Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

B efore her removal from Delaford, Marianne had been in such low spirits as to make all small efforts remarkable, and to this state she was now returned. Even sitting half an hour in company with the Palmers seemed an eternity of labouring conversation, raising a fork to her lips was an exertion, and as for walking out, she had to force her limbs upon each step. The light of hope at which she had worked for a fort'night, fanning and huffing it into brightness, waiting for a visit from her husband which would set all to rights again, she now felt was a false light, a false hope indeed. With nothing to give it life, that small light of hope now dwindled quickly, put out as if it never existed, and once again Marianne was obliged to feign cheerfulness when in company, and lapse into morose silence and dull inactivity when alone and unobserved.

The Palmers continued to be very kind, and Mrs Jennings to fluster and talk very much of very little, around her. She was grateful for the kindness intended, meant, she knew, to bolster her spirits, which were obviously sickly, even to Mrs Palmer who was always cheerful and imagined everyone else as happy as she. Marianne did her best to respond to both types of bolstering, but when no letter from her husband arrived, regretting the harshness of his reaction, inviting her to come home, reassuring her of his devotion, her spirits could not help but sink further. Had she ruined everything with him?

A period of bad weather had now settled itself over London, and a light rain made way for a heavier fall, and then for an early fall of snow. Footmen could be seen sweeping the snow from the doorsteps every hour, and even when it finally let up, a chill mist sat perpetually over the rooftops and in the streets. It seeped into the hallways of doors when they were left open too long, and enveloped the mornings in shade and darkness until the clock's chime had long passed visiting hours.

Marianne, finding that she was always cold, and always with a red nose after she had been out with the Palmers in the evenings, began to think very much of going away with resignation and a certain yearning. The cold weather was making her stupid and dull, and did nothing to keep her spirits from sinking even lower. She began to think of going to Barton cottage perhaps, to stay with her mama, and taking the little girls and baby Philip with her, for between herself and Mrs Dashwood, and the nurse, she was sure they could be managed very well. The thought of returning to Delaford, as unwelcome as she would be, made her finally determine upon going on to Barton. There, she might be beloved, welcome, wanted and soothed.

She had promised herself to the Palmers at least another fortnight, but had determined to carry out this new scheme as soon as she could remove without giving offence, when a letter from the Colonel finally arrived. It was postmarked from France and was carried to her room before breakfast one morning by Mrs Palmer herself.

‘It came with ours—I thought you had better have it straight away, for I am sure it will cheer you up exceedingly!' she remarked with her usual noisy cheer. ‘No doubt the dear Colonel will be looking for your return soon, but you must not forget your promise, that you are engaged to us for at least another fortnight—a month if you are not wanted at home sooner—we want you ever so much to go to the Vauxhall Gardens, and to the Pantheon with Mama and me one evening, for Mr Palmer says he will not go—he never dances, you know—and Mama and I do so hate going without numbers—three of us, at least!—and if we can get your dear sister, that will make four, if she is not engaged to her sister and brother that evening.'

‘You are very kind, I shall relay your invitation when I see her.'

‘Mrs Fanny Dashwood, I suppose,' mused Mrs Palmer, ‘does not attend public balls herself, but you know, Mama and I are so fond of a ball, we cannot but help wanting to attend everything for which we can get tickets!' She laughed delightedly at the thought. ‘The company is not so very common—I have seen some very fine people at the Pantheon—surely Mrs Dashwood would not prevent your sister from accompanying us, when she knows Mama and I will carry her there ourselves, and return her home, too! At any rate, I said to myself, I shall be sure and tell Mrs Brandon, for I'm quite sure dear Miss Margaret would like to be there and you shall not like to miss a chance to be together—is that not so? I hear she is very well thought of, your sister—but that is no surprise, given how handsome she is! I am sure she will be soon snapped up! How happy that will make your dear mother! You know, I believe I shall call at Harley-street next week and ask Mrs Dashwood myself if your sister is free that evening!'

Marianne, her impatience to open the letter now rising, could not help but flush deeply and maintained a silence until Mrs Palmer, who never suffered any offence at all, laughed as she always did over everything, and said good-naturedly, ‘But I see you are impatient for me to go away,' and she playfully tapped the paper which Marianne was still holding. ‘Read your letter—I am sure the Colonel writes to say how much he misses you—I'll wager he is on his way to return here, this moment! I only hope he has not commanded you home, for you have hardly enjoyed yourself yet!'

Not very much distracted from her own agony by these surmises, Marianne gave her hostess a weak smile, was most obliged for her kind wishes, and waited until Mrs Palmer had finally retreated from her room before she hurriedly, and with shaking hands, broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

It was only a few lines, and these, hurriedly written.

‘Marianne, I write to assure you of my safe arrival at Calais. My letter must be short, for I am awaited by the carriage this minute.

I regret that I had to go away so suddenly, when our own relations are so strained, but I assure you the business is urgent, and the nature of which I am not yet at liberty to disclose. Our fortunes, Marianne, are at stake. I wish it was in my power to say, ‘be not alarmed', but I can give you no such assurance at this time. Only have no fear on my sister's account. The matter does not concern Perville or Mary.

As for yourself, you may remain in town, or return to Delaford as you wish. The outcome of my business in France will dictate when I am able to return to Delaford. My overseer will look after matters on the estate.

I consider all that passed between us last week of a private nature to now be second in importance to the matter which takes me from England. I hope only to be gone perhaps three or four weeks. We will talk, one way or another, on my return. Until then, I know that I can be assured of your understanding the need for privacy regarding this matter.

I remain your dutiful husband,

Philip Brandon .

The immediate effect of such a letter can little be doubted upon Marianne's already agitated state. She was put into an even worse alarm than before, and it was several minutes before she could take up the letter and go over each word again.

Now its reserve of manner and feeling struck her forcibly. Such coldness as she could have barely imagined only a few months ago, now did astonish her, even despite all that had recently passed between them. And yet, the letter could have been worse, its message more final. It was not the blow, the final word, she had dreaded. He did not ask her for a divorce, or cast her from Delaford. Men did divorce their wives, although for greater crimes than being seen talking to an old lover, but in her present state of mind she knew not what to expect from her husband. Did he imagine she had been unfaithful to him? God help her! He did not talk immediately of divorce, but perhaps he wished a separation?

Worse however was not understanding his meaning. What did he mean by "our fortunes"? Was it something to do with William? Or did he refer to Delaford? A frisson of doom ran through her, and she felt that she was further from her husband than ever. France! What it was that took him there she could not guess, not even by re-reading his letter, and trying to decipher his meaning.

After going over it again without being sure of anything but that he was sincerely displeased with her, so wholly angry with her, that he felt nothing for her but disdain, she let the paper drop into her lap and she stifled a sob. Could she have known what misery and mischief her interview with Willoughby would wreak, she would never have allowed that gentleman to encroach on her happiness, to cut up her peace as he had done. But even as she thought it, she knew that her unhappiness had begun before this, with William's arrival, and her husband's distancing himself from them all. It was not all her own doing, and she began to feel the stirrings of resentment, as much as she wished them away.

So, she could go, after all, to Delaford—she would return to her children and await the outcome of her husband's journey across the channel. She resolved to remain in town another fort'night, to allow the Palmers their rightful share of her company, and then she would return to Delaford. She would visit Barton cottage frequently with the children. There she hoped that she would somehow find a measure of the tranquillity for which she had come to town. In the meantime, she must keep her countenance so as not to invite talk, and especially, if she was to see Meg, she must not spoil her sister's happiness at being in London!

She managed to appear tolerably serene at breakfast and was grateful that Mrs Palmer was so engrossed her own affairs that the matter of a letter from the dear Colonel had no greater share of the conversation than a mere, ‘Well, I hope your letter was very pleasant my dear. You must invite the Colonel to come again—does he write to say he is coming again?—but I suppose he is so busy at Delaford!'

But Marianne was saved the trouble of a reply with the commotion of the tea cups being removed by the maid and she was allowed to sink once again into her thoughts and remain quiet for the rest of the morning.

When Margaret called at Hanover-square again, she was given the letter to look over.

Margaret was as perplexed as ever over the Colonel's behaviour. ‘What can he mean, "our fortunes are at stake?" Does he not comprehend the dreadful import of those words on you? Elinor and Edward, I am certain, ought to know what has passed. You must share your burden. Elinor will know what to do!'

‘I cannot—Brandon has asked that I keep these matters private. I am not at liberty to speak, by his own command. He has not lost my loyalty yet, Meg.'

‘And yet, how can he leave you here, go away to the continent, and say such things without giving you the relief of knowing what it is that drives him away?' cried Margaret with warm indignation for her sister. ‘I cannot at all account for his strange behaviour, Marianne, and I must say that, if his behaviour is even more of a mystery to you, who know him so much better than I, then I cannot help feeling that we none of us ever knew him at all! What has he been hiding from us all, that he would tell you the future of Delaford is so threatened, and yet you, of all his dear friends, cannot be told more?'

‘I can hardly understand it myself, and yet how glad I am to have you to confide in, for I cannot bear to tell Elinor—she has enough to bear as it is, and Mama cannot be told of it for it must cause her too much pain to hear that one she loves dearly has been concealing so much from us all. No, I cannot confide in a soul expect you—and you must be as silent as he!'

‘And yet to stay silent on such a matter!' exclaimed Margaret.

‘You must—and if you love me, you will!'

‘I do love you, Marianne, dearly—I will forbear to say nothing, then, if you really wish it, but what an intolerable situation this is! I cannot imagine how you have borne it so well, for so long!'

Marianne gave her a sad smile. ‘If I have learned nothing from Elinor, these last five years,' she said bitterly, ‘I hope I have learned prudence. Brandon charged me with silence on the matter until he returns. I cannot break his trust, even though I have broken it in other ways.'

‘Oh Marianne—' Margaret embraced her sister with great feeling. ‘He must forgive you! He is not himself. He will come home, and all will be forgiven, you'll see.'

Marianne did not hold as much hope, and she merely squeezed her sister's hand. ‘You must not be anxious about me. You must enjoy London and stay as long as Fanny and John remain. You must not let John think you are unhappy or anxious. He has been so kind to you, that it would hurt him if he thought you unhappy here.'

‘And you? Will you remain a little longer in town? It gives me such joy that you are here with me! Unless you cannot bear to be here longer?'

‘It will give me joy to see you enjoying yourself,' replied Marianne with a weak smile. ‘I have promised myself to Mrs Palmer for two more weeks, at least, and then I shall return to Delaford. No, I shall be as tranquil as I can be at home, and I shall visit Mama frequently with the children. She takes so much pleasure in them! Mama and the children will distract me from my sorrows. I shall be as the poet says, "like patience on a monument, smiling at grief."

Now the sisters parted, and did so on the condition of some promises on either side, that Marianne would send for Margaret at once if she heard anything else from the Colonel while Margaret would, with her brother's permission, consent to engage herself to the Palmers and Marianne whenever it was that Mrs Palmer wanted her at the Pantheon.