Mary's, and even the minister of the Congregationalist chapel on Whitcombe road, where my wife often attends.

“Of course, I have long been known as an honest merchant and one who gives good value," Ellison continued. "And I do not demand every pound of flesh to which I am entitled. Like every merchant in the high street, no doubt, I have suffered a few instances of petty theft from my shop, but I always settle them privately and have never claimed the protection that the law would give me against thievery. No doubt I have learned to pity my fellow man even more as the result of my suffering at Willoughby's hands,” he added with a wry smile.

“In short, Godfrey, I am not afraid of you. At one time I was, when I received your first anonymous note and expected that you were going to bleed me. I will freely admit that. When I began to understand that you merely intended to persuade me to the benevolence which I ought to have been practising in any event, I admired your benevolence at the same time I ceased to fear you.

“Nevertheless, I must say now that I am disappointed in you," Ellison said. "You took your name too seriously. You thought to play at being God, by manipulating me into being a better person than I was. Perhaps it satisfied some desire for control, after Willoughby had stripped you of your dignity, your livelihood and even your family. But you were no more than the unmoved mover. You did not do any actual good yourself, where you could have done so. You could have multiplied the good that you induced me to do, by doing positive good yourself.

“In the future, I hope to see you do better. In fact, I believe that I may see the way to influence you to do so. After all, I know you were there that night on the Delaford road also. Your means and motivation were similar to my own.

“You are vulnerable, Godfrey. For your own good, you ought to do what you can to earn the good will of your fellows. You know as well as I do that it is never too late to charge a man with murder, unless he has already been tried and acquitted of it. Although I am not in that fortunate position, neither are you.

“Blackmail is a game that sometimes two can play,” Ellison finished. “As I said, I am not afraid of you.”

The interrelated Brandon, Ferrars and Cockrell families were enjoying one of their frequent loosely organised gatherings. As always, there were many more children than adults. There were three Brandon children and three Ferrars children, all younger than Betsy. Little Molly Brandon had adopted Benny Cockrell as her favourite cousin. He had earned her favour by supplanting her as the baby. She was teaching him to walk and encouraged him whenever he fell over, not that he needed to be encouraged in that way. He was a curious child and reveled in the wider world he could reach as the result of his newly acquired mobility.

The three families nearly always gathered at Delaford house. It was large and had plenty of rooms and gardens. On this particular lazy afternoon, the gardens were too wet for comfort, and the party were all indoors. The youngest children were dozing, and the middle ones were playing at whatever interested them. The adults were drinking tea and talking.

Mimi, of course, was the oldest child. In that confined country society she was considered to be “out” -- attending assemblies under the watchful eyes of her parents, dancing with boys they all knew, giggling with girls of the neighbourhood, seeking independence while clinging to the security of her parents. She had all but forgotten that awful day a year earlier, when a stranger had tried to kiss her and she had fought him off. This afternoon, she wandered between the play of the older children and the conversation of the adults. She knew they did not mind, but she was not always interested in their discussions. Eventually she settled with the children, taking turns with Libby in reading to them.

The six adults were alone when Robert mentioned that he had recently seen Mr Ellison in his shop in Church street for the first time since the inquest a year earlier. “Perhaps it as not the first time since then, though. Once I thought I saw him at Delaford church, soon after the new whitewashing. But when I looked for him after the service I didn't see him, so I must have been mistaken.”

Edward replied, “Perhaps not, Robert. The day I preached about Cain and Abel, I saw him sitting in the back pew. But he slipped out before the service finished, or I would have thanked him again for painting the church.”

“He did that?” asked James in surprise. “I would not have imagined he had any interest in the concerns of Delaford. He seems strictly a man of the town.”

Robert nodded and said, “When I saw him the other day in his shop, he happened to say something about Benny and Miss Gormley that made me think of Willoughby. I had not thought of him for many months, and Eliza and I never speak of him.”

“That is an odd coincidence, Robert, “ said Edward. “Because in fact it was Mr Ellison who paid for whitewashing Delaford church. At the time, he was most anxious not to be associated with that, and I honored his request

“But I have begun to wonder. Were we wrong, when in the inquest we accepted that Willoughby died through misadventure? Could Ellison have killed him, and now be trying to atone with good works? I believe that during the past year he has been inexplicably generous, not only here in Delaford but also in the town. Although he is not wealthy, he is prosperous enough and is known for helping others substantially when he can, something that not all men do and that even he did not do before Willoughby's death.”

James responded, “You may be right, Robert, but it could as well have been Godfrey. I helped him with his claim against Willoughby's estate because I felt an injustice had been done him. But did I perhaps assist a murderer to profit from his crime? Or could both of them have been in it together, or one after the other? I wish I knew.”

None of the women had spoken, until Eliza said, “For myself, for Benny's and Betsy's sakes, for all our sakes, I hope he wasn't murdered -- whether by bandits or by someone from around here whom we may know. I hope it really was misadventure, for which no one is culpable.

“I suppose Mr Willoughby has affected our family more than any other, always excepting poor Mr Gormley. I do not think Willoughby was a bad man, merely irresponsible and selfish in ways that the three of you gentleman could never be, yet surely he did not deserve to die for it. It is disturbing to think that perhaps someone was moved to play God in a way that God himself would not have, at least not the God who disciplined Cain. I do hope that it really was misadventure!”

“I agree that the harm Willoughby did during his life was surely not deliberate but was the result of his libertine, careless nature,” interjected James. “He should have been a better person, but who of us is as good as we ought to be?

“We don't know what really happened that night. I myself am glad that we did not choose to denounce anyone and perhaps thereby condemn him to hang.”

“Have you all forgotten the point of my sermon?” asked Edward. “Even a fratricide may find mercy, though undeserved. After all, God took pity on Cain. He condemned him to a long period of wandering, but not to death. He eventually found Cain worthy of founding a city and fathering many generations.

“I believe we were as honest in that inquest as we could be. We evaluated the evidence we had as well as we could. We were not bribed or unduly influenced. Only a confession would prove us wrong.

“If we were wrong, we are only human.”

Chapter 9 -- The Rake’s Widow

Posted on Saturday, 8 December 2007

November 1807

Libby came running into the kitchen. “Mama! There is a hearse at our door!”

Wiping her hands on her apron, Eliza hurried into the front parlour, where from the window she saw a large black coach pulled by four black horses. Black plumes adorned the bridles of the forward pair. A woman whom Eliza had never seen before was being assisted from the conveyance. She was clad all in black.

The woman marched to the front door and rapped smartly on it. Eliza opened it herself.

“Are you Miss Williams? I believe you have something of mine!”

Eliza stiffened at the stranger’s use of her maiden name, which she had not used these seven years. “Madam, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name or your meaning.”

“You must know that I am the widow of Mr John Willoughby. I am informed that he died in your barnyard here, and that you have kept his child!”

Eliza invited her visitor to sit down and excused herself to order tea, motioning to Libby to come with her. In the kitchen, she spoke quietly and urgently.

“Libby, I want your papa. Find Betsy and send her to the big house to ask Mrs Brandon or the Colonel to come here as soon as may be. Perhaps your papa is there as well, and he must come. I want you to look for him at the parsonage, as he said he might have some business there later in the morning. Before you go, find Mimi. I believe she is upstairs with the boys. Tell your sisters that this lady is not to see either Benny or Betsy, unless your papa is present. I don’t like her and I don’t know what she intends.

“At the big house, Betsy must ask if she may stay there so long as this lady remains here. But if she finds your papa there, she may return with him if he thinks it best.”

Eliza found a scrap of paper and tore it in half. On each piece she scribbled,

Mrs Willoughby is here.
E.C.

“Give one of these to Betsy, for your papa if she finds him, or for Colonel or Mrs Brandon if he is not there.”

Eliza felt she was standing outside herself, watching her own conduct objectively. She approved her calm response in the face of such an apparition. She even had time to wonder whether Marianne would enjoy the opportunity to see the woman whose own marriage to Willoughby had ultimately and indirectly led to her happy marriage to James.

Eliza gave herself a moment to collect herself before she returned to the parlour, hoping that she appeared the confident mistress of Thornhill. She found her guest impertinently examining the pictures on the walls.

“The tea things should be here soon,” Eliza said in as courteous a voice as she could manage. “Please sit down and tell me the purpose of your visit. I have not had the pleasure of an introduction, but I heard you say you are Mrs John Willoughby. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mrs Eliza Cockrell.

“You appear to be under the mistaken impression that I am Miss Eliza Williams. Above a decade ago, Miss Eliza Williams did know a Mr John Willoughby. She was not married then, nor was he. As he was a bachelor at the time, their conduct then can have had nothing to do with you as his wife, or his widow, if indeed we refer to the same man.

“Perhaps now that you have taken some tea, you will have recovered enough of your good breeding to explain your presence in my parlour.”

Eliza was angry, and she knew that angry people are not always wise. Yet she felt she had so far conducted herself with dignity and without undue lack of politeness under the extreme provocation of this woman’s intrusion into her parlour. She vividly recalled another confrontation several years previously, when Robert’s first wife -- whom they had all thought to be dead -- had suddenly appeared at Thornhill to reclaim the husband, daughters and home she had abandoned ten years before. But Maria Cockrell had appeared as a homeless wanderer, whereas this Mrs Willoughby was a formidable woman with plenty of money. Eliza felt her courage waver.

But as she considered her situation as the mistress of Thornhill and the adored wife of Robert and mother of their six children, she refused to be intimidated by this creature, and her courage rose.

As this moment Robert entered, followed closely by Marianne and James. Eliza was relieved to see neither Libby nor Betsy in evidence.

Eliza seated herself next to her husband and Marianne next to James on another settee, before making the necessary introductions.

Coming to Eliza’s rescue, Robert smoothly said, “Mrs Willoughby, I saw your carriage as we came in, and I see that you are still in mourning. Please accept my condolences, although your loss was more than a year ago. At this late date, how can we assist you?”

“I want my husband’s child.”

Robert eventually broke the stunned silence by unknowingly echoing his wife’s earlier words, “I have not the pleasure of understanding you, madam.”

“How can I say it more simply? I know my husband fathered a child when he was in these parts, and if it was a boy, I want him.”

The others all avoided looking at each other or toward the staircase that led up to the nursery.

The visitor continued, “I intend to make him my husband’s heir so that when he comes of age he can inherit my husband’s estates, Combe Magna and Allenham. They are mine to use during my life, but the original title of each requires them to descend to a male heir. There is unfortunately no child of our marriage. That is why I want my husband’s natural son, if he has one.”

This effrontery also was met with silence, until James broke it.

“Madam, I am not so well versed in the law as they are in Chancery, but I know enough to be certain that no one but your husband during his lifetime could have made any child his heir. If you believe otherwise, I beg you will consult with your man of law, and he will advise you. Of course, if you intend to make the child your own heir, that would be a different matter. Of course you would have power over your own estate.”

She wordlessly waved away that last suggestion.

“I will not conceal from you, madam,” James continued, “that your husband did father a child. Anyone here in the town will tell you that, and there is no point in denying it. The child was apparently conceived early last year and was born about a month before your husband’s death. It is also well known that your husband had nothing to do with either the child or the mother. He paid at least three visits to the neighbourhood without ever acknowledging either the conception or the infant.”

“And what of the mother?” she asked eagerly. “Where can I find her?”

“She no longer lives,” said Marianne.

“Where is the child?”

“We will not tell you,” Marianne replied. “There is no reason for you to know that, as the child is unrelated to you.”

“Is it a boy?”

“There is no need for you to know that, either,” said Marianne. “The child was nothing to your husband, and is nothing to you. Your interference can only cause pain to the child and to those who love and care for it. Please do not pursue this inquiry, if you have any pity.”

Mrs Willoughby peered more closely at Marianne. “You are Miss Dartwood, are you not -- Mary or Margaret or some such name?”

James quietly took his wife’s hand as she replied, “I was Marianne Dashwood before my marriage, yes.

“I believe I have seen you once before,” Marianne added, “around the turn of the year ‘ninety-eight, at a party in London that I attended with my sister.”

“Yes, I recall that meeting,” said the other woman. “It was shortly before my marriage. I saw from the way that you looked at each other that you were a rival for my fiancé’s affections. We were about to announce our engagement, and I had my reasons for not wishing to call it off. So I made him disgorge his little keepsakes from you and return your letters. I dictated the cover letter he wrote to you, did you know that?”

Marianne hoped her expression revealed nothing.

“A charming composition, was it not?” Mrs Willoughby went on. “He was a sentimental man and wanted to keep them, but of course that was out of the question, would you not agree?”

Marianne refused to reply.

“I knew it was cruel, but it could not be helped. After all, it was not your fault that he had charmed you into loving him -- he was good at that. But it was necessary to teach him at the outset who was to hold the leash, and who was to heel. He understood me well enough, being a breeder of dogs himself. He also knew how to break horses. It’s the same thing.

“I took a small risk, of course, asserting that kind of dominance even before we had exchanged our vows. But I was pretty sure that he was too deeply committed by that time to withdraw. After all, a self-indulgent gentleman like that, be he ever so charming, does not have so very many opportunities to marry an extremely wealthy woman that he can afford to let one slip away. I knew my value and his, and so did he.

“I knew he would do as I required, at least so long as he thought I might find out.

“It was nothing to do with you, Miss. If it caused you any pain at all, I am sure it was of short duration.”

James was angry, but he kept silent and only held his wife’s hand more firmly. He could feel her tremble slightly.

“Of course, I know why my husband visited this neighborhood several times a year. I once made him tell me, and I know he spoke the truth, because he badly wanted something that I would not give him.”

She turned to Marianne, with a gleam in her eye.

“He came to watch you, Mrs Brandon. He was obsessed with you, because he could not have you. He was married and so were you, and he knew he would never persuade you to enter into a liaison, such as our friends in town would have done.”

When Marianne gasped audibly, Eliza saw the glint in Mrs Willoughby’s eye. She is deliberately revenging herself upon Marianne! Despicable woman! thought Eliza.

“So he visited you regularly without your knowledge. From your garden, he would watch or listen to your most intimate family activities, with your children, your servants, between yourselves.

“I hated him for that, but I wanted the truth. So I forced him to tell me.”

Eliza was disgusted and outraged for the Brandons. She exercised her prerogative as hostess and abruptly terminated the visit.

As the two men conducted their guest back to her carriage, Robert thought, Poor Gormley should not be exposed to this woman, even if a little manipulation costs him the custom of a fine lady, her maid, her driver, and a coach and four.

Aloud, he said, “If you seek lodging for the night here in Beaminster, let me recommend the Star of the East, on the London road.

“I understand that your husband used to stay there sometimes, and in fact lodged there at the time of his death. The “Star” is clean and well run, and there is a large yard more than adequate for your coach and four. The landlord is John Frears, and he knows his business.”

Robert lowered his voice a bit, hoping to convey sincere concern for the lone female traveler. “There is another inn, of course, the Beaminster Arms, which you may pass on your way into town. However, I don’t recommend it to you. I believe you would find it inadequate, particularly in light of the Star’s superior accommodations.

“I am sure you understand my meaning,” he added, with a look that suggested that even her superior equipage might be at risk if she did not take his advice.

Meanwhile, by tacit agreement, James directed the coachman to the Star of the East by a route which would not pass Gormley’s establishment.

Returning to the house, Robert and James were surprised to find the ladies dissolved in giggles.

“Jump, Johnny!”

“Roll over, Jack!”

“Heel, Jack-o!”

“Hold the leash, my dear Miss Dartmoor!”

“No, you hold it, my dear Miss Wilmore!”

“Shall we pass the leash to our friend, Lady Willow-Bark?”

“Do you mean the Baroness Blacksilk?”

Their giggling stopped immediately as Marianne saw James.

“I feel soiled,” she said. “I want to go home.”

“Because he was watching us all those years?”

“Yes.”

He held her face between his hands. “Mare, no one could dirty you. You didn’t feel soiled before you knew this, did you? Nothing is really changed.”

Eliza said stoutly, “I don’t believe her, about spying. She is a malicious, selfish woman. Her pleasure is in bending others to her will, or hurting them. I saw how she looked at you when she said that. She merely saw an opportunity to avenge herself upon you for engaging her husband’s affections all those years ago, Marianne.

“Would she have tolerated him continuing to act upon such an obsession, after he confessed it to her? Would she insist upon mourning for him longer than necessary if he was such a person? She would not, because his conduct, if it was what she said, would have been an affront to her dignity. Her friends would laugh at her, and she is not one to tolerate ridicule.

“Appearance is everything to her. She is very handsome in black silk and sable. Her black coach with its black plumed horses make a good impression as well. She is very conscious of it. I don’t imagine that she loved him so dearly that she still grieves for him so deeply more than a year later. Not if she knows what he really was. But she knows how well she looks. She would not tolerate such an affront.”

Eliza spoke to comfort her friend, but she really believed it.

James thought, Now I understand something I heard at the inquest. Several of the men, I think Gormley and Ellison, said Willoughby was in Beaminster to see me. I was puzzled but put it out of my mind because I didn’t understand it. Now I do. But now is not the time to raise it with Marianne -- she will only become more upset, for no gain.

Aloud he said to his wife, “Let’s go home, dear.”

But Marianne sat still, her eyes vacant. Eliza sat down next to her and took her hands. “They’re cold,” she said. “Let me get you some fresh tea.”

Marianne shook her head. “He watched us!”

Eliza said, “Look at me, Marianne.”

When she had her friend’s attention, she went on. “You have comforted me often, leading me back to reality when I wallowed in self reproaches. Now it is my turn.

“Willoughby is not injuring you, and cannot. He has been dead more than a year. Even when he was coming here, he did not actually hurt you, because you did not know, did not see or hear him. He did not touch you or affect you at all. You and James and the children are all just as you were before Mrs Willoughby said anything.

“He was mad, I suppose you could say. Perhaps he was a Bedlamite, but without being confined. Rather than having fine ladies gawking at him, as I have heard they do there, he was free to wander the countryside and to do his own looking.

“I don’t excuse him, of course I don’t. If he did what she said, it was an unpardonable intrusion. But she is a malicious ... I cannot say it! She came here, not solely to find Benny but also to punish you. Whether she spoke the truth or not, her intent in coming here was to harm. I am sure of that. But her sort of malice cannot really touch you, surrounded as you are by those who love you so dearly and whom you love.

“Let her go back to London, in all her black finery and her splendid black conveyance. I doubt very much she will never come this way again. She would not risk soiling herself in our barnyard!”

Before James took Marianne home, Eliza made her friend borrow a warm pelisse, against the chilly day and her inner cold.

After their guests had left, Robert and Eliza went upstairs to comfort themselves with the company of their children. All six were there in the nursery, Betsy having returned to the house without coming to the attention of the lady in black.

Robert and Eliza kissed and hugged and petted all their children, Betsy and Benny especially. Robert lifted Benny high in the air and then boisterously blew on the baby’s stomach, to his vocal delight. He passed Benny to Eliza, who cuddled him and noisily nuzzled his neck.

“We love you, Benny!” she said.

“‘Oo!” answered Benny, who was just beginning to talk.

Tomorrow Eliza would call upon her friend to see if she still wanted comforting.

THE END