Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

‘ E linor, I beg you will not send for my husband; I am quite well, I merely fainted from—from being so idle all day!'

‘But Marianne, dearest, the Colonel ought to know what has happened! After all, he is your husband, and I am sure?—'

‘If you send for him, Elinor, I shall be immediately worse, I know it!' Marianne saw the look of astonishment pass over her sister's face and she endeavoured to be calm. ‘I am quite recovered now—look!' Marianne now got up from her bed, where she had been carried by her own servants, and began to walk about her room with a forced liveliness.

Elinor seemed doubtful of her sister's reassurances but relented. ‘We shall not send for the Colonel then dear, if you really do not wish it, but I will insist on your returning to bed. You must rest, Marianne. If you do not, I shall be obliged to call for a doctor. Mr Abernathy said that to recover your spirits, you must rest your internal organs.'

‘I do not wish to rest! Indeed, resting does me more harm than good. Confined to my room, I have only my thoughts for company, and they prey upon me grievously, Elinor. I am sure all this ridiculous bed rest is not good for one in my condition. I can just as well sit in the drawing room, with a book, or walk gently in the garden, for my constitution.'

‘Look how walking gently in the garden turned out this morning,' replied Elinor dryly. ‘If you knew my fears, Marianne, when I saw you being carried to the house by your own servants, you would be kinder to my nerves! I still cannot understand why a simple walk near the house could lead to this weakness, unless Mr Abernathy is right and movement is harmful to your internal parts. I wish you would agree to rest.'

‘There nothing the matter with my internal parts, Elinor,' replied Marianne sharply. Nothing, at least, which a kind word from her husband would not cure immediately, she thought. She was still in a state of shock from seeing Willoughby, and she knew that she could not share what had passed an hour earlier with her sister. She could not divulge Willoughby's unthinkable breach of propriety to anyone, even if it was prompted by grief for his lost child. And if Brandon should hear of it, it would make things even worse. She would not compromise her marriage.

Seeing Elinor's pained look, she relented and said more gently, ‘I am sorry Elinor. It is not your fault. I am very well, apart from being tired all the time. It was merely fatigue which came over me in the garden. I promise to stay indoors, and not to go walking again today, if it makes you more at ease. Will that satisfy you? I would not for the world make you anxious on my behalf.'

Her sister was content to hear at least this promise, although it was not half of what she wished. ‘Then rest today, dear, and let us see how you go on tomorrow.'

‘A good night's sleep and I shall be quite well again.'

Marianne was grateful to be left to sit alone in the drawing room for a little while, for her thoughts were now too much engaged to make conversation. That Willoughby had come to her, after five years of their never crossing paths, was astonishing to her. And to ask her if he could see his child! What could he hope for from such an encounter? Had she assented to his request, she would have been obliged to manufacture a meeting without her husband's knowledge, for she knew that the Colonel would never permit such a meeting, for the boy's sake.

And by what means had the truth been revealed? They had been at great pains to conceal William's origins, and even Mrs Jennings, who could only barely rely upon conjecture alone, would surely have stopped short of going about spreading a decided untruth. But Marianne now could only hope that Willoughby would honour his word and not pursue the matter, for to do so would mean the possible end of his marriage, even though society was not blinded to the habits and ways of men. A bastard child, born on the wrong side of the bed, was not unknown. And yet for his own son's sake, she hoped that Willoughby would not bring such a truth to light, for young William himself could never hope to inherit his father's estate without also being subject to ridicule as would make such an inheritance a bitter one indeed. He would have to be legitimized, and his wife would never allow it, she was sure. It would make her a laughing stock.

One thing which made her more at ease in herself, however, was the knowledge that she had seen the person whom all her former happiness had depended upon, spoken to him, and discovered in herself no inclination to resurrect a past which had brought her so much happiness and so much misery. She had taught herself, through her bitter disappointment, to judge more clearly, with less swiftness of resolution, and thus by degrees to learn the calmness and quiet peace which her sister had depended upon to sail her own stormy seas five years earlier when her hopes, too, of becoming Mrs Edward Ferrars, had been thought dashed forever. Marianne had once despised her sister's natural sense and composure, believing it to be a form of weakness of character, but now she understood infinitely better the contentment which comes with serious reflection and composure of mind.

It had been these qualities which had carried her this morning, seeing Willoughby for the first time in five years, and they would, she reflected, see her tranquil by dinner time.

The next morning Marianne was eager to show Elinor that she was quite herself again, and came down to breakfast in good time, with a hint of pink to her cheeks from pinching them a good deal harder than usual, and a smile pinned firmly to the mouth which formerly was used to smile regularly. If her conversation seemed a little forced, she thought Elinor did not suspect, and apart from Elinor's readiness to fetch things for her and butter her toast for her, she thought that she had made a very good job of allaying her sister's concerns.

Just as they were finishing their tea the mail was brought in and Elinor handed a letter to Marianne, who thinking it must be from her husband, took it eagerly, and then noting the direction, stifled an urge to sigh. Its direction was from town, from Hanover-square, the residence of Mrs Jennings' daughter, Charlotte Palmer. As Charlotte was Lady Middleton's sister, it was not astonishing to Marianne that the Palmers had regularly visited Barton since the Dashwoods had been in residence there. Although Marianne took no great pleasure in the society of either Mrs Jennings, or either of her daughters in particular, she found the Palmers to have slightly more merit than their relations. But what Charlotte Palmer could wish to correspond with Marianne for, she could not guess, and she opened up the letter and read its contents with curiosity .

‘My dear Mrs Brandon,

You cannot think how dismayed I was, the very minute I heard from Mama, who heard it from your own mama, of your being indisposed, and not in your usual spirits! What a monstrous ill thing it is to feel out of sorts! I own I myself never feel at all out of spirits, and neither does Mama, since we both are of such cheerful dispositions, but I have some notion of what you suffer, for my dear sister Lady Middleton often feels the heat very dreadfully and cannot move from her chaise!

So upon hearing of your being indisposed, I said to Mama, I know just the thing to take Mrs Brandon's mind from her troubles, and that is that she must come to us for a month or two in Hanover-square! Mama was quite of my opinion and thinks you ought to come at once!

I know that you declined before on account of your mama's being ill, but I am given to understand that Mrs Dashwood has returned to Barton Cottage very well in her health now, and since we heard that your husband is away at present, you have no reason in the world to deny us your company.

I may as well tell you that dear Mr Palmer was so interested to hear of your coming away to us, that when I told him we were inviting you a second time, he put down the paper he was reading, and said such a droll, ill-humoured thing which I cannot now remember, something about London being the most vile place in the world as he had ever lived, and therefore the last place in the world you might feel better, and that is why you refused to come when we invited you before!

Mr Palmer always makes me laugh a great deal. He is always out of humour, you know, and makes me laugh at him more than anybody in the world! So you can see we are all very eager to have you join us!

Now as to your coming, you will never guess! Mama returns to Barton tomorrow, for she did not bring the dear children with her this time, but she and Sir John will drive up again together next week with the children. And so, it is very good timing, is it not, for Sir John can carry you up with him and my sister! Lady Middleton was very gracious and agreed at once to the plan, and so I thought it a very good scheme, for you shall not have to bother yourself with taking your own carriage, and having the bother of a lady's maid. Is it not an excellent scheme?

Do write me at once with your answer, and send a reply direct to my sister, and they will come for you early on the Tuesday next, and you shall all be arrived at Hanover Square Thursday noon. Sir John is so droll! Last time I went with him in a carriage to town, I was in fear that we would overturn at every corner! I laughed ever so much the whole way!

Write at once, dear Mrs Brandon and give us your assent and I shall have everything ready for a long stay! You cannot conceive how happy a visit from yourself will make us all!'

Mrs Palmer being as good-humoured and merry a lady as her sister Lady Middleton was haughty and cold, Marianne could not for long hold any grudge that Mrs Jennings had made the situation at Delaford clear to her daughters, nor could she find bitterness in her soul to object to Elinor's having shared it with their mother at Barton Cottage. But still, she wished that her own business was not everyone else's.

And yet the thought of going to town was now not as abhorrent to her as it had been four weeks ago, when she had been first asked to join the Palmers. Now Marianne thought that perhaps the amusements of town might divert her enough to raise her spirits, even though she felt like weeping every second hour, and sleeping all the others! But as she thought upon the invitation, a scheme formed in her mind, that perhaps she might use a removal from Delaford to gauge the heart of her husband. She would go to town and write Brandon to beg him to come to her there. If he was not cross with her, he would come, she was very sure.

She handed the letter to Elinor, who had been waiting to hear news of their friends in town.

Elinor was cautious. ‘It may be just the change of scenery and society wanted, Marianne. I certainly approbate a removal to London, if you think it will bring you out of yourself. But should you feel worse, you must promise me that you will return at once.'

Marianne was gratified and yet she was not entirely at ease with a removal even of a fortnight. ‘I know it might do me good, Elinor, and yet feel I ought not leave the children—especially little Philip…'

‘Clara and Eloise can come to us at the Parsonage, and Nanny will of course take charge of baby Philip—he has his wet-nurse, and will hardly know you are gone away, if you can bear the separation yourself?'

‘I love my children dearly, Elinor, and yet I confess that I feel myself so little able to bear his crying, and I hardly have strength to play with him. I will miss them all dearly, but I need some time to think, and to decide what to do. I hope some time alone will restore me to my former contentment. Besides, although it pains me to say it, perhaps the reason why my husband has been away so long is—is because he cannot bear my company! I have been so out of humour these last few months!'

Elinor's countenance was one of great astonishment. ‘The Colonel loves you, dearest, of that I am sure. In that regard, I cannot suppose that a removal from Delaford is quite the means to healing a breach between you and your husband!'

‘And yet I have no other means to discover his feelings, for he tells me nothing!' cried Marianne in distress.

‘Then, dearest,' said Elinor after a moment, ‘I think you might go to London without being anxious as to the children and have some time to yourself. Margaret will be there very soon—John will be glad to see you in Harley-street, I think—and you might have Meg with you when Fanny and John do not have engagements. But you must promise me that you will write to the Colonel and tell him of your going away. Perhaps he will come to you there.'

‘Oh Elinor!' sighed Marianne. ‘That is just what I hope for! A month ago I would not have suffered a removal from my children and my husband. But now, perhaps I shall find some solace, some solution to the feelings which torment my days and permit me no sleep at night! If Brandon comes to me, then I shall at least be sure of him, where I have no certainty of anything as things stand.'

She assured her sister both of her writing to Colonel Brandon at Whitwell to inform him of her change of situation, and that she would return home immediately if her health declined. But, she thought, she needed time to think, and to compose herself, for she had never felt so unsure of Brandon's attentions, so doubtful of his feelings for her. A time spent away from Delaford, in serious reflection, at the very least, might help her to see what she might do to repair what seemed to her a dreadful estrangement, and if, as she hoped, he came to her there upon receiving her letter, that, at least, would remove all doubt of his affections.