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It is unlikely that she would have given him a second glance if Mrs Ellison had not forbidden her to do so. It was a dripping February evening in Bath, and Sophia Grey, along with her guardians, the Ellisons, was attending a dance at the Dorchesters'. It was a dull enough affair, although Sophia did not lack for partners. She never did, for everywhere she went she was pursued by the whisper of "Miss Grey - yes, with fifty thousand pounds!" As a result, there was always another smooth, eager-faced gentleman ready to take the place of the last, always with a metallic glint in his eye. Miss Grey accepted the attention as her due, but disliked the intentions that usually lay behind it.
Halfway through the evening she had insisted on sitting out, and under Mrs Ellison's disapproving look had made her way to the refreshments table for a drink, Mrs Ellison following.
"Sophia, my dear, you look as if you were being dragged to a tumbrel. Could you not at least pretend to be interested in conversing with your partners?"
"Why? They have no interest in conversing with me."
"You do not know that - how can you? By your expression you seem to find them tedious after a moment's acquaintance; surely even the dullest man could not manifest his dullness so quickly."
"You would be surprised, cousin." Looking up from the bowl, Sophia was surprised to notice a young man standing just across from her, giving her a half-smile which as much as said that he had overheard everything. A moment later, Mrs Ellison saw him as well, and nodding to him, she put her arm through Sophia's. "But come aside, dear, I have something of especial importance to say to you."
They walked to one of the windows, and Mrs Ellison whispered, "Whatever the dullness of these other gentlemen, I hope you do not find yourself too fascinated by that one. I have heard most unflattering reports of him, and you would be well advised to be on your guard."
Sophia had never thought of trying to engage the gentleman, but Mrs Ellison's assured condescension grated on her, as it so often had before. "Why, cousin," she said sweetly. "I am sure I can come to no harm in the Dorchesters' ballroom!" and walked again towards the refreshment tables. It was not long before the now much more interesting gentleman was beside her, ostensibly getting himself a drink.
"I am afraid that I speak out of turn, as we have not been introduced," he whispered. "But I must know the name of the lovely girl whose mother seems so cold towards me!"
Sophia smiled briefly, then frowned. "Mrs Ellison is not my mother," she whispered back. "She is my cousin's wife - his second wife, they are only lately married but she treats me as if she had known me from an infant. If she disapproves of you, I can only like you the better for it."
"I am sorry to hear it, Miss -" he paused, then turned red. "Forgive me, I -"
"Miss Grey. Sophia Grey. And to whom have I the pleasure of not being introduced?"
"Willoughby - John Willoughby. Would you do me the honour of continuing our lack of introduction by dancing?"
"I should - to be truthful, Mr Willoughby, I was sitting out because I find dancing a very fatiguing exercise."
"So do I, Miss Grey, so do I. You are a wise woman."
"Really? I thought I saw you dancing happily enough earlier."
"Miss Grey, when one has a choice between dancing with inferior minds and sitting to converse with them, I will always choose to dance. But you have made dancing seem much inferior to conversing, which is a remarkable thing in itself."
With a quickness which later astonished her, he had soon learned that she was an admirer of painting but did not paint herself, that she adored the modern poets and even had a taste for those of the previous century, even those now seldom read, and that she nursed an aspiration to write poetry herself "Except that I find very little to write about. Endless balls and inferior minds make for poor poetic subjects, I should think, except perhaps if one wanted to be satirical." Mr Willoughby, in response, spoke a few extemporaneous lines in disparagement of the society in Bath, and by the end of the evening, Mrs Ellison had agreed, with no little coldness, to be introduced and to invite Mr Willoughby to call on them as soon as was convenient.
He called frequently for the next six weeks, and long before the end of that time, Sophia was assured that this was the man she would marry - and as she had never failed to get what she wanted before, she had no doubt that Mr Willoughby, as saucy as he could be, and as much as he twitted her, would eventually be hers. The Ellisons were in no such happy state - they feared a proposal as much as Sophia desired it.
"What is there about him to attract you?" Mrs Ellison asked one morning over breakfast. "He is simply an impudent young man who thinks that he can speak to a young woman of fortune the way he would to a penniless girl. Why should you marry him?"
"It is because he is that way, cousin. Would you prefer that he bowed and scraped to me solely because of my fortune? Other gentleman are so afraid of offending me - and thus, my money! - that they say nothing which could possibly give offense. Mr Willoughby speaks freely, and that is what endears him to me. He shall be an excellent husband - attentive, interesting to converse with -"
"Too interesting, perhaps. There have been rumours about Mr Willoughby."
"And what are those?"
"Nothing very specific. But they say that he has been seen on streets where he should not have been, and has spoken to young ladies with whom nobody seems to be acquainted."
"Nobody of our set, perhaps. But Mr Willoughby is not so straitlaced as some."
For she knew Mr Willoughby better than her cousins did. She knew him to be unimpressed by rank or fortune, unafraid to speak his mind, attentive because he cared for her and not for monetary concerns. It was true that he was not her equal in fortune, although he had one estate and was heir to another - but then, few men had a fortune greater than hers. As the days passed, the trees budded and the time of their removal to London approached, she waited with confidence for his proposal.
But none came. Instead, to her shock, Mr Ellison received a letter from Mr Willoughby saying that he had to remove to Devonshire for his annual visit to his cousin, whose estate he would one day inherit. Sophia was in tears and furious at once. Could he not have proposed before leaving? As it was, she could not now even write to him. As the hot London summer wore on, she became afraid that perhaps he had no intentions towards her at all - but it was impossible! Few days had passed since their introduction when he had not been attending on her - questioning her about her tastes in poetry, praising vociferously the few scraps of her own that she shown him ("Fair words, but the hand that wrote them is fairer," he had said, and later "You write with an elegance I have never seen in another.") He must have been sincere.
Autumn approached, and her doubts congealed into a cold, sullen anger. That she, she! could have been left like this! Miss Grey, with fifty thousand pounds, should not be treated this way - others were undoubtedly remarking on it. That the intelligent - they would say proud - Miss Grey had been flirted with and tossed aside was impossible to bear. As the round of engagements and dances began again - "Shall we go to Bath again for the winter, my dear?" Mrs Ellison asked her husband, but he, with a covert glance at the unhappy Sophia, decided against it. She was glad - to return to the rented house, the dance rooms, the houses that had been the scenes of her humiliation would be unbearable. She wished that she could speak to him just one more time; surely he would be fascinated once again if he could but see her. If she could only have written!
One morning in October, Mrs Ellison told Sophia calmly over the breakfast table, "I know that you are still unhappy over Mr Willoughby, my dear, but if what I heard from Lady Morton is true, then you can be comforted that he is not worth grieving over. She tells me that he has lately become attached to girl in Devonshire - a cottage girl, if she is to be believed. I confess I find it difficult to believe, but I thought that perhaps you should be informed."
"You thought wrongly," said Sophia, rising to leave. Her stomach burned with wounded pride. To speak equally to Miss Grey and a penniless girl - it was well enough as an ideal, but to become attached to the latter when he could have the former - how dare he!
And yet, it might be false. As long as it was not absolutely confirmed, as long as there was no report of an engagement. Mrs Ellison was no friend to Willoughby, and an eager gossip. Some polite conversation at a country dance had doubtless been taken out of context. After all, what could a country girl know about poetry!
To her joy, Sophia learned the next month that she had been correct. Mr Willoughby called on a dark November afternoon, and after a very few meetings she had secured his proposal. His company was as delightful as ever, his remarks as incisive, his laughter as open - but she could not help feeling a fearful flutter when she thought of Mrs Ellison's vague reports. Lies, she told herself. He loved me all along; he was simply doing his duty by his cousin in Devonshire. All the same, she could not bring herself to ask him directly. Why should she do so? Why should she make him think that she mistrusted him, was willing to believe any evil of him on no evidence at all? There was no country girl.
The wedding was set for February. "A year to the day after we met," said Mr Willoughby with a smile. "Even two such clever people as we cannot help but be touched by the coincidence."
On that late January morning, Sophia awoke with a heart as frozen as the gutters outside. For a moment, she could not remember what was wrong, and then - the dance last night. Willoughby, confronted by a cheaply dressed young girl (a country girl indeed!), who had asked, in front of a crowd of people, what the meaning of this was, and whether or not he had received her letters. Letters! Sophia could hardly think of it without wanting to be ill. For their attachment to have gone so far - for there to have been such an attachment at all! - she would be ridiculed, laughed at for having been so completely fooled. In the carriage, taking her home, Mr Willoughby had protested over and over that it had been a mere flirtation, but Sophia, in cold shock, refused to answer him. She could think of nothing to say.
He had been invited to breakfast with them that morning, and on his arrival Sophia gave him the most formal of greetings and they sat down to a silent meal. She longed to say something, but what that should be she had no idea - a denunciation? A witticism about how his taste was not as refined as he had led her to believe? A remark on their upcoming marriage? She felt suddenly that she did not know him at all.
The letters arrived, and she gave a perfunctory glance at them - little worth opening, only the usual round of notes and invitations. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Willoughby had received his letters too - and one of them addressed to him in a script most decidedly feminine.
This was the moment. She must act now, for she could not endure this torture of uncertainty any longer.
"Dearest," she said, as sweetly as she could, "That is a prettily written letter indeed - and from one you hardly know, you said! I must know more of this mystery," and deftly she plucked it from his hand and slit it open.
It was short, but each word was like a chilly knife to her heart. Previous letters, it said - and it asked for the return of the lock of hair she had given him. A lock of hair! He had never asked even Sophia for one - and he had one from this mere nothing, this flirtation!
Break with him, said a small voice in her head. If he ever had regard for you, it is gone. No Grey should marry a man who treats her so shamefully! But as soon as she had the thought, she saw the picture in her mind - her acquaintances (few real friends), and worst of all, Mrs Ellison whispering, whispering, and soon letting all of London know how the proud Miss Grey, with fifty thousand pounds, had been deceived for the sake of a country girl with - she was certain of it - little if any money and no connections in existence, a girl whose sole interest in Mr Willoughby was probably his own fortune. It would seem great enough to someone like her!
Do not be so sure of that, said the voice again. Is there not real affection in her letter?
Her letter, indeed! And what about her other letters?
She became aware that Willoughby was looking at her, his expression stricken. Sophia took a long breath, then spoke in the calmest voice she could muster.
"Mr Willoughby, what is the true nature of your relation with this - this Miss Dashwood?"
"A mere flirtation, nothing more. There is so little to do in the countryside."
"I am well aware of that. And yet she writes to you - she must be very presumptuous."
"She is very open and - why yes, she does presume a great deal."
"Doubtless she thought that your fortune made you attractive. She says here that she has written to you several times - and given you a lock of hair - all for a mere flirtation! Her motivation could not be more transparent; she is desperate to secure your fortune."
Willoughby smiled and replied, almost eagerly, "Yes, yes, doubtless she is. But she can have no hope of me now, she must have heard reports -"
"My love," said Sophia, to reaffirm that he was hers, and no one else's, "It would be so amusing to see those other letters of hers. May I not read them? There should be no secrets between an engaged couple, you know." With one hand, she interlaced his fingers with his, and with the other, she drew out his pocketbook.
They were all there - three short letters, and the curl of hair. All very carefully put away, for objects which meant so little to him. She felt ill again, but determined. She would survive this. In a few months, he would be thanking her for saving him from this folly, this flirtation with an ignorant country girl, this probable fortune-hunter.
"Mr Willoughby," she said, considering the letters and lock in her hand. "It would be shameful for a gentleman to keep these evidences of a girl's foolishness, especially since, as you say, it was a mere flirtation. She was improper enough in writing to a gentleman to whom she was not engaged; we must not be cruel and keep these evidences of her impropriety. They must be returned to her so that she can destroy them safely."
"Of course," said Willoughby. "I shall do it directly - it was most foolish of me not to do so earlier."
"I would not be so cruel as that," said Sophia, her hatred for this unknown girl, this thief, welling up. "I shall write the letter, to spare you the pain. You need merely copy it out."
"But - I do not believe you could -" His eyes were glinting. With tears? Perhaps. She feared to recognize the look she had seen so often before - the glint that said that he looked not on her, but on her fifty thousand pounds.
"Oh, but I insist," she said, her voice shaking. "Did you not once tell me that I wrote most elegantly of any woman you know? Let my skill be a service to you."
For a moment he was silent, then he smiled again, charmingly. "Of course," he said. "And when this is dispatched, what would you say to attending the theater this evening? There is nothing like a play to make one forget a brief unpleasantness."