Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

M arianne had placed all her hope in the letter she had written to her husband, hoping and praying that he would come to her the following day. But he did not come at all the next day, and neither did a return letter came to allay her fears.

Her disappointment was severe, almost equal to that of Mrs Jennings who could talk of nothing but the Colonel's absence from breakfast onward. By the afternoon, Mrs Jennings declared it very likely that the ‘poor Colonel' had been killed by a passing carriage, or struck with the worst malady imaginable and on his death-bed, but comforted Marianne with such kindnesses as ‘I am sure he would send a message by some means, and if he has been injured piteously by some carriage going on too hastily, I may as well tell you it is undeniably a frequent problem here—why just last week poor Charlotte was almost run over by a chaise-and-four going at full pace down Haymarket-street! But if the poor Colonel has met his end in the roads here, rest assured you will know of it as soon as can be for he is well-known to be our acquaintance—and I daresay you will be well provided for and shall want for nothing as a widow of the dear Colonel's!'

Mrs Palmer, less inclined to believe the Colonel had drawn his last breath, was more restrained in her sympathy and assured Marianne that the Colonel must have been called into the country on some urgent errand or other, or of his business taking longer than expected, which was immediately echoed by Sir John's ‘I'll engage for it he will be here by tomorrow, my dear Mrs Brandon, never you worry! And I have just the thing to take your mind from it all in the meanwhile, Mrs Brandon. Let us have a game of cribbage this evening—now that will take your mind from all this!'

Despite the disappointment of Brandon's not coming, Marianne's spirits now continued higher than they had been formerly, raised up with the quite reasonable expectation of her husband's impending presence, and so the delay of his coming subdued her only a very little. Mrs Palmer and Sir John were quite right—her husband would come as soon as his business was concluded. She declined, however to accompany their large party into the gardens the next day, on account, she told them, of her expectation that Brandon would call and somehow miss her, but when her staying at home to sit at the window, her ears straining in vain to listen for a carriage or a doorbell, yielded nothing but disappointment, she finally acceded to their pleadings and accompanied them to the theatre that same evening. When she returned home to find no note, no card, she was for a time both severely puzzled and disheartened but went to bed still in some hopes of his coming the next day.

If he had come to town to see her, as she had requested in her note, what was his purpose in delaying? It gave her some anxiety to think about it, and she went to sleep less composed than she had been the previous night.

The next morning at breakfast, however, a note was delivered to Marianne, in Brandon's handwriting, and she took it with remarkable outward equanimity in front of her friends. Opening it, she scanned it quickly.

‘My dearest Marianne,

No doubt the Palmers have informed you of my being in town. You, I know, are good enough to forgive me for not having apprised you of my arrival, and you shall soon understand better why I have been obliged to delay my coming to you. I was not unmoved by your letter to me, but I am presently detained in urgent business with my solicitors, which happened to coincide with your request to come to town to see you. At present I am not at liberty to come to you at Hanover-square, nor to tell you the particulars of my business here, and which I wish to conclude before an interview with you. I intend, however, to give myself the pleasure of calling on you all by the end of next week.

I admit that I hope to speak to you alone, Marianne, and offer you some explanation for my behaviour, for I have been unpardonably selfish in allowing the rift that has grown between us. But you shall soon know all and will judge for yourself if I am to be excused. I only hope that you will treat me more kindly than I have been to myself regarding all that has unfolded, considering my part in it all. But more you shall know when I give myself the pleasure of calling on you very soon.

Do me the favour of giving my best regards to the Palmers, Sir John and Lady Middleton, and Mrs Jennings.

I remain your faithful husband

P. B.

It was written his usual terse style of writing, since the Colonel was not one by nature or by habit, to be a romantic, and yet although she could make little sense of the note, Marianne was so much relieved by its endearments, and so comforted by its tone that she immediately forgave him for the deficit of feeling, and could only rejoice that he was to visit in a few more days.

The company had been polite enough to allow her to read her note in silence, but now that she had put it down with more serenity, and more smiles, than she had received it, Mrs Jennings was the first to enquire, and was satisfied at once.

‘I thought it had to have been from the Colonel,' exclaimed she, ‘for I am sure that nothing but the most pressing business would have prevented him from calling here to see you at once. How monstrous glad I am that he has not fallen under a carriage after all! But when is he to call in at Hanover-square, my dear? That is the question now!'

‘He says he has been detained on business but will pay a call by the end of the week, and desired his regards to you all in the meantime.'

Mrs Palmer tutted. ‘There! Now I told you he was only detained on business! And where does he lodge? He is still at Bond-street I suppose. I would have him here at once but Mama and Sir John and yourself, Mrs Brandon, have all the guest rooms apiece, or I would invite him to come to us directly!'

Marianne supplied the thanks which seemed called for here, and wondered privately at her husband's secrecy, and what business it was which could prevent him from immediately calling. What business could detain him in town a week before coming to her, when she had begged him to come without delay? But she had had his note, he was well, and she would be content to wait. She now felt a renewed energy, and the lethargy which had oppressed her for so many weeks now lifted with the hope of the restoration of her marriage and with it her former contentment.

Marianne now took real pleasure in the amusements of town, and accompanied the Palmers, Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs Jennings to their engagements with serenity. Now that she felt herself forgiven, and soon to see her dear Brandon, she became animated and full of spirit. Her former malaise seemed completely thrown off. Evenings at the theatre, dinner at Berkeley-square where Mrs Jennings' had her own residence, several airings in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, and a compulsory shopping expedition; all were now significant as markers of the slow march of time, as another day was done, another evening passed which brought her closer to her husband's coming to her. Friday, surely he must come on Friday! If only she could see him alone at first, and they could talk in privacy! What excuse would he offer for his behaviour? How kindly she would receive him, how affectionately she would greet him and how tenderly she would kiss him and entreat him to unburden himself to her finally! The tender regard which she had always felt for her husband, and which had begun to dissipate with their growing rift, now came again to carry her through the hours until she could be taken in his arm again and they could find again the peace they had lost.

Sir John and Lady Middleton had remained the first half of the following week at Hanover-square, but took their leave on the Wednesday morning despite being earnestly pressed by Mrs Palmer to stay longer. But they would not impose, Sir John said, and they had Charlotte's younger sister to visit while they were in the vicinity of London, and were soon seen off cheerfully on their way. Marianne was relieved to see them go, for she augered that it would be easier to detain her husband in privacy with fewer occupants in the house!

‘The Colonel must call upon you today, I am sure, Mrs Brandon,' began Mrs Palmer to Marianne as the three of them were sitting together the next morning at breakfast, ‘for did he not tell you he would come at the end of the week and here it is Thursday, closer to Friday, and the end of the week? Is not Friday the end of the week, Mr Palmer? I always call it the end, although some nominate Sunday, but I hold that Friday is always what a person means when they say they will do such-and-such "at the end of the week." Perhaps the dear Colonel will stay on with us after all, now that Sir John and my sister have given up their room! When he calls in, you must be sure to ask him to stay on with us!'

‘You are very kind, Mrs Palmer,' said Marianne, who had hoped for the very same thing herself. She had taken pains with her appearance that morning, and had put on her prettiest gown in readiness for her husband's visit and had bid the maid arrange her curls to frame her face.

‘I can see you are ready to receive the Colonel,' smiled Mrs Palmer, ‘and you look just as pretty a picture as you ever did! That tone of pink suits your skin admirably! Mr Palmer and I will go for our usual airing, and you shall have the Colonel to yourself for a little while. I know when company is not wanted, you know!' she laughed delightedly, and Marianne was grateful enough to her that her smiles and thanks were warmer and more sincere than ever before.

Marianne was not sorry to see them away less than an hour later, and she went to the drawing room to await her husband. Impatient for a knock on the door, she decided to go to the escritoire to write letters, one to her mother at Barton cottage and one to Elinor. Half an hour passed, with frequent sighs and walks to the window to peer down the street, when there was a knock on the door downstairs. Marianne stood hurriedly, smoothing her muslin skirts. He was here! Her heart leapt in her breast, and her face flushed and smiling, ready to receive her husband, she eagerly faced the door, but shortly thereafter, all colour drained from her as her caller was announced.

‘Mr Willoughby, Ma'am.'

‘Mr Willoughby!'

She was astonished to see him, so boldly standing there, hat in hand, and in the residence of people who must be strangers to him! As soon as the door had been closed behind the servant she said in the coolest tones, ‘Mr Willoughby, for what purpose are you come here? I cannot imagine what business you would have that would bring you to Hanover-square, for you can have none with either myself nor with Mr Palmer. I must ask you to leave, at once! I have,' she added, ‘said all that has needed to be said regarding the matter about which you last approached me at Delaford.'

Willoughby had the decency to look somewhat stricken. Rousing himself a moment later, in a low voice he began thus: ‘Mrs Brandon. You must forgive me for intruding, and in such a manner as I would never have permitted myself if it were not for something which I very particularly wish to say to you, and to ask you. I know you think me the worst kind of blackguard, and uncommonly indecent in approaching you a second time, and yet, I have but one request, and I have thought on it long enough.'

‘I cannot imagine what you can need to say to me, that you must follow me here, to town.'

‘Everything you said on our last meeting is true—the things you said about me, and what I owe to my living son, I acknowledge that you are right. I could never own my son if he was to suffer for it. But I am ready, now, to give up everything, for him. I ask only to have the chance to be a father to him.'

Marianne was stunned, astonished, and most agitated. ‘Mr Willoughby, what can you mean? You cannot ask to own the boy—your marriage will be ruined, your wife will leave you and take with her the wealth for which you married her. But worse than all this, you would be doing the child even more of a disservice, in owning him, for the world will never accept him as a gentleman if the truth is known. Unless you plan to legitimize him, and that will surely bring about an end to your marriage!'

Willoughby was impassioned. ‘I don't care about the marriage! Sophia will return to her father's house, but I will still have Combe. If I live less expensively, and make changes to my style of living, seven hundred pounds will suffice me. I would be in no way utterly impoverished should my wife return to her father's house.'

Marianne was incredulous, ‘You! To live on so little per year, when you have been used to triple the income?'

‘You look at me as if I was a fool or a dissipated wretch in whom even God has lost hope!' replied Willoughby earnestly. ‘And you are right to suppose me mad! And yet, I have lost my son. I pray you will never suffer the grief of a lost child. But I still have a son living, for whom I would not hesitate to risk everything. Yes, Mrs Brandon, even my marriage, and the wealth it brought me. I have no wish to maintain my "style of living" as you put it. I have been intolerably expensive, but no more! You were right, I have been nothing but a selfish man. I can boast nothing but an idle youth, and a vice-ridden past—all have made me into something I detest—I have been extravagant, vain, selfish, unfeeling. I have from the time of my youth until now, thought only of my own satisfaction. I cannot,' he added bitterly, ‘call satisfaction "happiness", for I long ago sacrificed happiness—by means of giving up your regard, your own, true, dear affections—' Here, he stopped, seeing the reproach in Marianne's eyes, but he gathered himself and continued resolutely. ‘These were the only things which would have given me true happiness—and therefore I hold little hope of being truly happy, now, unless perhaps I can right some of the wrongs I have committed. I cannot undo the wrongs of the past, but you told me last time we spoke that this is an opportunity to make amends, and in doing so, redeem myself.'

‘You ought not to speak so, Mr Willoughby, of our history,' reprimanded Marianne. ‘That is past. Nor have you shown me anything of the new character you proclaim or you would not approach me again when you know how unwelcome your presence must be to me!'

‘And yet, I beseech you once again, one last time, Marianne, to allow me to at least see my son, to begin a friendship with him, and when he is used to me, to claim him as my own.'

‘You know not what you are asking!' cried Marianne. ‘Even if I thought it the right thing, it is not in my power to manufacture such a meeting! My husband is entirely the boy's guardian now. You ought to be grateful that the Poor Law was never brought against you to support the child, thanks only to my husband who spared you the responsibility!'

‘I would have more than I have now, if that had come to be,' replied he bitterly. ‘At least I would have a chance to support my son, to know him! I can only beg that you will talk to your husband, represent to him my grief, my horror over what I have done, my eagerness to father the boy—the chance I now have to do something unselfish, for once!'

Marianne laughed but it was a bitter laugh. ‘And you think that to ruin your son's chances of living an honest life, to be glanced at and jeered at because he was conceived on the wrong side of the blanket—this is what you want for your son, so that you can suppose yourself "redeemed"? If this is how you think to redeem yourself, Sir, then you have sorely mistaken the meaning of such a word.'

‘You are wrong. Being the holder of such a property even as modest as Combe, he will earn the respect of those around him. It is my plan to legitimize him. He will know himself as my true heir, and that will carry him through any difficulty amongst his peers. It is true he will grow up knowing such hardships as I never did, and he will have to toil for his money harder than I have ever toiled. I will make certain that he will not be visited by the idleness and vice which became my downfall, for he will have neither the time nor the money for such things. He will not know dissipation, or luxury. But he will know his true father. And he will perhaps be the better for it, for I will not allow him to become what I became. That is what I can give him.'

Willoughby fell into silence, and Marianne was speechless. To add to her husband's burdens by telling him of Willoughby's visits, she could not do—and she herself was not wholly innocent, for she had confessed to the child's heritage. What would Brandon say once he knew the truth had come from her own lips? Would he ever forgive her? And Willoughby's desire to right his wrongs—was it so bad a scheme after all?

She roused herself after a moment and sighed heavily. ‘I cannot promise you that I will speak to my husband. I fear that we are not—that is, we are not on such terms just now as would allow it—you must be satisfied that you have seen me to put forward your request. But I cannot promise to honour it, for in doing so, I may end what is left of my own marriage,' she added bitterly. ‘And now you must go, before you are discovered here.'

Willoughby started up in preparation for going. ‘I will detain you no longer. Goodbye, Mrs Brandon. God bless you for any kindness in your heart which you can still find for me. You will always have my good regard, no matter what you choose to do.' He extended his hand, and she held hers for him to take, briefly. But he held her hand for a moment longer, and his eyes beseeched her.

At that moment the door opened as the servant came through it, and behind the servant, another visitor.Marianne froze in place, the blood draining from her cheeks as the servant blandly announced her second visitor.

‘Colonel Brandon, Ma'am.'